A Blind Eye (21 page)

“Can I go now?” I rolled off the gurney but stood up too fast and my body swayed. Or maybe it was the morphine kicking in. I sat back down.

Parker called the paramedic over. “He wants to go home.”

I didn't exactly say
home
. But I did want to leave.

Without any warning, the paramedic opened the clinic door and waved my dad over.

The detective shot me another smug grin and pulled out his phone. He walked into the depths of the clinic, talking on it, even though I didn't think he dialed a number.

When my dad walked through the doors, I lowered my eyes, focusing on the dark stains that covered the knees of my jeans. The last thing I'd said to him was that he wasn't my father. That I wished him dead. Now, according to Parker, I owed him my life. Since I'd entered the Center for Vision Repair just over an hour ago, it seemed my whole existence had turned upside down.

“The bullet went straight through,” the paramedic explained to my dad. “In and out without hitting the bone. I patched it up, but you'll have to take him in tomorrow to have it checked. They'll want to start antibiotics to prevent infection. He'll also need a tetanus shot if he's not current. Okay?”

I didn't look up, but my dad must have nodded because the paramedic continued. “Here's some extra bandages. When the blood soaks through, change them. Don't let him shower; it has to stay dry. He can take a bath. Keep him warm, and give him plenty of liquids.”

He was wasting his time telling my dad all of this. I stood up again, slowly and holding on to the gurney's metal guardrail. I pulled my keys out of my pocket. “I'll be fine.”

The paramedic snatched the keys from my hands and tossed them to my dad. “He doesn't drive for at least six hours. I gave him a dose of morphine.”

I groaned. Thwarted again. Every time I saw light at the end of the tunnel, something came along and blocked my view. My plans to escape would have to wait. I braved a quick peek at my dad. He looked pale and tired.

“Thanks,” he said to the paramedic. He gripped my right arm and led me from the clinic.

I cast a backward glance at Detective Parker. He was watching us leave, grinning. I saw him mouth, “See ya, slugger.”

When we got outside, I shrugged my dad's hand off. I lowered myself into his Mercedes and buckled the seat belt one-handed.

He climbed in and started the car, backing out slowly to avoid the ambulances and police cars. I shivered, and he turned the heat up.

“I'm sorry you had to leave your office,” I said, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. The morphine had taken effect, draining away the pain but leaving me tired and spent.

“I don't mind,” he said. Then he added in a quiet voice, “I'm just glad you're all right.”

Did he really mean that? I looked over, but he kept his eyes on the road.

This man driving me home, with my picture on his desk, calling the police in case I was in trouble, he didn't match up to the man I'd lived with the past eight years. The one who never spoke to me, who never seemed to care whether I lived or died. This just wasn't the same guy. I couldn't figure it out, couldn't think straight anymore.

I closed my eyes again and drifted off.

“Christian. We're home.” He tugged on my arm, pulling me out of the car.

I stumbled into the house and up the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing to drag myself up. Dad was there, one hand on my back steadying me as I climbed. I went into my bathroom and scrubbed my hands, watching the water in the sink turn red, swirling into a vortex as it went down the drain. Then I collapsed onto my bed.

* * *

I woke up drenched in sweat. Someone had covered me with two tons of blankets. With every heartbeat, a stabbing pain pulsed through my arm, and I was thirsty beyond belief. I checked the time: almost eight o'clock. I'd slept over seven hours.

A few bottles of water and a two-liter of soda sat on my nightstand, along with a bottle of extra-strength acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and a green plastic container of Percocet prescribed to Richard Morris, plus the extra dressing. My dad must've left them here before he went back to work.

I threw the blankets off and swung my legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. I rubbed my rib cage. “Ouch.” With a click of the safety seal, I opened a bottle of water and drained it. Ibuprofen seemed like my best option; I picked up the bottle and checked the label. I avoided taking anything stronger if I didn't need it. Plus, I'd had a bad experience with prescription painkillers not too long ago. I didn't want to go there again.

