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The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my skin prickles in fear. For a moment, I fear that I’ll find Angus inside, slumped over his desk, his skin decayed to the point that it’s become glued to the wood.
Not possible. He died in a motorcycle accident.
But what if he had a dog in there, or some small animal locked in a cage, starved to death when he never came home?
I prepare myself for the worst, looking over my shoulder for a breath of fresh air before entering Angus’s office. Whatever I find there, it’ll be worth uncovering. I need to know more about my father. I must discover what kind of man he was.
I step inside, my shoe sinking into damp carpet.
As it all comes into focus, I gasp.
4
Oakley
Growing up, my mother told me a few things about Angus, all quite dreadful. I swore that I would never marry a man like him, much less have children who would have to grow up with only one parent because he got his ass tossed in prison for murder.
As a child, I often wondered why my father didn’t love me or my mother enough to stick around. As I got older, I realized he must’ve been a very troubled man to end up in prison, and as I got even older, I accepted that it was better that he never reached out, even after he was released.
Now, all that I know about my father has come into question as I spot a framed picture on the bookshelf in his office. I recognize the face staring back at me immediately – the bright, curious eyes, the dimple on her left cheek, the stray hair hanging down in front of her face that will never stay in place, no matter how many hair products she uses.
I push that hair behind my ear and walk toward the picture of myself as a child. I’m no older than two, pushing around a miniature shopping cart filled with my favorite toys in the old apartment we were living in when Angus was still around.
I’ve seen the picture a million times. My mom has the same one stuck to the fridge with a Christmas tree shaped magnet. She says I’m a gift, so she has Christmas year-round. The way she talks to me proves otherwise, but I never question her when she says it. Maybe it makes her feel better about the way she behaves at home.
The ill feelings I’ve always had toward her grows into a ripe suspicion of just about everything she’s ever told me about my father as I study the picture on his bookshelf. There are no other pictures or decorations in the office, so he must’ve considered my portrait to be important enough to put there.
Nineteen years later, and he still has it.
I suppose it’s possible for something like that to disappear into the scenery and become forgotten, like the buildings you see every day as you drive home, but that doesn’t explain how it got here in the first place.
According to my mom, Angus was in prison for close to a decade before they released him, a surprisingly short stint for a murder charge, though she never explained what the exact details of the case were. Being young and naive, I took her word to be the truth.
Now, I’m not so sure that she was honest with me.
If he ever was in prison, how did he manage to keep a picture of me for so long, and why? If he really didn’t love me, why would he bother?
As though my mother has heard my questions sent out to the universe and feels guilty, I get a call from her. I’m tempted not to answer it and continue combing the office for more pieces of his life that Angus left behind, but I know how she worries. I know she cares, even if she shows it in the worst ways.
I answer the phone, speaking in a cheerful tone to give her the impression that I’m excited for an interview instead of carefully snooping through a defunct bar. “Hey mom, what’s up?”
Her voice comes through after a brief pause. “Hey, Oakley. I just wanted to call to see how you were getting along. You didn’t send me a single text about your hotel was, or anything. I hope you haven’t forgotten about me.”
“Mom, I sent you a text when I landed.”
“Just one,” she replies, as though I owe her a detailed summary of everything that’s happened since I landed in Nevada. “You were so short with me when you left. I was certain you were angry about something. Is everything alright?”
I roll my eyes. She always has to make it about how I’ve been so cruel to her, gaslighting me into believing that she wasn’t the one bringing the negative energy. I’ve grown resistant to it, but it still bothers me.
“Everything is fine,” I assure her. “I just got to my hotel and was about to text you.”
“Just now? I thought your plane landed a few hours ago?”
I cringe at my obvious mistake. “Ah, yes, I was eating lunch. I didn’t like the food they had on the plane.”
She laughs, cutting through some of the tension. “They had the gall to serve me fish when I flew to Hawaii last summer. Can you believe that? Fish, on such a crowded plane. You could smell it for the rest of the flight.”
I laugh along with her story, more from relief that she bought my lie than genuine humor. I don’t, in fact, think it’s weird to eat fish on a plane. She always finds problems with the most mundane things.
