Page 6 of Delilah
My shirt sleeve is covered in snot. My eyes feel puffy and heavy with grief. I check my phone. It’s eight in the morning. I’ve been down here all night. I have twenty missed calls from Travis. I text him that I’m fine and not to worry, but the signal doesn’t go through the concrete walls of the basement.
The computer is still paused on the video I couldn’t bring myself to watch, but after reading this letter…I feel like I have to. I have to understand why my father would love me as much as he says he did in this letter, but then leave me to face this world alone after he lost my mother.
Was I not enough?
I swallow the thick ache in my throat and rub my eyes as I wiggle the mouse to press play. There’s no sound, but I don’t think I need it.
I watch in both horror and fascination as my father puts the gun in his hand to his head, and then the frame goes still. The gun drops to his side, and he peeks over the ledge of the building he’s standing on.
I don’t even have to see her face to know that the woman below him in the alleyway is my mother, and it begins to all make sense.
He called her angel because she saved his life the night they met.
He didn’t kill himself because he gave up on me, but because he lost the only thing that was holding him together.
His love for me would haveneverfilled that hole in his chest.
“Dad…” I whisper into the chilly basement as tears stream down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t let myself watch any of the other videos. There’s no point. The circumstances of their relationship aren’t my business, and though I’m curious, I’d feel like I was intruding on a story that isn’t mine.
I place a kiss on my fingers and then trace my mother’s rain-soaked face on the screen, before shutting down the computer and smashing the hard drive.
When I leave the basement and put the bookcase back where I found it, I take a shaky breath. I’ve lived almost my entire life lost and confused. Every time I think about my parents, I’m overwhelmed with a feeling of ‘whatcouldhavebeen’.
I wonder who I’d be if I hadn’t lost them.Would I have still gone to MIT? Would I have wanted to help people? Would I have grown up to be a spoiled socialite?
Now more than ever, I wonder if they ever would have told me about my father’s double life, or if they would have kept me in the dark to protect me and my innocence.
My father’s letter doesn’t answer that question, and I suppose I’ll have to make peace with the undeniable fact that I’m not meant to know the answer.
I gather my things and walk back down the stairs that squeak and groan with each step. When my feet are flat on the first floor, I turn my head to my left.
That same feeling of dread washes over me as I stare in the general direction of the kitchen—where my life ended before it even had a chance to begin.
I swallow the ache in my throat and walk towards that horrible room. With my pictures still clutched to my chest, I stand in the doorway and stare at the ground where I saw nearly my entire family dead.
I swear, if I try hard enough, I can still see the ground covered in blood. I’m fairly certain that I can see a rusty stain on the hardwood beneath the thick layer of dust.
I take a seat on the floor where I last saw my father alive and trace little shapes into the dust coating the floor. Simple shapes. Shapes a small child without a care in the world would draw. A star. A Christmas tree. A slice of pizza.
A sad face for the child who died here with her parents.
The one emotion that’s always haunted me about that day is guilt. Everyone was in that kitchen because I wanted pancakes that morning. Maybe it’s not fair for me to blame myself for that. I couldn’t have known my grandfather was going to go off the deep end that morning.
But that’s not the only thing I feel guilty for.
I saw my father, alive, kneeling next to my mother’s dead body.
I spoke to him.
He looked over his shoulder at me.
I should have gone to him. I should have given him a hug or doneanythingexcept fucking stand there and count. Of all the times I could have been stubborn, that was it.
And I failed.
I should have cried; I should have screamed. I should have saved him, just like my mother did.
