Geoff makes grilled cheese.
No, Dad makes grilled cheese. He slathers both sides of the bread with butter, and it sizzles when it hits the pan. Four slices of cheese go on each sandwich. The crack and spit of butter in the pan mixes with the patter of rain against the sliding glass door. It’s the only noise in the house, but it’s a good sound.
Mom is apparently meeting a client on the other side of the county, or she’d be here railing on him about his cholesterol.
Or she’d be sitting here holding my hand.
I’m wilting in a chair, my eyes raw. He hasn’t pressed me for answers anymore, but some dynamic has shifted. I don’t feel alone. I don’t have to hide.
He tells me to get out sodas and plates for us, and his voice is gentle and even. Like it’s any other day.
I do. And then he’s sitting next to me.
All of a sudden, it’s like he’s dropped a blanket of expectation onto my shoulders. My hands fold against my stomach.
“Hey.” He gives my shoulder a gentle shake. “We’ll get through it. Okay? Whatever it is.”
I hold my breath and nod until my lungs are screaming for oxygen. Even then, I only let a bit of air in.
Dad hasn’t touched his grilled cheese. “This has nothing at all to do with Matthew, does it?”
I shake my head slowly.
“Eat your sandwich, Rev.”
I clear my throat. My voice is low and rough, but not broken. “I need to show you something.”
“Okay.”
My father’s letter has been between my mattress and box spring since last Thursday. It’s not the most original hiding place, but I make my own bed, and I’ve never given Mom and Dad a reason to search my room.
I’m not afraid to give it to him now. Whatever happened in my bedroom has snapped the cords of tension that held me together for the last few days.
The envelope feels fragile and brittle, flakes drifting away from the burned edge. I drop it in front of Dad without ceremony, then drop myself into my chair.
I cross my arms against my abdomen again. I can’t watch his expression when he reads it.
No. I’m lying. I have to watch his expression. My eyes are locked on his face. I’m not breathing again.
He puts his reading glasses on, then slides the letter out of the envelope carefully.
His expression goes still almost immediately. His eyes look up over the edge of his glasses. “Where did you get this?”
“It was in the mail.”
“When?”
“Thursday.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Thursday!”
I jump, a little. He looks back at the letter. Reads it again.
His eyes flick up to meet mine. “When I found you in the backyard. When you were upset.”
My breathing goes shallow again. My knee bounces under the table. I nod, almost imperceptibly.
He removes his reading glasses and sets them on the table. “Rev.” His voice is grave. “Did I say something that made you think you couldn’t tell me about this?”
That’s not a question I expected him to ask. “No.” My mouth goes dry, and I have to clear my throat again. “I don’t—I didn’t know what to do.”
“Is this the only letter?”
I nod. “The only written one. Yes.”
“The only written one?” His glasses go back on, and he scans the letter again. “What else is there?”
I rub my palms against my knees. “I e-mailed him. He’s been writing back.”
Geoff looks incredulous. “You’ve been e-mailing with him?”
I look away. “I’m sorry.” My eyes are hot again. I rub my face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you. I know I screwed up.”
“Rev.” Dad scoots his chair closer to me. He puts a hand over mine. “You didn’t screw up. I wish—I wish I’d known—”
I flinch. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“No. That’s not what I mean. I wish I’d known so I could have helped you.”
He’s so calm about all of this. I expected a flurry of activity. Calls to lawyers or the police for some reason. I’ve been so anxious about my father showing up at the front door, armed with a crucifix and a shotgun, that having someone sit here and talk allows me to take the first deep breath I’ve had in days.
“I just—I felt—” I have to force my breathing to slow so I can talk like a normal human being. “Like I was betraying you. By talking to him.”
“You aren’t betraying us, Rev. I don’t want to see you get hurt, but talking to your father isn’t a betrayal to me. Or to Mom. No matter what, we love you. Everything about you.”
His words warm me from within, but I snort and push hair back off my face. “Even when I’m screaming at you to get out of my room?”
“Even then. We all push sometimes, just to make sure someone is on the other side, pushing back.”
It makes me think of Emma, her aggressive words in the car. I have to shove the thoughts out of my head. “What if I push too hard?”
“Not possible.”
The words should be reassuring, but anxiety still winds lazy figure eights through my rib cage. “I think I almost did.”
“Oh, Rev.” He pulls me forward, into a hug, then kisses the side of my forehead. “Not even close.”
We eat our sandwiches. I clean up, while Geoff reads the e-mails on my phone. He’s been making notes on a legal pad.
“Other than the first,” he says, his voice analytical now, “have you sent him anything?”
“No.”
He looks at me over the rim of his glasses again. “Do you want to?”
Answer me.
I shrug and look away.
“Do you want him to stop?” Dad says.
Yes. No. I don’t know.
I’m frozen against the edge of the sink. I can’t move.
