I’m guilty and I’m going to be punished for what I’ve done. I don’t even know how to begin to believe that either.
Every attempt to understand only leads to more questions. I thought he could never lie to me, and now I know for certain he has at least once. How am I supposed to tell his truth from his lies? He’s always been my favorite person in the world. Who is he now?
I would never do anything to hurt you or your mama. I don’t know.
Trust me. I don’t know.
I love you, Riley …
I kick my car tire hard and pain shoots through my foot, but I’m too big of a wreck to even care. Tears stream down my face as the Texas sun beats down on my back, but I feel so cold inside that I don’t know if I will ever stop trembling.
8
THE SWING I’M SITTING IN HOLDS perfectly still, but somehow the sand between my toes feels like it’s moving. I decide I don’t care and take another swig from the bottle of rum before fumbling the top and almost dropping it in the sand. Then, with a little difficulty, I finally manage to cap it and tuck the bottle back securely under my jacket. Not that I think anyone will come walking through this park at almost midnight on a Friday, but this is the first time I’ve ever tasted alcohol and everything about it feels rebellious.
I’d been such a mess during the hour drive home from Polunsky. I had to pull over three times because I felt so sick over my conversation with Daddy. By the time I got back to town, I was only sure of two things. First, I needed some time to try to understand what he was thinking when he confessed to me before I talked to Mama about it. Not a problem, of course, because she’s working late as usual anyway. Second, I knew that I really, really didn’t want to think anymore.
I heard in one of our health classes at school that alcohol slows down your brain function. That’s kind of what I was after. I parked in front of the house, checked to make sure Mama wasn’t home, stole the first bottle I could reach for out of the liquor cabinet, and came straight to this park.
It turns out, that health class info was dead on.
My head hangs to one side against the chains and it feels heavier to hold up than I remember it being. My phone is on my lap for some reason and it slides off, landing in the sand beside me. I think about picking it up, but it feels like it would be a lot of work, so I don’t.
I watch the lights of cars passing by on the nearest street. It’s well over two hundred feet away, on the far side of the park. Traffic keeps up a steady hum that is only interrupted by the occasional blaring honk of a car horn. Everything around me feels so fuzzy it makes me laugh. I sing softly to myself in the darkness, choosing a heavy metal song to fit my dark mood. It doesn’t sound nearly as tough and angry when it’s just my voice and no pounding drums or wailing vocals … but it’s nice.
Tomorrow will be the first day, other than visitation days, that I won’t have a letter from Daddy to open in as long as I can remember. I feel empty, my heart aches, and I’m lonely. It’s only been a few hours, but I’m already regretting the way I left Polunsky. Daddy had still been trying to talk to me. Maybe I could’ve begged him to explain. Maybe I could’ve gotten some better understanding of whether he’d been telling the awful truth … or the worst kind of lie—one designed to push his family away.
And now it’s too late for any answers. Now I won’t even be able to open one of his letters or speak to him for a week, and I don’t know how to deal with that.
I’ve been alone for much of my life, but I’ve never felt this alone.
I wish again that I had someone to call, that I knew anyone who would come meet me in the park at night and talk to me. Friends should do that, but I don’t have that kind of friends—not anymore. The only way I can keep any friends is by lying to them, and I know from experience, the truth always comes out in the end. People keep you at a distance if they think killing runs in your blood.
And if I believe what Daddy confessed to me, then maybe they were right—right about me being wrong about him for so long.
Pulling the bottle out, I take another drink. The burning sensation from the first couple of swallows is long gone. It has been replaced by warmth that momentarily makes me feel not so alone.
But then it passes and I’m cold again … and lonelier than ever.
I slosh the bottle around in front of my face. Holding it up, I watch the amber liquid surge from one side to the other in the moonlight. My fingers are numb and I lose my grip, dropping the bottle into the sand.
“Aw, hell.” I lurch out of my swing and reach for it even though it’s mostly empty anyway. When I lift it up to the moonlight again, the liquid definitely has more grit to it than before. “Damn.”