Deciding Tomorrow (21 page)

One look from him with the slimmest hint at a smile, and the waterworks threaten to break my composure.

The officer steps away, and my father’s warm brown eyes mist up as they meet mine.

“Hi, kiddo,” he says, his voice breaking a little. He clears his throat. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Dad.” My lip somewhat quakes. Taking a step forward, I throw my arms around his neck. “It’s good to see you.”

His arms slide behind my back, squeezing me in a hug. “You, too.”

My father quickly kisses my cheek, his light stubble scratching against my skin. I return the gesture, not lingering too long, and then I step back, my thumb damming the unshed tear collecting in my bottom lid. At the circular table, we pull out our chairs and take our seats with my dad sitting across from Brent, facing the guards at the front of the room. I sit between the two of them.

“Thanks for coming,” my father says.

I reach out, squeezing his hand for a brief moment. “Of course I came.”

He smiles widely, so wide it possibly reaches his hairline. Then, he says to Brent, “You, too. Thank you for coming.”

“Merry Christmas, Jerry. And of course. Thank you for having me.”

Over the next hour, we discuss school, Chicago, and life in general, never hitting on any overly hard or serious topics. We’re just enjoying the visit. My father gets reacquainted with Brent, seemingly accepting of having him here with no issues. Brent recounts how he and I got back together and how nice it is to be visiting me for his break. He also touches briefly on his career. After some time of idle chitchat, Brent excuses himself to use the restroom, but I think he’s doing it to give my father and me a moment alone.

Together, we watch Brent until he exits the room and is out of sight.

“So,” my father says, “you seem happy.”

“I do?”

“You do. I have a feeling he”—his head tilts in the direction of Brent’s path—“has something to do with that.”

I shyly grin. “He just might.”

My father leans forward, placing his elbows on the table. “It’s good to see you smile again. I haven’t seen that smile in years. Maybe not since you were in high school.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. I might not have always been there, and I’m sorry about that, but I noticed. I saw a lot more than you think.”

“Dad…you don’t need to apologize for any of that.”

“Ruby, I will apologize until the day I die for not being there when I should have.” He sits back in his seat and takes a deep breath. “I didn’t think you would ever be happy again after what happened in Florida.” He focuses on the table. “Or what I did to land myself in here.”

“Dad…it was an accident. You do your best.” I play with the ends of my hair. “We all do.”

He shakes his head, smiling in disbelief. “My best wasn’t good enough though, and that’s why I’m in here. I’m working on it. I’m trying to do better.”

“It’s Christmas. We don’t need to rehash all of that.” I scoot closer to him. The scent of fresh soap on his skin hits my senses. “Nothing to be done about it now. Let’s just enjoy this time together.”

“I should have been there for you.” He taps my left arm once and then folds his hands together. “I was trying to get there.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask softly. “Get where?”

“Ah, kiddo, I should have told you before, but I didn’t want you to think it was your fault.”

“Dad?” I plea. “What’s not my fault? I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”

Apology is written all over his face. “When I heard about your accident, Cody was already down in Florida. He’d been there for five days. Jas told me. He had to wait for me to sober up before I would even believe him, I guess. I wasn’t doing too well then. I’m sure you remember. But you were hurt, and I felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do.”

“You…you couldn’t.”

“I wanted to, and…well, one thing led to another.” His eyes glass over. “I wanted to be there. I wanted to help you. You needed help.”

“Dad,” I say, consoling him, my hand over his, “it’s okay.”

“It’s not. I’m your father. You should know, that’s where I was headed when I got in the accident that landed me here. I was coming to see you.”

“Oh, Dad.”

The guilt hits me, but I override it, knowing the accident or him being in prison is not my fault. It’s taken some time for me to accept this. Al-Anon meetings have helped immensely with that process as well. As the child of an addict, it’s difficult not to feel responsible in some way for my dad’s issues even though they so plainly aren’t mine.

