My brow furrows and Iblink at him, allowing my look to ask the question I can't quitearticulate.
"I've read through yourfriend's case files.And I've spoken with the sheriff down there.In her hometown, I mean, and…" He trails off, his eyes closebriefly and he shakes his head before he looks back at me."I'msorry that I—"
"You saw the photos."Iinterrupt him as soon as I realize what was responsible for hiscomplete about-face in attitude.
Rory told me about thepictures of her injuries her friend Cam took on his phone while shewas asleep.Which may sound creepy, but is the exact thing I wouldhave done.I may never meet the kid, but I know he was trying tohelp her the same way I'm trying to do now.My father must haveseen them in the police files.And the ones taken of her in thehospital.
My father's somberexpression confirms it, and he nods once, never breaking eyecontact.
It's then that I noticethe manila file folders on his desk.I reach for them.
"Let me seethem."
But his palm slams down ontop of them, and I raise my eyebrows, somewhat takenaback.
"That's not a good idea,son."
I nearly recoil at themoniker.The last mouth I heard it come out of belonged to a man Ihate even more than the one sitting across from me, a father evenworse than my own—Rory's.The recollection stops me long enough formy father to slide the files from my reach.
He shakes his head."Look,Sam.You obviously care about this girl.And trust me, you don'twant to see someone you care about all cut up and bruised.Youcan't un-see images like that," he advises with an empathy I wouldalmost believe if I didn't know better.
"I suppose you would know,wouldn't you?"The biting retort flies from my lips before I caneven consider their consequences, and I silently chastise myselffor it.I have to stay focused on my goal, despite what deals Ihave to make with which devils to do it.As long as they keep Rorysafe fromherdevil, I'll do fuckinganything.
My father licks his bottomlip, and I know he wants to say something more than what he's aboutto say.This is the good version of him.The one in control of hisemotions.The one not abraded by alcohol and triggered by nothing."I deserve that," he murmurs, his voice low but steady.
Again, it's not what I wasexpecting, and it silences me for a moment.
"Do you love this girl,Sammy?"he asks softly.
I blink at him, thinking,calculating, considering what answer is most likely to both endthis line of questioning and get him to do what I ask ofhim.
"Not everyone isnaïve enough tothink they're in love in high school," is my vague response.Idon't bother telling him that I'm not included in that enlightenedgroup, because the truthful answer to my father's question would bea simple,yes.
It's the first time sinceI got here that I see a flash of indignation on my father's face,but it's hidden behind his careful mask of patience in the merestof seconds.
"You can say what you wantabout me and how I treated your mother, and you guys, too.But Ifell in love with your mother my junior year of high school andI've loved her every day since.I wasn't naïve to think I loved her, I wasnaïve to thinkIdeservedher.Ididn't."He sighs again and takes a deep breath, cutting off hisrambling.
But the resigned look thatfollows tells me that he's making a choice, and I suspect thatinstead of shutting down the subject, he's going to elaborate.Iremain silent, in a cautious state of astonishment.In the manypossibilities I imagined for this meeting, both productive anddisastrous, I never so much as considered this particulardirection.
"I had a problem withalcohol by the time I graduated law school.But there are differentkinds of alcoholics, Sammy… I was functional.I didn't drink allthe time.And I was successful.The youngest attorney to makepartner in the firm's history."
I've heard him tout thathonor a thousand times, but always with an arrogance that isconspicuously absent now.Now he says it with regret, and thedistinction holds my undivided attention.
"Your mother knew I had aproblem.She's always known me better than anyone, since she wassixteen years old.But her pointing it out, asking me to stopdrinking, it only made me angry and deny it.
"You see, I had an idea ofwhat an alcoholic was, and it wasn't me.It wasn't success andesteem.And the worse things got when I did drink, it just becameeasier and easier to make excuses to myself."
He takes another deepbreath, and pushes his hand through his still-full head of chestnuthair, another habit we share.I watch my father, unblinking,riveted by the shadow of another version of him—one I almost forgotexisted, one completely lost behind far more potent memories.Theversion that would appear for brief periods following one of hisepisodes.The one full of contrition and remorse, apologies andpromises he would so easily forget the next time he had one toomany.
His shame over hisbehavior lasted the number of days it took for the bruises to fade,or in one case, my sling to come off, and not a moment longer.Butnow, it's been five years, and the adamancy of his regret shinessharper than I've ever seen before, even in his most pitifulmoments.
He looks back down at hisdesk and his voice grows softer."I never stopped loving Lainey.Not for a single moment."I hear his swallow."Or you either,Samuel.Or Beth."
I look away, daunted bythis whole confession of his.I had emotionally prepared myself forquite a bit, considering the nature of what this meeting wassupposedto be about,but this… I expected him to die of old age or liver failure beforeever uttering these words.
I allow my eyes to skatearound his office for the first time since I arrived.Aside from afew knick-knacks and the updated guest furniture, nothing haschanged.My gaze lands back on my father's desk, zeroing in on thethree framed photos.I think I stop breathing.There's a photo ofthe four of us from when I was about eleven or so, including mymother mid-laugh, my father's eyes trained adoringly on her insteadof looking at the camera.
Then there's one of Bitsfrom her dance recital when she was twelve.That was only a fewyears ago—at least a year after he left.
