I glanced over at the door, but there was no one there, so I reached in and grabbed the sketchbook. I turned it over and over in my hands and then flipped through it. All the sketches of Nicole were gone, but the ones of my mom were all still there as well as a couple soccer sketches. I looked around my chair to see where I might be able to hide it when an envelope fell out from between the pages and landed in my lap.
I reached for it and flipped it over, noting my Dad’s name and our address on the front and that the stamp had been cancelled in Chicago, Illinois. There wasn’t a return address, and my curiosity got the better of me.
I reached in and pulled out the letter.
Dr. Malone,
When we last met, it appeared Thomas would be playing soccer professionally. At that time, I agreed I would not reach out to him even though it is my right since he is now eighteen. Since then, I have heard of his accident and injuries.
You have to let me contact him. I have never even seen him, since that’s how Fran wanted it, but he is my biological son. Our understanding was always that if he played professionally, like you wanted, then I would not approach him. If he is no longer walking, it makes sense, now more than ever, for him to know who I am and to learn that he has other options.
You can’t keep me from him forever, Lou. Y
ou said he was still sketching, which means he already has possibilities there. He can’t play soccer if he can’t walk, and I can offer him a whole different path in life.
Contact me before the end of the month to arrange this, or I will reach out to him myself.
Thomas Gardner
I stared at the paper in my hands.
I read it over and over and over again as Shakespeare’s words echoed in my head: “The voice of parents is the voice of gods.” My heart was beating as if Steven had just given me another shot, and I knew—I just knew—from the words on the unassuming piece of paper in my hands, I had found my salvation.
My arms felt as if someone were running ice cubes down them, and my toes seemed to be flexing involuntarily. I realized I wasn’t breathing when my chest started to burn, and I took a quick breath to fill my body with oxygen.
I read the letter again.
Little tiny clicks seemed to be going off in my head, and like the tumblers of a complicated lock, the combination of events slowly fell into place.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I jumped and practically threw myself out of the wheelchair altogether. Dad was standing in the doorway, and his eyes went from my face to the sketchbook in my lap and the letter in my hands.
I just stared at him like a dumbass.
“I asked you a question,” he repeated.
“I was…getting my chart…” I stammered. I looked down at the letter in my hands and then slowly raised it as I looked at him. “Dad…?”
His eyes seemed to glaze over as he stared at the paper in my grasp. He licked his lips and slowly inhaled.
“Give me that,” he demanded though his tone was not as full of anger as I would have anticipated. My chest tightened as he reached out his hand, but I didn’t offer him the letter.
“You’re not…” My breaths started coming faster as I tried to figure out what to say. “You’re not my…”
“Shut up!” he yelled. He took a step toward me, and I gripped the letter tighter. “I am your father! I’m the one who raised you—sacrificed for you! I gave up my fucking career for you! He did nothing for you! Nothing! It was all me!”
The words tumbled around in my head—I am your father. I couldn’t help but hear them in James Earl Jones’ voice. I watched Dad’s face turn red in anger but couldn’t bring myself to feel any guilt or fear from his rage. I just felt numb toward him. When had he ever been a father to me? Before Mom died, maybe he could have made the case, but now? No. Definitely not now.
“You never told me,” I said quietly. “Why?”
“Why should we have?” I realized it was the first time he had referred to both himself and my mother together for a long, long time. “He was nothing—nothing to her and nothing to me. He is nothing.”
I remembered years ago, when I was a very young child, wondering why I only looked like Mom. I remembered her public memorial service—held a month after her death—and the lines of people who stopped to pay their respects. I remembered seeing Dad with a man who had the same color hair as mine and wondering if he was one of Mom’s relatives. I had asked Dad about him, and he had blown off my question.
“He was at her memorial service,” I stated. I wasn’t asking.
“He had no right to be there!” Dad screamed in response.