“Me being in here…” he continues. “I don’t want you to think it’s your fault. You had enough you had to deal with, but you should know that I wanted to be there for you.” His expression pleads with apology. “I love you. You’re my daughter, but I couldn’t get to you. Please know I wanted to come. I was trying. You were always first for me, always on my mind, but I guess…my demons won. They always seem to win.”

It saddens me to see my father like this—ridden with guilt and feeling so helpless. I gave up blaming him, his demons, and their power over him years ago. His addiction is part of who he is, and I accept that. He battles himself enough, even in here. He’s been sober for about three years, and he’s still fighting with the sickness. He will always fight with addiction.

“I love you,” I reassure him. “No matter what. No matter your demons.”

“I love you, too. You’re a good kid, too good.” He rests his hand on mine. “I just hate that you have had to do so much on your own. I couldn’t really be there for you when you needed someone.”

“I know,” I whisper.

He frowns, somber.

The moment passes, and then he pats my hand twice before returning it back to his lap.

“So, Brent is back?” he asks, changing the subject. “I was surprised when I got your request.”

“Yeah, he’s back.”

“And you’re happy about this?” He assesses my face. “That’s probably a dumb question. I can see that you are.”

I smile. “I am happy.”

“Is he good to you?”

“Dad…”

“Hey, I’m still your father. I’m allowed to be concerned about who my daughter is dating.”

I bite my lower lip. “Yeah, he’s good to me.”

“You two worked out your issues? I haven’t forgotten about how things were and how you took it when he left.”

“We have.” I play with the ends of my brown hair. “I think we just needed the time apart, but we’re doing good. It’s been really nice having him back.”

“Do you love him?” he asks without missing a beat.

“Yeah, I love him,” I say, focused on my hands. It’s such an intimate question. “I love him very much.”

“I thought so.” He sighs and then lifts his eyes to the space above my head.

Brent rests his palm on my shoulder and kisses me on the head with no regard to my father watching us. Then, he pulls out the chair next to me, resuming his seat. Without any thought, my hand reaches for his under the table, joining and resting them together on his thigh.

“Visiting hours will be ending in twenty minutes,” an officer at the front of the room announces. “Please be sure to say your farewells in a timely manner.”

“It always goes by so fast,” I state.

“Time is a funny thing in this place,” my father adds. “It’s almost irrelevant.” He stands up, taking a step in my direction. “Come and give your dad a hug.”

“We have twenty more minutes,” I say, refusing to rise from my seat.

“We do, but we should say good-bye. I don’t want them rushing you out of here.” His eyes dart to Brent and then back to me. “I’d like to talk to Brent alone, if you don’t mind.”

Looking at Brent, my eyes widen in question.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Standing up, I squeeze his hand. I give my dad a hug, a long one, too long for what the facility considers to be appropriate, but I need it. He pats my back, indicating we need to disengage, but I ignore it.

“I love you, Dad,” I utter. “I’ll come and see you again in a few months. Sooner if I can.”

“I love you, too.” He steps back, holding my shoulders. “And don’t worry about me in here. Concentrate on school and take care of yourself.”

“I will.” I wipe away the tear rolling down my cheek and then turn around toward Brent. “I’ll wait for you at the door.”

Brent’s hand floats along the curve of my back. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” I sniff as I ball my fist, not allowing myself to reach out to my dad one more time. Saying good-bye to him is always a struggle. Turning to my father one final time, I say, “Merry Christmas,” and then I make my way toward the exit, leaving two of the most important men in my life together.

Near the door, I lean against the wall, watching families say their farewells. Time ticking away, a few people pass me as they exit the room. I try to give Brent and my father some privacy. Even though I’m nowhere near enough to hear any of it, I don’t want to appear nosy. They sit across from one another in an intense conversation, their mouths moving rapidly as they speak. Neither of them seems upset or concerned in any way. It’s almost like they’re in the middle of a business meeting.

After about ten minutes, Brent and my dad rise from their seats. They shake hands, mouth a few words, and nod their heads. Brent pats my father on the shoulder, a gesture I’ve seen him do on the field with fellow teammates, and then he walks in my direction. Standing taller as he approaches, I turn my focus to the front of the room, so it doesn’t appear as though I was obsessively engrossed in their interaction.

