Ryan
Granite Harbor, Maine
Present Day
Wasn’t I just here two months ago? Fuck, my chest hurts.
“You’ll be sore for a few weeks, Ryan,” Dr. Phillips says, holding the bullet that was stuck between the many layers of protection in my bulletproof vest.
My body feels heavy as I try to push myself up to a sitting position. “How long will I be in here, Doc?” I ask.
“We’ll get you out of here today. You’re just going to be real sore, so light duty, just for a week or so.”
“Hell, I don’t think I’m off the light duty from the last time I was in here.”
“More light duty for a while. At least. I’ll have the nurse come in and start the discharge paperwork,” Dr. Phillips sighs. “This was lodged in your vest, Ryan.” He holds the bullet between two fingers, mesmerized by the chunk of lead.
“How close did it come?”
He drops it in my hand. “Within an inch of your heart.”
There’s a knock on the door.
“I’ll be back later,” Dr. Phillips says.
“Thanks, Doc.”
Lieutenant Shreeves comes around the curtain that separates the door from the room. “How’s he doing, Dr. Phillips?” Shreeves asks.
“I’ll let him tell you.” Dr. Phillips nods to both of us and leaves.
“Lieutenant.”
“Sergeant. Seems like you’ve had a rough couple of months.” He laughs and casually pulls up a chair, a file in his hand.
“I’ll survive.” I hold the bullet in my hand.
“Listen, Hallowell PD has been interviewing Fields’s people. A lot of interesting information has come to light.” Shreeves reaches up and grabs the back of his neck, his lack of sleep written on his face. “First, this needs to come from me,” he sighs. “Dubbs’s body was discovered on the train just south of Connecticut.”
Both relief and peace of mind run through me. As if my childhood can no longer be remembered because the only piece of evidence that the trauma existed is dead. But a piece of me is sad for him—not for myself, but for him. Glimpses of regret I’d see in his eyes on mornings when it was too quiet. I’d see him sitting at the dining room table, cigarette in hand. He never apologized for the beatings, but there was a look in his eye that screamed he was sorry.
I guess, maybe, some behaviors are learned.
“I’m sorry to deliver that news, Sergeant.”
“Expected,” is all I say.
It’d been too long. The feeling that he was still alive faded as time passed.
“Anything else? What about Fields?”
“At the morgue.”
“What?”
“Eli got him right as he fired the gun at you.”
“Eli?”
“Yeah.” He laughs and smiles. “I knew you two were tight, but for the timing to work out just that perfectly … I don’t know. That’s a pretty close connection.”
Silence fills the air.
Lieutenant Shreeves leans forward and pulls a folded piece of paper from the file. “Thought you’d want to see this. The PD found it when they searched Dubbs’s place.” Shreeves looks out the window of my hospital room. “This guy, Pauly, said that he saw Dubbs give Ronan five thousand dollars in cash. Said, when Dubbs heard there was a payable job for the hit on you, Dubbs tried to talk him out of it. Seems they worked out a deal because, the next day, Dubbs gave him the cash, and the hit was no longer talked about.” Shreeves stares long and hard at me. Picks at a callous on his hand. “Look, I don’t know much about your upbringing, but I think I can safely assume Dubbs wasn’t the best role model, but I want you to take this. Read it.” Shreeves hands me the piece of paper and pauses again.
I shake my head, taking the piece of paper from Shreeves.
“Letter from Dubbs. Doesn’t say who it’s addressed to, but I think it was written for you.”
We use small talk to fill the rest of the time he’s here with me. Sports. Weather. Fishing. The moose lottery. Then, he leaves.
Carefully, without anyone around, I open it.
My name is Sal Dubbs Taylor. When Ronan finally gets to me, because he will, tell Ryan the situation in person. Don’t do it over the phone. He doesn’t deserve that. He deserves a man-to-man conversation. I’ve raised him like that, so he’ll expect it. Give him this letter, too.
I guess I just assumed he was mine. Mona and I had slept together a few times. Nine months later, she came back and left this little fucking baby for me to deal with. I know I messed up with him. Real bad. I wasn’t sure how to be a dad. I wanted to make him tough. Raised on the streets myself, I knew what it took to survive. The mental toughness that was needed. I’d put myself in vulnerable spots when I was a kid. Not because I didn’t know, but because it was the only choice I had. Things had happened, and I didn’t want that to happen to Ryan. I tried to create mental toughness. Stamina. Somewhere along the line, I know I’d failed.