“The doctor said you can take up to four.”

I whipped my head around. My dad sat by the door in a stiff, high-backed chair carried up from the dining room table.

Christian vs. West Hills Memorial Gardens

“What are you doing here?” I asked, popping the pills into my mouth and washing them down with another water bottle. My pants were stiff from the dried blood, and the left sleeve of my shirt dangled from my shoulder, covered in more blood. I looked like the lone survivor of a zombie apocalypse. I stood, holding my left arm against my side, and went into the closet. With some awkward one-handed maneuvering, I removed the blood-stained clothes and stuffed them in the garbage then pulled on sweats and a T-shirt.

When I came out, he was still there.

“I want to talk,” he said.

Talk? After eight years of nothing, this was the second time in one week that my father approached me wanting to talk.

I didn't have the energy for this, not at the moment. I'd just had a bullet rip through my arm and had almost singlehandedly sent two girls to their graves. My stress capacity for one day had been maxed out.

I sat down on the bed. “I'm really tired,” I told him.

“I know. But I want to say this before it's too late.”

“Too late for what?”
Too late
had left the station a long time ago.

He ran a hand through his hair and then over his face. “When your mother died, I thought I'd lost the best part of my life. That there was nothing left for me.”

Nothing.
There was that word again. The one he'd used so many times to describe his only son. The one that choked me, that burned into my soul, branding me as worthless. How did he think this talk would help?

He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees and eyes staring at the floor. “I was afraid. Afraid that if I let myself love again—love you—I'd lose you too. And I couldn't bear the thought.”

I shook my head. I saw where this was headed. To some sort of wacked-out apology. Did he really expect me to accept such a lame excuse—he loved me so much, the only way he could live without fear of losing me was to hate me? Didn't he see how that had backfired? He'd lost me anyway.

He went on without looking up. “I distanced myself from you.”

Understatement of the year.

“By the time I realized how much it hurt you, how wrong I'd been, I didn't know how to come back. When I came home Friday and you were gone—it was like when your mother died all over again.” He finished in a whisper.

I had waited years for this moment, for validation of all I'd suffered because of him. But it had come too late. The damage was done. I would have given anything to hear this two weeks ago, when I was hovering near death on my bathroom floor, so desperate to make him care. But now I realized that all the words in the world couldn't give me back what I'd lost during my life alone. Nothing could make it right. I didn't want to hear any more.

I turned my back on him and slowly peeled the tape off my arm. The white gauze was wet and stiff. At least it was my blood and not Jenny's. I couldn't close my eyes without seeing her empty face staring up from a pool of red. And who knew what horrors Scarlett had had to endure. Maybe Detective Parker could find out something about her, but in my heart, I knew Scarlett was gone. I wanted to scream.

But not in front of my dad. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something. An answer to his confession.

“Okay.” I was careful not to imply that I was okay, or our family was okay, or his messed-up parenting method was okay. Just an
I heard what you said
okay
.

The hole in my arm still oozed. Maybe someday it would be cool to have a scar where a bullet went through me. It would mess up my tennis game for a while. I tried to wrap fresh cloth around it with one hand, but the gauze kept slipping.

My dad came over and took the bandage from me. He looped it around the wound. “If you still want to leave, I'll understand. And I'll help you however I can. But it would be nice if you would stay.” His voice cracked as he finished speaking. He lifted his eyes from the bandage and looked straight into mine.

It seemed like he meant it. Like he was honestly reaching out and that it cost him a lot.

“Thanks,” I said, lying down on the bed. The sweat on my body chilled me as it evaporated away. I pulled on one of the blankets.

He headed for the door then stopped and turned. “I know you won't believe me, but I do love—”

“Don't say it.” I sat up. “Just don't. I'd rather not know.” If he said those words, it would make both our lives a lie.

“I'll have Gloria bring up some food.” He left, closing the door behind him.

I slammed my head back onto my pillows. It hurt.

