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Tony
The dust motes dance in the slant of sunlight as I pull open the top drawer of the dresser full of old receipts, photos, bric-a-brac and expired coupons.Most of these receipts are over seven years old. Time to go,I tell myself as I walk into the kitchen to get a bigger garbage bag. As I walk past Sharleen and my Mom, I can’t help but feel sadness.
I am on my way to grab a garbage bag for the sole purpose of throwing out a part of our history . . . a part of our past.Every piece of paper, every receipt tells a tale, and here I am going to round it all up and off to the dumpster. That is what it all boils down to—a transient life. One day, very soon, I will be doing the very same thing for my mother’s effects after she is gone, then it will be my turn. A transient life. We are here one day, gone the next.
Back in my parents’ bedroom, I tackle my chore for the day, rummaging through all sorts of things: papers and trinkets. Isift through everything, throwing what I deem is absolute trash, keeping anything I feel might hold some value to any of my siblings until my fingers come into contact with a leathery spine of what turns out to be a journal, Dad's handwriting sprawled across the pages—jagged and sometimes illegible.
Journals are so personal, so private. This one belongs to my father. He might be dead, but these were his private thoughts. Do I have the right to read them? How would I feel if someone read mine? Maybe I should torch mine now while I still can.
The internal struggle rages within me as I hold my father's journal in my hands. The weight of its leathery spine seems to mirror the weight of the decision I'm about to make. Journals are sacred, a window into someone's soul, and this one belongs to my father. Something gets the better of me, and I choose to look inside. As I sift through the pages, the uncertainty grows stronger.
On the one hand, there's a compelling urge to respect his privacy, to honor the sanctity of his thoughts. I remind myself that these were his intimate reflections, never meant for anyone else's eyes. Opening this journal feels like trespassing into the innermost chambers of his being, a violation of the trust he once had in the solitude of his words.
Yet, on the other hand, I grapple with the profound desire to understand him better, to unravel the mysteries that linger in my heart surrounding his death. Could these pages hold answers to questions that have haunted me for years? The jagged and sometimes illegible handwriting hints at emotions he might have struggled to express aloud. Perhaps reading this journal might shine a light into his final days.What do I hope to find?
I feel that what I am about to do is wrong, yet the most immense tide pulls me towards opening the journal. Respecting his privacy tugs at my sense of morality, but the pursuit of knowing what his last days were like tugs at my need for closure.
I sit on the bed my parents shared for over fifteen years and change, weighing the ethical dilemma I find myself in, wondering if my actions would be justified or condemned by my siblings. The fear of unveiling painful truths mingles with the curiosity that dances at the edges of my consciousness.
In the end, as I stand at the crossroads of morality and curiosity, the yearning for knowledge triumphs. I rationalize that the dead hold no secrets, that perhaps this act is a way of seeking solace and finding closure. With a deep breath, I make the decision to read my father's private thoughts, knowing that whatever I uncover may lead me to the answers I seek.
Ten or so minutes into flipping through the pages, I come across an entry that sends chills down my spine for no good reason. The words, by themselves, aren’t scary or ominous, but they still fill me with foreboding. The entry reads:
An intangible fear weaves through my thoughts like a premonition, yet I can’t put a finger on it.I frown, tracing the ink with my thumb.There is an eerie feeling around the shed each time he comes, but why? Why does he keep coming? Why does he look at me that way?
Confusion knots my stomach as I stare at the journal.Who was Dad referring to?What was he afraid of? Who is 'he'?
Flabbergasted, I send an SOS to all my siblings on our WhatsApp channel. Dick, Jenny, and Lola, all respond within the hour, and We set up a Zoom call.
Clutching the journal to my chest as I connect to the call, I find my heart beating so erratically. They all appear on the screen, and we get started. I go first.
"Hi, guys. As I said earlier, I was cleaning out Mom and Dad’s bedroom when I came across this," I say, holding the journal to the laptop camera. I open the page I had marked with a paper napkin and read the whole page. The entries at the top of the page are your everyday gibberish, then there is a gap then,“An intangible fear weaves through my thoughts like a premonition, yet I can’t put a finger to it. There is an eerie feeling around the shed each time he comes, but why? Why does he keep coming? Why does he look at me that way?
"Who is 'he'?" Jenny's voice is low, her eyes watery pink, like she has been crying.
Dick rubs his chin, lost in thought. "Could be anyone. A workmate, maybe? There were other people employed at the Dexters at the time. I can’t imagine a Dexter having any reason to go to the shed. Why would they? They didn’t go to the hired-help zone . . . the help went to them."
Lola leans back against the couch she is sitting on, biting her lower lip.
"When will this end, dear Lord?"
"Maybe it's about Liam," I muse aloud, more to myself than them. His persistent attempts to connect with me suddenly cast me in a new light. "He's been trying to reach out since . . . I came back from Texas."
"But it doesn’t make sense. Everybody knows what he did, and he already went to jail for it. What does he want with you?" Jenny's voice trails off, frustration etched on her face.
"I have no idea. He's been oddly insistent," I press on despite the uncertainty that makes my voice waver.
"You know Christopher Dexter came to the house after Dad’s funeral and offered Mom money, and she showed him where to stick it," Dick counters, always the one looking for the logical explanation. “Maybe the guilt is killing Liam, and he wants to offer it to you.”
"Even if you are right, why me . . . you are the lawyer." I say, exasperation tightening my throat, making me sound like a mouse. "I don’t get it."
"Maybe because you are the weakest link. Up until they killed Dad, you always had a soft spot for Liam. I remember he always liked to play with you like you were a toy," Jenny injects.
“Jenny . . .” I cry. It doesn’t help. I see how they all look at me. It feels like “the weakest link” is a statement that is not foreign to any of them. They’ve all heard it before.
“What do we do now?” Jenny asks in a broken voice. We could be staring at the ghost of our father’s murderer before he killed him, through Dad’s eyes.
“We do nothing.” Dick bellows. “Whatever we do, Mom cannot know about this. You need to hide that journal where the sun doesn’t shine . . . far, far away from any place Mom or anybody else might find it.”
