I cried, letting the memories overwhelm me.
Visits to the mental hospital. The number of pills taken to keep the demons at bay. The excitement over fire. The exhilaration around flames. The number of burn scars marring perfect porcelain skin. The animated expression while lighting matches in front of a child’s wide, fearful eyes. The panic-stricken scream after lighting one’s self on fire.
All of which belonged to one person.
My mother.
My father hadn’t been trying to take me away from her. He had tried to protect me from her. If only I hadn’t suppressed the one memory that would have kept him out of prison twenty-two years ago. That the moment the scuffle in our kitchen had begun, I’d opened the pantry door to help my mother. But what I’d seen left me dumbfounded and in a state of shock.
My mother repeatedly attacked my father, biting and clawing at him, while he’d done nothing to defend himself. He’d never laid a finger on her. Then, in the midst of her raging fit, my mother had picked up a cast iron skillet and cracked it against my father’s skull, knocking him backward into the living room.
Afterward, she calmly and quietly grabbed the bottle of cooking wine on the counter and poured it over her head before placing her wet sleeve over the open flame of the stove. She shrieked in pain as the flames consumed her, and I slammed the door on the pantry and curled into a ball, locking the images away in my mind.
Apparently, I’d blocked out the horror of what my mother had done to protect her memory, or possibly my sanity, but I couldn’t do it anymore. My mom had not been murdered by my father. She was a depressed, suicidal pyromaniac who had not only tortured her only child, but killed herself to escape the seduction of fire.
And even though I’d witnessed the whole thing, I still sent an innocent man to prison for almost twenty-two years. I didn’t know how he could forgive me for that. Or how I’d ever forgive myself.
An hour after my father left, a nurse came into the room.
“Can I see Cowboy now?” I asked, still stewing in guilt over what I’d done to my own father.
“His parents just arrived, and he’s only allowed two visitors at a time.”
“It might be a few more hours, then?”
She hesitated. “Well it might be a little longer than that. But I’m sure you’ll be able to see him in the next day or two.”
“Day or two?” I blinked at her as she chewed her lip. “What are you not telling me?” My mind swelled with horrific images of me at Cowboy’s funeral. “Oh God! Please tell me he’s okay.”
The nurse grasped my hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “No, no. He’s fine, I promise,” she said softly, looking as if she were mentally cringing at what she was about to tell me. “It’s just that…well, he doesn’t want to see you.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“That’s what he said. He said to tell you he was okay and that he’d talk to you in a couple of days once things settled down.”
I shook my head. “No, you’re wrong. You must’ve misunderstood him…or it’s the pain meds he’s on. Cowboy wouldn’t—”
She squeezed my hand again. “I’m sorry, honey. I heard him say it myself. He’s quite coherent and lucid about it.”
“Where is he?” I demanded.
“I can’t tell you that. He didn’t give his consent to give out his room number and we have to abide by patient orders when it comes to their privacy.” Her apologetic eyes gazed at me, trying to comfort me in my agitated state. “Just give him some time. I’m sure he’ll come around after a few—”