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And again.
He cleared his throat. “Viola finished her doctorate in September and the university offered her an interim position. She’s adjusting well. When I went up to visit her a couple of months ago, she asked me the same question. Asked me why I didn’t leave.”
“And?” I bit out.
He ran his hand gently over Sia’s head. Patted her tiny back. “I stayed because if I left, my money would have all gone to support her. I wanted to get all of you through school first. I… I have trusts…” he petered off then switched tracks. “I filed divorce papers in September. She is delaying signing, looking for more financial compensation but my lawyer assures me my offer is generous and it will go through.”
Prickly heat spread beneath my skin, beginning with my hands and feet, and moving upwards, lifting each individual hair on my body. His news forced the bitter sting of bile up to the back of my throat.
I stared at the floor, my brain disconnecting.
Impartial to the scene unfolding in my family room.
“She came to me.”
“What?” He whispered.
I stared through him. “She came to me for money. Said I owed you for raising me.”
His eyes glazed, a look of horror passing over his features. Features not so unlike mine as I wanted to believe.
He met my eyes. “Thank God, you didn’t give it to her.”
A pleasant numbness cocooned me. “I asked you here to give it to you.”
He recoiled physically as if I’d struck him while I looked on from a safe distance.
“No,” he replied, his voice guttural. “No.” The word broke on a sob. He continued to speak, his words rushed, running into each other. “I filed the papers as soon as I got home. The lawyer, my lawyer, he says it will go through.” He nodded as if to convince me of the fact, a tear running down his weathered face.
I wondered what, at this stage, that had to do with me.
“I needed to keep you out of the house. Look after the other kids. She was okay with the boys but terrible with Viola. I, uh, I made provisions. Trusts. One for each of you. All these years. They’re in your names. Not even my name is on them, so she can’t touch them. I have something for you. I kept a few for myself because I couldn’t bear to part with all of them.” He offered me a thick envelope, his hands shaking. “But I’ll give you those as well. If you want them.”
Silently I took it from him, flashing back to the day she swept the pictures off the mantel and the shelves, tore the picture frames off the walls. It was shortly after my twelfth birthday. She was pregnant with Viola at the time. I was so afraid she’d already taken the picture in my bedroom. I ran upstairs and stuffed the frame under my mattress.
I remembered my father coming home. His low, steady voice calming her. Rescuing the photographs. “For Ares. We need to keep those for Ares.”
“I remember that day. Thank you for that at least.”
“Ares,” he rasped.
The blocks went up.
The blocks came down.
My daughter laughed.
I would do anything to ensure she laughed. I wanted to ensure she laughed a lot.
“Ares,” he pleaded. “Can I see you again soon?”
Without meeting his eyes, I answered, “I don’t know.”
“Okay. Okay, son. I don’t blame you. This is all my fault. You didn’t deserve any of this. If… if you allow me back in your life, I swear I’ll never let you down again.” He paused. “Just… please think about it.”
After he left, the numbness failed to dissipate.
I called Hope and claimed fatigue. Which was true. Assured her I’d see her the next day.