I’m just a drunk. A fisherman who raised a boy the way I had been raised. Taught him how to survive when shit got real bad.
I didn’t know that Ronan was Ryan’s father until I found Mona’s journal with a birth certificate in all that shit of hers she’d left when Ryan was about three or so. I got real drunk and real mad. The thing I was fucking pissed about was the fact that I wasn’t his dad. Because I’d grown attached to his stupid questions. He would ask why and how all the time.
Why do you have to bait the hook to catch fish?
Why don’t you use spears to catch fish anymore?
Why does the boat go so fast?
How do boats float?
Why don’t you take me to school?
Why do I have to walk?
All the other mommies take their kids.
Where is my mommy?
And then he asked the question that still gets to me.
Why don’t you love me?
I did. I do.
I thought, if I prepared Ryan for the world of disappointment—equipped him with shit, life tools he needed—he’d never have to be let down.
The truth is, I loved him, and I failed him.
So, tell Ryan in person when they recover my body.
I tried to protect him.
Tell Ryan I’m proud of him and that I’m sorry.
--Dubbs
My hand eases down to the hard mattress. My childhood flies by me like moving pictures. The doubt I felt as a child. The lack of love shown. But he did the best he could with what he had. He didn’t have a choice to raise me.
Now, I know, somewhere down the morbid line he walked, he began to love me.
Whenever he was asked for a birth certificate, he’d always say he couldn’t find it. When I asked to see it, he would lie. Maybe because he knew I’d see Ronan’s name. Maybe he didn’t want to confuse me. Maybe he was trying to protect me.
I hear footsteps coming down the hallway, but they’re not heavy; they’re light and they stop. I look up, but there’s the curtain of separation. I don’t ask who it is because it’s probably just another nurse to take my vitals. Maybe it’s the nurse with the discharge paperwork.
“Suppose this is the worst-case scenario, huh?”
That voice.
That fucking voice.
The only voice I wait to hear when I wake up in the morning and go to bed at night.
The voice that’s the only one trapped in my head when I can’t sleep.
Her.
Merit.
“Merit.” My voice is hoarse.
She’s still behind the curtain.
“You walk in this room, and there’s no way you’re going back to California again.”
“I know,” she says as she walks into view.
In life, we take moments for granted. We allow our memory to wash them away and change our perception. I pray to God that these moments will never go away.
The way her blonde hair, always tied back, is now down and around her shoulders. The light dusting of freckles that lay over her nose. The ones I used to kiss when we made love. Her green eyes that push the limit with my heart.
Every flashing moment from ages eight until now appear in my mind.
Age eight: relief—when we met.
Age nine: sadness—when she stood on my doorstep and told me about Rebecca’s diagnosis.
Age eleven: anger—the day Rebecca died.
Age thirteen: fear—when Dubbs took a swing at me in front of her.
Age sixteen: pride—the day I told her that I stood up to Dubbs.
Age seventeen: happiness—the day she got accepted to University of San Diego.
Age seventeen: anguish—the day I lied to her about another woman.
Age thirty-four: heartbreak—when she told me about Destiny.
Age thirty-four: heartache—the last time we made love.
I touch the mattress next to me, needing to smell her, take her in, wanting to touch her. She takes the spot next to me. I reach up and grab her neck and the side of her jaw in the palm of my hand, wanting so badly to kiss her, but it dawns on me that I don’t remember the last time I brushed my teeth, and I don’t want our first meaningful kiss to be botched on my accord, so instead, I stare into her eyes, the only place I’ve wanted to see my reflection. I take my thumb and slide it across her jaw—slowly, not softly. I want her to know I will be the last man to touch her in ways she deserves to be touched. To love her unconditionally.
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you leave again, Merit. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
Her lips barely part, and I move my thumb over her bottom lip. I feel this in my dick, knowing full well it will be really tough for Merit to explain—because that’s what she does—to the nurse whose boyfriend has a hard-on.
“That was too close, Ryan. I came too close to losing you.” She takes my hand from her face and slides it down her body, my hand now resting between her thighs.
“All right, Mr. Taylor, let’s get the discharge paperwork started. Oh. Merit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Merit doesn’t move. She stays put, next to me. A bold move she’s never done before. Our relationship has always been hidden.
“It’s okay, Fran. I’m here to take him home.”
“Will you be in Granite Harbor for a while?” she asks.
Merit to me. “Indefinitely. If he’ll keep me.”