“But there’s something you can do now. Now that you remember, come with me. Let’s fly to Connecticut right now and sit down with the detective who handled the case. You can give him the description. What did the guy look like, anyway?”
I feel a chill run through me as I picture the guy’s sneering face. “He was skinny, with a gray ponytail and yellow teeth. Really yellow teeth. He was wearing a blue striped shirt.”
My father is frozen.
“I know who you are talking about. That was our mailman. I’d never forget that gray ponytail or those horrible teeth. Pax, go pack a bag. We’re going to Connecticut.”
“The mailman?” I am incredulous. “I don’t remember the mail man at all.”
“You wouldn’t, would you?” my dad answers. “You were only seven. I used to tease your mother that he would find silly reasons to bring the mail to the door instead of leaving it in the box. I used to joke with her that he had a thing for her. We laughed about it. We thought he was just a little strange and lonely. I had no idea…”
Dad’s voice chokes off and he looks away for a minute and pulls himself together before he looks back at me.
“Get your things, Pax. That sick bastard deserves to pay.”
The idea that I might find just a bit of redemption spurs me and I do get off the couch and go pack a bag. As I’m cramming my toothbrush into my overnight case, I see a ring laying on the counter. I pick it up. Mila must’ve left it. Her mother’s wedding ring. I slide it onto my pinkie and finish packing.
In my haste, I leave my cellphone in the house and don’t realize it until we are speeding away toward Chicago.
“Don’t worry,” my dad says. “If you need a phone, you can use mine. We won’t be gone that long anyway. Maybe a couple of days. This is huge, Pax. That fucking guy will finally get what he deserves. All they’ll need to do is match his DNA. This is huge.”
My dad is more animated now than I’ve ever seen him. There is life in his eyes. I look at him.
“Dad, why did you think it might be best if I never remembered? What did you mean? Best for me? Or best for you?”
My dad glances at me with a sober look before returning his eyes to the road.
“Maybe for both of us. I knew the memories would shatter you. And after they found the gunpowder residue on your hands, I didn’t think I wanted to know what happened. I couldn’t begin to imagine, but I wasn’t in a good place. And if I’d found out that you had a hand in her death, even accidentally, I didn’t know if I could get past it.”
“But I was a kid,” I choke out. “I was trying to help her.”
“Yes,” my dad says, leveling a gaze at me. “You were. I’m glad you realize that. But I was in a bad way then. Grief does that to a person. And so I coped in the only way I knew how. I threw myself into work. And when that didn’t stop the pain, I packed us up and moved us across the country.”
“Did that stop the pain?” I ask him.
He looks at me. “No.”
I glance down at my hands and stare at the ring on my finger. I take it off, spinning it round and round in my hands. The inside has words inscribed. I peer closer to read them. Love Never Fails.
I gulp.
Sometimes, love does fail. I’ve certainly proven that. I’ve failed everyone. I failed my mother. I failed my father when I repressed the memories and couldn’t tell anyone what the killer looked like. And I’ve certainly failed Mila. I know I’ve ripped her heart out and I doubt I can ever put it back together again.
I close my eyes to soothe the stinging in them.
I nap in the airport until our plane takes off, then I nap on the plane. I think about trying to call Mila, but decide that I’d better not. Our conversation isn’t one for the phone. I’ll need to see her, face-to-face. In the meantime, I have something important to do.
When we touch down in Hartford, we check into a hotel. Our dinner in the posh hotel restaurant is fairly silent.
I watch my father swirling his scotch absently in his glass for a long time before I finally speak up.
“It wasn’t your fault, either, dad.”
He looks up at me.
“No? Pax, we joked about that guy. The fucking mailman. I thought he was a joke. But he took my life away. Or he might as well have. Some joke. I guess he got the last laugh.”
The bitter agony on my father’s face is apparent and as pissed as I am at him, I can’t help but feel terrible for him at the same time. I can’t imagine what he must feel like.
“Dad,” I attempt again. But he interrupts.
“Pax, you don’t understand. You can’t imagine how many times over the years I’ve wondered…what if I had left work early that day? What if I’d not stopped for gas? What if I’d hit one less red light? If any of those things had happened, maybe I could have stopped it. The constant not-knowing was terrible. But now, to find out that the fucking mailman took her life…my guilt is ten thousand times worse than it ever was. Because if I’d taken him seriously-if I’d recognized him for the perverted fuck that he was, your mother would be alive today. That’s an unarguable fact.”