Page 90 of Everything We Give

“Your father won’t listen to me. You must talk to him. You have to convince him to tell you the truth about your mother.”

“Do you know where she is? Why not just tell me?”

“It’s not my place. That’s Sarah’s request, not mine. This is between you and your father. Get him to talk. Listen to him and keep an open mind.”

“Give me one good reason I should give that man my time when he never gave me his.”

“He’s dying.”

CHAPTER 26

IAN, AGE FOURTEEN

Ian sat on the front porch waiting for his dad to get off the phone with Mr.Hatchett, his mom’s attorney. Ian hadn’t seen her in months, not since he testified at her trial.

A lot of good that did. She was still sentenced to nine years. He’d be in college by then, or graduated with a degree and a job. Where would he go if she wasn’t here?

Somewhere close so he could visit her. He missed her something fierce.

Ian picked up a rock, hefted the stone, then threw it hard. The rock hit the rear fender of his dad’s truck with a loud ping.

The abrasions on his legs had healed; his skin was pink where the scabs had rubbed off. The doctor said the scars would fade. Ian wondered if the same could be said of the dark cloud building inside him. His dad didn’t know, and he’d die if his friends found out, but Ian cried himself to sleep like a baby most nights. Under the privacy of his covers, he’d bite into his pillows and sob.

Jackie had done what she’d threatened to do. She’d taken his mom away for good.

Ian folded his arms on his knees, dropped his head, and let the dark cloud billow. It thickened and expanded, growing angry. He hated Jackie.

But today, they were visiting Sarah. Ian could finally apologize for losing the pictures he’d taken that day. When the car door slammed on his camera with him stuck in the shoulder strap, the casing had popped open, exposing the film. Gone were the images he believed could have proved her innocence. Jackie had fired the pistol, not Sarah.

Tired of sulking, Ian lifted his head and clicked through the settings of the new digital camera Stu had purchased as a replacement for the one permanently damaged that night. It was an expensive camera, and still a rare find in electronic stores. But his dad had connections, and Ian figured he gave it to him out of guilt. He should have been home to take Ian to the track meet.

Ian lifted the camera to his face and squinted through the viewer. Tulips bloomed in his mom’s pots. Corn sprouted in the fields, the stalks low enough so he could see the road and the mailbox at the end of the drive. Ian zoomed the lens and snapped a photo.

Inside, behind the screen door, his dad paced the long hallway. The farmhouse’s old walnut floor snapped, crackled, and popped under the weight of his boots. He stopped just inside the doorway and within hearing distance. Ian picked up snippets of his dad’s conversation.

“There’s nothing we can do to change her mind?” he asked the attorney. “Uh-huh ... uh-huh ... how long?” Ian pictured Mr.Hatchett in his office in Nevada, his Santa Claus paunch giving him no choice but to lean back in his chair as he stared at the ceiling, patiently answering Stu’s questions. The same questions Ian bet Mr.Hatchett heard from every client.

Ian’s dad fired a round of curse words. They pelted the air like firecrackers and Ian cringed. Something had his dad fired up.

“Fine ... Yes ... I understand ... Call me if she changes her mind or shows improvement. Thanks.”

His dad retreated farther into the house. He slammed down the cordless phone and swore. From where Ian sat, the phone sounded like it had shattered. Behind him the screen door opened and slammed shut. His dad settled on the porch steps beside Ian.

Ian clipped on the lens cap and shouldered the strap. “Ready?” He stood, eager to get on the road. They had a ten-hour drive to Las Vegas with plans to camp overnight halfway. They’d fish for their dinner this evening and Ian wanted to leave so they’d get to the campground by late afternoon. He was also antsy to see his mom. Excitement kept him in motion. He bounced from foot to foot.

Stu reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a cigarette and, rolling onto his hip, leg extended, dug a lighter from his jeans. He made a show—all in slow motion, in Ian’s opinion—of lighting the cigarette and taking a few deep sucks until the end flared orange. Cigarette hanging from his lip, he stuffed the lighter back in his front pocket and patted the space beside him. “Have a seat, son.”

“We’re late.” Ian glanced at his dad’s truck. He’d packed the cab with road-trip snacks and drinks. The cooler in the back was full of ice and food for the four-day trip. Two there and two back. A mini-vacation, his dad had said. Preseason football started in a month. Best for them to get in some father-son activities before the three months his dad would juggle time between football and baseball.

Ian had also wrapped a gift for his mom, a book of poems by T.S.Eliot. She loved poetry. She said the words soothed her. Ian had purchased the book with his allowance from the used bookshop in town. He could see the present on the dashboard, floral printed wrapping tied with a yellow bow.

Stu took a long draw on his Marlboro. “We’re not going.”

Ian’s heart plummeted into his stomach. “What do you mean?”

“How do I put this?” his dad muttered. He rubbed his forehead with the hand holding the cigarette, then looked at Ian. “She doesn’t want to see us.”

“You’re lying.”

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