“And you?”
“I’m okay—now. Pops has helped me. He’s taught me what a father can be and what a son can be. I’ll keep trying with my dad, but it’s hard.” Alex looked up at me.
I nodded. That’s all I know about parents—it’s hard.
“Your sisters?”
“I’m closer to them. Jenni lives in Texas and Suzanne in California. They don’t get in the middle, but they don’t shun me either. But it’s all hidden, all in secret. Even my mom won’t call unless Dad’s out of the house.”
“I’m sorry, Alex.” I needed to offer him something in return. But how much? “My parents died a few years ago. The Muirs accepting me like they have is a miracle for me.”
Alex stared at me a moment, and I could see his jaw flex. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything?” He paused and leaned forward. “I feel a little selfish complaining about my perfectly healthy—if dysfunctional—family.”
“I like it. Not the dysfunctional part. I mean I like hearing about them. About you. I don’t like to talk about my parents. In fact, very few people know even that much.”
“I’m honored. Will you tell me more?”
I held my breath. I didn’t want to deflect, and I refused to hide, but I lacked courage. “Can I tell you about them another time? It’s not an easy subject for me. But someday I would like you to know.”
He smiled, slow and long. “When you’re ready, I’ll listen.” He held my eyes. “What shall we eat?”
“Everything.”
The food was delicious. The pizzas are cooked in bowls with the dough draped over the top. The waiter then flips it over onto your plate and pulls out the ceramic bowl, and the cheese, which was at the bottom, is now on top and spreads over the sauce.
As we ate, my mind wandered back to my parents. Usually thinking about them fills me with fear and, more recently, anger. Not tonight. Tonight I remembered something Father John said when he told me my father had died.
“He was sick, Sam.”
“I’ll say.”
“No, I mean he had clinical mental illness.” Father John took my hands and held them, drawing me into his words. “I read his file, Sam. He suffered terrible abuse, and only in prison did he get counseling and medication. There’s no indication that on the outside he got any help at all.”
“He went to college, Father John. He was some drugged-out genius and dropped out. That’s what my mother once said.”
“That’s not entirely true. But she was right about his being smart. He was off the charts in some respects and not hitting even minimal markers in others. It’s hard to say how the brain works. I think the abuse broke an already fragile brain.”
“What are you saying? He was out of his mind?” I spat the words out.
“Yes.” Father John squeezed my hands to gain my attention. “I am not excusing him, Sam. I’m saying that he may not have known what he did or why he did it. He was terribly sick.”
“I don’t care.”
“Not now, but someday you might. And when that day comes, I wanted you to know the truth. He caused tremendous pain, Sam, but he was also in tremendous pain.”
I sat in that safe, high-backed booth eating pizza while all this played through my memory. And I accepted it. I let it flow over and through me in a way I had never allowed before. I don’t know how I feel about my father now, but tonight the memories took on a different tone. The black/red fear I associate with him faded. There are shades of yellow and even more temperate colors like blue swirling in the scene.
Alex was quiet too. Maybe his own thoughts swirled about him—I don’t know. I simply know it was comfortable and wonderful. I felt safe not striving for words and smiles and laughs and sighs—all those things Ashley and Debbie threw out at that Halloween party—to intrigue him and show my interest. I felt sure that no matter how quiet or contemplative I became—Alex would call me again.
Sincerely,
Sam
AUGUST 12
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The professor had a heart attack. At least that’s what I think happened. Mrs. Muir called it “atrial fibrillation.” He had chest pains and shortness of breath and passed out. I call that a heart attack.
