I go to AA meetings and I’ve been working the twelve steps and trying to make amends to all the people I hurt. I’m truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused everybody, and I know I let you down. I wish a million times over that I’d never driven drunk that night. I can’t go back in time, but I’m trying really hard to make a positive difference with the rest of my life.
I go to a support group in here. They teach us anger management and how to talk about our emotions so they don’t build up inside. For years I couldn’t handle all my bad feelings because of what happened to me when I was a kid. I guess I never really got over my dad leaving and my mom dying. So then I was always scared your mom would leave me too. But I screwed up and lost you both. I’m not making excuses. I’m just hoping you can maybe understand a little.
Do you remember the boat we built together? I know I messed that up too and I’m really sorry. I remember every single time I screwed up and I know it would take me a lifetime to make it all up to you, but I’m willing to give it a try. Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night because it’s so noisy in here, I work out plans for a new boat and think about how we could build it together and take it out on the lake when I get released. I never got to teach you how to fish.
Maybe that doesn’t seem like much, but when you were born, it was one of the things I really wanted to do with you, but then I was drinking too much for all those years and it just never happened. I forgot about a lot of things, but I never stopped loving you.
I’ve got to get to work now. I have a job in here, managing the tool room. It passes the time and some of the men are okay. I also read a lot and I’ve taken some classes, but I’m looking forward to getting out soon. I know you might not want to write me back, but it would mean a lot to me if you did. I want to hear about you. Do you still like to draw?
Your dad
By the time I was done reading the letter, my throat was tight and my face hot. I felt empty and headachy. It was too much. I hadn’t thought about that boat in years. We’d sanded and painted for days, but then it sat with a tarp over it for months. Now I remembered how it felt standing beside him while we worked, learning how to use the different grains of sanding paper, our hands grimy and rough, the oily smell of the paint. I tucked the letter under my dresser.
That night after Mom was in bed, I went to my room and started sketching. I began with an enchanted forest, trees with leaves and flowers twining around, but then in the middle I drew a pond with our boat and there was a little girl and her father sitting together with fishing poles and frogs jumping all around them. I folded it up and stuffed it in an envelope and gave it to Delaney the next morning so she could mail it to him. After that, we started writing weekly.
Today he’s flying over to Dogwood Bay from the island to see me. Our first visit in eleven years. I’m going to see my father. Which is so crazy I barely slept last night and I have big dark shadows under my eyes that I had to layer makeup over and then use more eyeliner than normal, so I can pretend I’m going for the smoky look. Maybe Mom will be so distracted by my new style she won’t notice that I’m way too excited for school.
I shove the bundle of letters into my backpack—I’ve been taking them with me every day. Mom would never search my room and she always asks before she vacuums or cleans anything, but I’m not taking any chances. I tiptoe out to the kitchen, hoping that she’s still sleeping. Crap. She’s already sitting at the table and eating toast. I smell peanut butter.
She glances at me. “You’re up early. Want something to eat?”
“I’ll eat at school, thanks.” For a wild moment I imagine what it might be like to tell her that I’ve talked to my dad on the phone a few times. It was strange at first. I didn’t know what to say, but his voice was so familiar and then I started having all these memories of sitting in his work truck, listening to him on the phone, feeling proud of how smart he sounded, how his workers always checked with him about everything. I could even smell the coconut air freshener he used. Then I remembered his metal lunch kit and how he brought little packages of Oreos for me and kept crayons in his glove box. I want to ask Mom if she remembers that too. How come we never talk about those things? How come we only talk about the bad stuff?
Well, darling daughter, because he threatened to kill me, remember that?
I do remember. I remember perfectly. That’s why I asked him about it during our second phone call. And if you think writing my dad in prison took a lot of guts, asking him about the time he threatened to kill my mother just about ripped them out. What if he had shot my mom that night? When I think about it everything gets all shaky, and I feel like I have to sit down.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” I said. “It’s important.”
“You can ask me anything.”
“Were you really going to kill Mom the night of the accident? You had a gun.”