If I had to choose between a father who loved me but treated me like garbage and one who simply didn't care enough to be bothered, I wanted the second. The pain of all those wasted years would be unbearable if I knew that the whole time he had secretly loved me.

Did he think he could rewind time with just a few words? Words that sounded more like an excuse than an actual apology? But that was probably the closest he would ever come.
I'm sorry
just wasn't part of his vocabulary.

Gloria came in carrying a cardboard takeout carton from my favorite Mexican place. She was dressed up in nice pants and a red sweater. She didn't usually wear her expensive jewelry this late into the evening. “Hey there. You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, just swell.”

“I'm so glad.” She set the carton on my bed. “Richard's been worried sick.”

“Thanks for the food, Gloria.”

She gave me a smile. “Do you need anything else?” she asked, checking her watch.

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because I can stay if you need something.” She seemed a little too eager.

“Stay?”

She fiddled with her wedding ring—a diamond the size of an almond—twisting it around her finger. “Monday's my Bunco night. Richard wouldn't let me go until you woke up.”

Of course. How could I forget Gloria's Monday-night Bunco? “I'm fine. You should go.” She patted my leg then left. Seconds later, I heard the garage open and close.

I ate the whole meal—steak burrito smothered in spicy cheese sauce. This late in the evening, it probably wasn't the best idea, but I was famished. And still thirsty. I opened the two-liter of soda and started on that. The influx of food and sugary, caffeinated soft drink—combined with the mega-dose of ibuprofen—boosted my waning energy. I paced the room. I couldn't get Jenny's last pleading look out of my mind. Or Scarlett. Or the things my dad had just told me.

I wanted to go downstairs to watch TV and clear my head, to numb the pain that I couldn't palliate by simply swallowing a handful of tablets. But I didn't know if my dad would be there or if he'd retired to his bedroom like usual.

I looked out my window, east across the lights of Portland. Mount Hood was invisible in the dark. It always reminded me of my mother and how much she loved the cabin. Since my dad never went there after her death, it held only good memories for me.

The rain had stopped, and stars perforated the sky. To the north stretched the many miles of Forest Park and Mom's cemetery. She should be the one here, changing my bandage and bringing me food. I closed my eyes and tried to see her face. She was too far away. But I could still talk to her. I grabbed a coat from my closet and dug through my stuff until I found a flashlight then crept downstairs.

The house was quiet, so I assumed my dad had gone to his room. I took two steps toward the garage before remembering I'd left my car at Wyden's clinic. Footsteps in the hallway made me turn just as my dad rounded the corner. His face was drawn tight.

“Where are you going?”

He thought I was leaving him. I saw it in his eyes. “I can't sleep.”

Dad pointed at my coat. “Are you cold?” Interpretation: You didn't answer my question.

“I wanted to go to the cemetery, but I think my car is still downtown.”

His face relaxed. “They slashed your tires. I had it towed. Should be ready first thing in the morning.”

I nodded. I guess Connor and Deepthroat didn't want another crazy ride through Portland.

He held up a hand. “Wait a minute.” He turned and walked down the hall.

I couldn't get used to my father approaching me. Talking to me. Asking me to wait. Looking me in the eye. The handful of times we had spoken, we sort of talked to each other's shoulders or the floor. We'd gone for so long without eye contact, I struggled with it now.

He returned and tossed me his keys. “You can take my car.”

“Are you sure?” I never expected an offer like that.

“Yes.” I think he attempted some sort of smile, but it didn't last long enough for positive identification.

“Thanks.” I felt like I needed to reboot my brain to make sense of this new, updated version of my dad. Father 2.0.

When I turned his car on, the radio was set to some intellectual AM station like National Public Radio. I popped open the center console to see if he had any kind of MP3 player plugged in. What I found was his gun. Or another gun. I couldn't be sure if it was the same one he'd had the other night when Scarlett had screamed. It seemed smaller to me. Over the years, he had put some nasty people behind bars, and I assumed he must get occasional threats. Carrying a gun made sense.