Page 83 of Rebound

His face turns ashen, but I won’t take back my words.

“You didn’t have horrible things happen to you like they did to me,” he says.

“And how would you know? You were out of it drinking beer and watching daytime TV from the time I was a kid until I moved out. You didn’t care what I did as long as I took care of you. You—”

“Stop.” He holds up his hands and sighs. “Stop. I know. I know. I’m a shitty father, but I swear, I’m trying. Things are going to be different now. The therapy is working, and I want—”

“Why? Why now? Why not ten years ago? Hell, why not eight years ago? If you’re doing this for me, don’t because I don’t need it anymore. I made it, and it was all despite you instead of because of you.”

“Does it make you feel better to hurt me?” he asks.

“Well, the truth hurts,” is all I say.

“I know I can never make it up to you,” he says.

“I don’t need you to do anything for me. You’re the one who needs me, not the other way around.”

“You needed a parent and—”

“Oh my god! I know. You couldn’t. Boo freakin hoo. You are the first person in the history of the world to have something happen to them. It was easier for you to just give up than to fight for me. If you’re looking for sympathy, I’m fresh out, Dad.”

His face crumbles, and I wait for him to start sobbing, but he doesn’t. He stands again and reaches for my hand, but I pull away as if his touch is fire.

“I’m not looking for anything other than a little understanding.”

“I’ll give you some understanding as soon as you understand what you took from me.”

“You don’t think I know?” He raises his voice. He’s never raised his voice at me. Never. Before his complete breakdown, he never once yelled at me. “You don’t think that’s all I’ve talked about with Dr. Reynolds? You don’t think the guilt isn’t crippling?”

I look at him before I do a slow clap. “I believe you know. I just don’t think you care. If you cared, you would have gotten off your ass years ago, but you didn’t. You buried yourself under a mountain of filthy blankets and left me to fend for myself and for you.”

Right on cue, his tears start, and I instantly feel bad. Just like I did that day I told him off before I went away to college. That anger lasted the longest. It lasted for days after I left. He stood at the door of that filthy trailer and cried. I didn’t look back when I got into my coach’s car. Dad didn’t even thank him for doing his job.

He angrily swipes his tears and glares up at me. He’s never done that before. He normally shrivels up like ten-day-old grapes at the first sign of anger from me.

“I was assaulted, Seth!” he yells. “When I was a kid. It happened repeatedly.”

I put my hand on my hips and wait for his words to sink in. “Assaulted? You were hit?” I ask. I’m not surprised if that was the case. My grandfather was a mean man who bragged about shooting a dog when he was a teenager. He died when I wasthirteen, and I haven’t thought of him since. Dad didn’t go to the funeral and neither did I.

“I was assaulted,” he repeats. “Sexually.” He whispers the last word and I come to a complete stop. I don’t breathe, and I don’t blink.

“What the hell did you just say?” I ask, sure that I either heard wrong or misunderstood.

“I can’t repeat it. I won’t repeat it,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s taken me years to admit to myself. It took all I had to tell the doctor, and I’m not telling you now for sympathy. I need understanding. I need you to understand.” He quickly grabs my hands and holds them.

“Who?” is all I can think of to say. “Who did it? Because after I rip them apart with my bare fucking hands, I’m going to have them arrested and prosecuted. Whoever did this is going to spend the rest of his miserable life in a cell, and that’s if I don’t kill him first.” When all he does is cry, I yell, “Tell me who the fuck did this?”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead,” he says through his tears. “He died a long time ago.”

“Was it grandpa?” I ask with my eyes wide.

“No,” he says quickly. “He was mean, but he would never do that. It was a family friend, and he would watch me. I don’t want to say any more about that to you. That’s for me and Dr. Reynolds to figure out, but that’s been my problem. There was so much shame and hurt and anger. It’s crippled me for years. I didn’t know how to process it. I couldn’t deal with it. I wouldn’t even admit it to myself, so I collapsed. I stopped functioning. And you’re right. I am a shitty father. I’m a weak man, and you’ve suffered because I couldn’t get my shit together. I’m sosorry.”

I try to pull my hands away so I can punch the wall, but he won’t let me go. I don’t know if it’s because he knows my intentions or if this is the longest time I’ve let him touch me.

Parts of my childhood flash through my mind, and I wonder how I could have missed the signs, but I was so angry. All I thought about was how his actions affected me, not the cause of why he is the way he is. When I got older and forced into therapy, I was looking for a magic pill to cure him. I never once thought about what made him this way. I guess, I failed him too.

“Dad,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.” I tug at his hands, and I wrap my arms around him like he’s a child. He lets out a loud sob and cries into my chest. I hold him and let him have this moment. I hope it’s cathartic and brings him a sense of peace. It’s not until I feel my own tears streaming down my face that I realize I’m crying too.

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