“That’s an important question,” Dad says. “I’m asking if you want me to file for a restraining order.”
“If you do that, he’s not allowed to contact me at all, right?”
“Right.”
“Was there one before? Is that why he waited until now?” It’s such a relief to be able to talk to someone about this. Someone who can give me answers. Someone who can tell me what to do. I didn’t realize how much I needed this support until I had it. I want to collapse on the floor.
“In a way. His rights as a parent were revoked. He was not allowed to contact you while you were a minor.”
“How do you think he found me?”
“I don’t know, but I plan to ask our attorney.” Dad pauses. “Do you want me to look into the restraining order?”
“I think—I think that would be worse. Knowing he’s out there, but not knowing—” I break off and swallow.
Dad takes off his reading glasses. “May I give you my thoughts?”
“Yes.” My fingers grip the counter behind me.
“You’re eighteen. You can make your own decision about this. Mom and I will give you whatever support you need.” He pauses. “But these messages aren’t positive, Rev. This is not a reformed man looking to make amends. This is a disturbed man who tortured you for years.”
The words make me curl in on myself, just a little. “Sometimes …” My voice is very soft, and I can’t manage more than that. “I keep wondering if this is a test. If it’s all a test.”
“A test from God?” Dad has always been very open about discussing religion. He enjoys debating theology. He and Mom aren’t religious, but he finds the whole concept fascinating. When I was a child, Mom took me to a local church because she thought it would be something comforting and familiar, but being in a church was too reminiscent of my father. I would sit next to Mom on the pew and shake.
I’ve tried going back, but it never lasts.
“Yes,” I say. “A test from God.”
“We all have free will, Rev. If it’s a test for you, it’s a test for me, for Mom, and even a test for your father. He’s choosing to send you these messages. You could look at all of life as a test. No one lives in a vacuum. Our actions have an impact on everyone around us. Sometimes without us even realizing it.”
It makes me think of Emma again. She was in real pain this morning.
And Matthew. Something happened at lunch. I don’t know if I made things better, or if I made things worse.
And Declan. When I pulled out my phone to show Dad the messages from my father, I could see a text message waiting.
I didn’t click on it. I’m such a coward.
“A test implies that you alone are being challenged,” Dad says. “But that’s impossible when you’re surrounded by others whose actions affect your decisions. And do you really believe that there’s a God who specifically chooses people and assigns them with challenges? Based on what?”
I’m not sure how to respond to that.
He leans back in his chair. “Sometimes events are set in motion from so far away that it’s almost impossible to draw connections until well after the fact—and then, where was the test? At the beginning? In the middle? All along? Then we’re back to thinking all of life is a test. And maybe it is. But if someone is raised with a different belief system, can they be judged by ours? How is that a fair test? We can only do the best we can with what we’re given.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because I wonder if there’s a part of you that’s still seeking your father’s approval, even after all these years. I wonder if you’ve been seeking it all along, with the way you’ve practically memorized the Bible. I wonder if it isn’t curiosity that made you send him that e-mail, but obligation. I wonder if it’s easier to think God is testing you instead of admitting that your father truly hurt you, Rev. If there’s any test here, it’s one you’ve created for yourself.”
His voice is so gentle, so kind. My fingers are gripping the counter so hard that I’m worried I’ll crack the granite. “What’s the test?”
But I know.
“Do you want your father in your life?”
My voice is a whisper. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do know, Rev.”
Steps thump on the back porch steps, and I glance at the clock above the microwave. Cabinets block the view of the sliding door from here, but it’s the middle of the afternoon. Matthew must be home from school.
He could have run. He didn’t.
Dad stands to open the door for him. Matthew all but pushes past him without a word. He doesn’t spare me a glance. Just blows through the kitchen and makes the turn for his bedroom.
So I guess the rest of the day didn’t go well.
Then another set of feet stomps across the porch.
It’s Declan. I know it’s Declan.
Shame lights me up inside. I wish I could hide in my room, too.
He blows into the kitchen like a hurricane. I edge toward the sink, before I realize what I’m doing and force myself to stand my ground.
“Hi, Declan,” says Dad, like nothing is going on, and it’s any other afternoon.
“Hey.” Dec blows past him, too, and comes around the row of cabinets to face me. His expression is fierce. His jaw is swollen and bruised. I clocked him good.
I wince. I have no idea what to say. “Do you want to hit me back? You can.”
“No, I don’t want to hit you back, you idiot. I’ve sent you like thirty texts. Are you okay?”
My eyebrows go up. “You’re asking if I’m okay?”
“Yes.”
It’s like the moment I realized Dad wasn’t going to let me chase him out of my room. I want to crumple on the floor. “No,” I say. “I’m not.”
“Then come on.”
I don’t move. My head is spinning. “Where are we going?”
“Downstairs. Get your gloves. If you need to throw punches, let’s find something better than my face.”