Pushing the chair away from the table, I get up and hurriedly go to the kitchen doorway to see my father head toward the stairs.
“We’re out of whiskey. I can’t believe Claudia hasn’t bought more. I’ll have to speak to her about it,” my father mumbles as he stomps down the stairs, the keys to his car jangling in his hand.
I was fully prepared to bang on his door later to demand he come out and talk to me. I figured I had nothing to lose by telling him I’ve started remembering things, just to see what he would say, even though I’m pretty positive he would just continue lying. He seems to be an expert at that. I want him to know that I’m aware that he lied to both Dr. Beall and me when he said he didn’t know how I got back to the prison after getting hurt that night. I want to be looking him in the eye when he realizes that I know all about the threats he made to Nolan, and I want to see his reaction when I mention the name of Dr. Thomas.
Hearing him speak to himself about my mother like she’s still alive immediately kills that plan. I should probably stop him from driving anywhere in his condition, but at this point I don’t really care if he crashes his car and hurts himself, or even if he gets himself killed. He’s avoided me for days, the first time he even looked at me being the night my mother killed herself, and he shouted accusations and blame at me. He quickly laid waste to the silly notions I had when I first woke up after the accident, that he was a good father and truly loved me. I shouldn’t have ignored my instincts that day in the cell block, when it felt foreign to hug him, as if I’d never done it before. I shouldn’t have brushed aside the gut feelings I had that he was lying to me from day one. Maybe if I had listened to what my head was telling me sooner, I’d have remembered everything by now.
Even though one of my plans has to be put on hold for now, I quickly realize another door just opened for me. Literally. My father’s office door is wide open and when I hear the faint rumble of his car starting outside, followed by the peeling of tires on the driveway, I race across the living room.
The room reeks of stale liquor, sweat, and vomit, and nothing like the pipe smoke and peppermint that usually surrounds him. I pull the neck of my shirt up over my nose, masking some of the smell before I get sick, as I move farther into the room.
I immediately spot the back of a framed photo on the corner of his desk, grabbing it and turning it around to inspect it. Contrary to what my mother said, the photo doesn’t tell me any secrets. It doesn’t even conjure up any memories as I stare at it. Even though it was taken on the main stairway leading up to this area, it seems to have been taken by a professional photographer, since the name of the studio is embossed on the picture in the bottom right-hand corner. There’s nothing special about the photo; it’s a typical family photo with my father sitting on one step and my mother on the one right below him, her body turned to the side with her knees demurely pressed together. I would guess I’m around five or so, and I’m seated right next to my mother with one elbow casually resting on her legs and the other in my lap, and she has her arm around my back, part of her hand that holds onto my hip visible.
The only thing that is strange and a little telling is that my father seems to be separated from us. He doesn’t have his hand on her shoulder, he’s not reaching down to lovingly touch me in any way, and he’s the only one not smiling, his frown lines deep and prominent. Even though both of our smiles—my mother’s and mine—seem a tad forced, at least we don’t look ticked off at the world. He stares into the camera as if at any moment he’s going to jump up and start yelling at everyone. Looking closer at the space between my mother and me, I can see he has his hands clenched into fists, one on each knee.
Shaking my head, I wonder why they even went through with this photo. My father doesn’t seem like the type of person who can be coerced into anything, but it’s kind of obvious he was pushed into taking this picture when he clearly wasn’t having a good day.
I’m not sure if this is what my mother meant when she said the photo would tell me the truth. I already figured out my father isn’t very good at disguising his anger, even in a family photograph. I’m guessing I’m around five in the photo and that was the year the whole lake incident happened. Maybe that’s what my mother was talking about and the cause for the mad look on my father’s face. Maybe this was taken around that same time or even the same day.