“What on earth were you thinking? What made you decide to drink like that?” Mama asks, and then a new and more disturbing thought seems to occur to her. “Please tell me the truth, Riley: Was this the first time?”
“Yes. I promise.” I tuck my left foot under my right knee so I’m facing her. Above all else, I hope she doesn’t press me further on the one question I haven’t decided on how to answer yet: Why?
“Do you have new friends that are a bad influence on you? Did anyone pressure you into this?” Mama watches me closer with each new question.
It takes enormous self-control not to laugh. My worry about her asking why is obviously unfounded. She doesn’t really know me if she thinks I have any friends or know anyone that I care enough about to allow peer pressure to affect me at all.
Peer pressure lost any power over me when I decided I didn’t care what anyone outside our family thought. The kids at school all believe I’m the daughter of a killer and treat me with a mixture of fear and disdain. I think most of them are dumb as rocks and I try to believe they don’t matter, pretend they don’t exist. Our feelings are somewhat mutual, and I’ve learned to be okay with that.
“No, Mama, I think I was just feeling a little rebellious after the appeal and all.” It’s not a complete lie. What happened at the appeal had only been the beginning, but she doesn’t need to know that—not yet.
Mama sighs and then reaches out for my hand. “I know you’re tough as a boot, girl. But whether you admit it or not, everything with your father has been hard on you, Ri. Harder than it should be for any seventeen-year-old. You promise not to do anything like that again, and I promise it will get better, okay?” Mama leans over until I meet her eyes. “I will make sure it does.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I squeeze her hand and smile until she nods and turns to search for something in her closet; then the smile melts from my face like a piece of ice on the Texas asphalt. It isn’t that I’m not happy she wants to make things better. I want her to take care of herself, if nothing else, for her sake as much as mine. It’s likely that in twenty-six days, she’ll be the only parent I have left. As much as I often try not to, I need her.
I just know that whenever I tell her what Daddy confessed to me, it could destroy her even more than it destroyed me.
10
I SPEND THE WEEKEND rereading old letters from Daddy and sleeping off my hangover. In my mind, I keep replaying my conversation with Daddy at Polunsky. I think that maybe if I’d asked the right questions somehow I could have gotten to the truth.
But I hadn’t. I’d freaked out, and now I have to wait a week before I can have another chance to get my answers. The next time I see him, though, I will find a way to make him explain and tell me the truth.
I have to know.
It’s become an obsession now and I feel like I can’t understand anything about my life without knowing what he is. A martyr or a monster? A hero or a demon?
And whatever he is, does it change who I am?
Every time I think about telling Mama about my last visit with Daddy, about asking her to help me find the truth, I chicken out and just end up texting with Jordan instead.
I’m sitting in my room on Sunday rereading a letter from after Daddy’s conviction when my phone buzzes beside me.
I see Jordan’s name and pick it up, feeling nervous. This is the first time he’s called me.
“Hello?” I know the smile in my voice shines through even over the phone and I don’t care. I’m letting my guard down with him and even though I know it might be stupid, I can’t help it. Despite my instinctive need to push everyone away, something about him tells me I can trust him.
“Hi. How are you?” I can tell he’s smiling, too.
“I’m much better, thanks.” I don’t know why, but talking instead of texting makes me more nervous. I can’t fix my mistakes before pressing Send. “How about you? Been forced to endure any more neighborhood football games?”
He laughs. “No. Thank God.”
“I have to admit, I’m intrigued,” I say, flopping down on my bed and staring at the ceiling. “What makes a Texas boy who used to like football start hating it?”
I’d been teasing, but the other end of the line feels more silent now and I know I’ve crossed into territory I shouldn’t have.
Before I can apologize, though, or try to let him off the hook, he responds and his voice is soft. “I don’t hate football. I still like to watch it. I even miss playing sometimes. I miss my team, but my mom came to every game I’ve ever played—from flag to tackle to school football teams.”
I close my eyes and my heart hurts for him. No wonder he doesn’t want to play.
“I just don’t want to be out there and look up at the spot where she always sat and not see her. I’m not ready for that.” He clears his throat. “I’d be useless to the team anyway.”
After a few moments of silence, I say the only thing that feels right. “Maybe we have more in common than I thought.”