I zero in until my mom and dad are all I see.
My mom is frazzled and furious, her eyebrows and fists knitted tight as she shifts from foot to foot. My dad is slumped over and slender in a chair by the window, his wrists handcuffed behind his back. I haven’t seen him in over a year and a half, but the way he looks now is beyond anything I expected. He’s gaunt. He’s dirty. He has a ratty beard with food crumbs stuck in it. I can smell the stench of alcohol and filth on him from ten feet away. Seeing him makes my heart hurt for so many reasons.
My mom turns to me, her eyes filling up with tears. “You came.”
I well up. I can’t help it. Her words mean everything.
“Where is he? Is he okay?” My eyes are everywhere, but I don’t see my brother, and all I can think is that something happened to him.
“He’s in class,” my mom says. “He doesn’t even know.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why are the police here?”
“Because your dad wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“I just want to see my son,” my dad says. It seems like a simple enough request from a father, but nobody in his right mind would consider sending a kid off with someone who looks like my dad right now.
“You want to see Ben?” I ask him. My words are loud. “You actually want to see him? Since when have you had any interest in seeing any of us?” The noise of my voice carries through the tiny office, over the desk and through the slats of the ceiling fan, making the principal and my mom jump. “Christmas, birthdays, swim meets, awards ceremonies…” I tick them off until my voice quiets to a whisper. “And when all those kids at my school died, I could’ve died, too. But you come now. Why now?”
“Because he’s my son. I needed to see him.”
He only wants to see Ben. He doesn’t want to see me. As much as I lectured my mom about forgiving my dad, the truth of him not wanting to see me hurts. “He doesn’t even know you,” I say. “I’m the one who knows you.”
Those words make my dad’s shoulders tense. My mom gapes at me. Maybe I’ve only focused on forgiving Aaron Tiratore. Because right here, right now, I don’t feel like I’ve forgiven my dad.
“What? It’s true.”
My mom nods slightly. She knows I’m right. “Morgan,” she says, “maybe it would be better for you to wait outside.” She looks pointedly at my dad. “She’s been through a lot. And your absence hasn’t helped.”
“Oh, yeah. Here we go again. I’m always the bad guy,” my dad says.
“Are you for real?” My mom tosses her purse to the floor, like she had to throw something, but that’s all she had. “You’re actually going to play the victim here?” She angles her body in front of him. “You know what? Your daughter, our daughter, who I’ve come to realize is smarter than you and me put together, thinks I should forgive you. She thinks forgiving you will help us move on. She’s a better person because she’s been able to forgive people who have done unforgivable things. I wish I were capable of such forgiveness, but I’m not. Because I will never, in a million years, forgive this.” She sweeps her hands in front of my dad in a gesture of disgust. “Showing up this way, making a scene at your son’s school? It’s unforgivable. Absolutely, positively unforgivable. You need help. I will never allow you to see Ben until you get it.”
“Or me,” I say. “Not that you seem to care about that.”
My dad lifts his head to look at me, and when he does it’s like I’m only a memory of something from a long time ago. It’s true that I know him and Ben doesn’t. But that’s the problem. That’s exactly why he doesn’t want to see me. I’m a reminder of him at his best. And that makes what he is now even worse. Of course he’d rather spend time with a trusting six-year-old who doesn’t entirely understand how messed up his dad is. I’m not like that. My dad knows I know how much he has changed. He slumps over in his chair. The hem of his jacket, dirt-stained and tattered, drapes past his knees, skimming the floor. His arms stretch behind him, the handcuffs biting into his wrists, as he erupts into huge, heaving sobs. He looks so weak. I don’t even know who he is as he shakes and sniffs in front of me. I don’t recognize a single thing about him.
And then my mom cries, too, and I’m wondering if she wants to take back her words.
Behind the desk, the principal straightens out her smart pink sweater set and the secretary stares off at her computer screen, presumably trying not to invade what feels like a private family moment.
“Let’s go,” the taller police officer finally says, pulling my dad up by the elbow.
“Wait!” My mom stops them at the door, gently reaching for my dad’s shoulder because she knows her touch might startle him. “Rich,” she says. “Please let them take you someplace where you can get help.”