“Hey,” he says. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”

With a gentle arm, Brent leads me out the door, so we can turn in our badges and check out. About twenty minutes later, we’re leaving the facility and entering the cold winter day. My heart is heavy from saying good-bye and thinking about my father being trapped by the walls of the building and his disease that landed him here in the first place. I’m unable to truly help him with either situation.

I rest my head on Brent’s shoulder, and he circles an arm around my lower back.

“Thank you for coming,” I say. “It was nice to have you there.”

“I’m glad I could come.” He brushes a hair away from my face. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah, it’s the leaving part that’s always the hardest.”

“Then, I’m happy to be here for that, so you don’t have to do it alone.”

Weaving around a few more cars, we get to where our rental is parked. We pile into the vehicle and exit the lot before making our way back to the city. We’re silent for the first fifteen minutes or so. The snow is thicker and getting heavier with each passing mile. It’s a true white Christmas.

Adjusting myself in the seat, I angle my body toward Brent and stare at his profile, absorbing every little perfection and imperfection unique to him. He truly is beautiful, not just on the outside. Today—coming with me despite my initial refusal, supporting me through the events of the day even though I could endure without it, easing the hardship—has felt like a gift, one he designed just for me. He’s blessed me time and time again with so many wonderful, selfless gestures intended just for me.

“I love you,” I say into the silence, my fingers finding his.

“I love you, too.”

“Do you know how much I love you?”

“I think I do,” he replies, content.

“Okay, just making sure.”

My eyes wander to the window. I’m in awe of the white beauty coming down from above. Today has been as perfect as it possibly can be, given the situation. Usually, when I leave a visit with my father, there’s a great ache in my heart, like a hollow helplessness, that I have to fight the entire drive back to Chicago. This time, while I yearn for more time with my father, for a better life, and for more fortunate circumstances, I don’t possess that empty feeling. There is no hidden cavern of ache because the man sitting next to me is unknowingly filling the space right now with the simple act of holding my hand.

“What did my dad say to you?” I question, straightening a little taller.

“I can’t tell you,” he expresses, his voice even. “I promised.”

“A secret?”

“Not really. We just talked about a few things.”

“Oh.”

He glances at me for the slightest instant, and his affectionate countenance hits me with the power of a thousand devoted heartbeats.

“He made me promise not to say anything to you about it until the time is right,” Brent continues. “And I don’t make promises lightly.”

“Is that right?”

“It is, and he asked me to promise him a few things.”

“Brent, you don’t have to make any promises to my father.”

“Ruby,” he says, grazing my hand with his lips, “they were the easiest promises I’ve ever made in my entire life. He really didn’t even have to ask.”

TWENTY-FOUR

It’s evening, and the white sprinkling of snow has a magical quality, like that found in a snow globe, while twinkling under the streetlamps. It’s coming down much harder than it was a mere hour ago.

On a residential Chicago street, Brent finds a place to park the car just as someone is leaving. Luck seems to be on our side, given the holiday. We exit the vehicle and begin our four-block trek back to my apartment.

“You in a rush to get home?” Brent asks, swinging my arm a bit.

“Not really. Why? What do you have in mind?”

“Just a little walk.” He pulls me faster down the sidewalk. “Trust me.”

Hand in hand, we skate, run, and half fall down the street toward the park near my building. The concrete is so slippery with snow that I almost land on my butt a few times. My laughter intensifies with every clumsy trip of my feet as does Brent’s each time he has to catch me. We cross the street and enter the empty park. It’s not late, close to dinnertime, but no one is here since it’s Christmas, so we have the place to ourselves.

“C’mon,” he encourages, dragging me into the span of the snow-covered lawn. “This way.”

“What are we doing?”

Brent stops suddenly and falls to his back, pulling me down with him. The chill from the ground seeps though my clothes. I snuggle to Brent’s side, searching for a bit of warmth.