More Than Words
Page 55

You’re a disgrace.
God, I knew I was. I knew.
My cell phone rang from somewhere across the room, and I lay there, letting it go to voice mail. But when it began ringing again, just a few seconds later, I sat up, swinging my legs off the bed. “Jesus.”
I followed the sound and located my phone in the pocket of the jeans I’d tossed aside last night before falling into bed. “Hello?” My voice sounded rough and filled with the sleep I hadn’t gotten enough of.
“Callen, dear?”
“Hi, Myrtle.”
She sighed softly. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, dear, but your father … he passed away.”
I walked back toward the bed and sat, letting out a puff of air. “My father?”
“Yes. A man who worked at the VA hospital called you. He found your business number in your father’s records. He left his information so you could call him back. But I thought you’d rather hear the news from me than a stranger.”
“Okay. Thanks, Myrtle.”
There was a pause. “I’m here for you, dear. Do you need me to come over and help with any arrangements—”
“No, thank you. I’m okay. My father and I, we were … estranged.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry to hear that. That’s not easy either.”
“No,” I murmured. I felt as if I were in a daze. Myrtle gave me the number of the man who’d called and then she rattled on for another minute. I didn’t grasp all her words, but her calm tone soothed me.
After I hung up, I sat staring at the wall for a very long time.
* * *
The old house was abandoned. I wasn’t surprised. It’d been a shithole when we’d lived here eleven years ago, and another decade’s worth of renters had sealed its fate. Even the owner had apparently walked away. The sign on what passed for a lawn showed the logo of a large California bank. They must own it now.
I wasn’t sure why I’d even driven by. But my dad had moved back to my hometown of Santa Lucinda at some point—I didn’t even know exactly when—and his small, sad funeral had been held up the street. I’d paid for a headstone for him and shown up. I didn’t think he would expect more from me than that, if he even would have wanted me there at all. He’d apparently had a few old friends, army buddies who’d shown up looking like something the cat had dragged in and then stood around in a group afterward, smoking cigarettes and trading stories, on what topic I couldn’t say.
My father hadn’t moved back to this house when he’d moved back to town, if it’d even been available for rent at the time. But this was where I was drawn. If my pain resided anywhere physical, this was it.
The front door had been locked, but I’d been able to push a side window up enough that I could squeeze through.
What am I doing?
My footsteps echoed through the empty rooms as I sidestepped animal droppings and garbage that had been left behind.
There was a large hole in the floorboard in the hallway, likely where animals got in.
My old room … the closet where I’d hidden the keyboard—that beloved keyboard—only to take it out when my dad wasn’t home, losing myself in the music that I could miraculously read. That was a good memory. The bathroom … my dad’s room … and then the kitchen. I stood in the open space looking around. All the lower cabinets had been removed, along with the light fixtures, even the baseboards. The upper cabinets hung precariously, most of the doors tilted and hanging by a single rusted hinge. The linoleum on the floor was cracked and peeling, and rusty pipes where the sink had once been were exposed.
Worthless idiot! Read! Read this line. Just this one fucking letter!
My gut rolled with the echo of my father’s words as my eyes moved slowly to the place the table had been, the location of my misery, my shame and humiliation. I pictured myself there now, a book open in front of me, praying to God to help me read.
Please. I’ll do anything. Just help me. Help me, please.
And suddenly a wave of anger overcame me so violently that I let out a fierce yell of rage, ripping one of the already-loose cabinet doors from its remaining hinge and hurling it at the wall. The door splintered, and plaster flew from the place the door had hit, the wood clattering to the floor. My chest heaved as I sucked in air. It wasn’t enough. “I needed you!” I screamed. “I needed help!” I wrestled with a whole section of cabinet, finally tearing it from the wall and hurling that as well. “You never helped me! You never helped me! Why? Why?”
You’re stupid. You’re so fucking stupid.
Another door ripped away, another piece of cabinet. Wood splintered, plaster exploded, my muscles burned, and blood splattered on the floor from some injury I couldn’t even feel. “Why couldn’t you love me?” I yelled. It sounded desperate, animalistic.
Why did you have to be my son? Why did I have to get you?
There were no more cabinets left, so I went for the pipes, shaking and twisting them until those, too, came loose in a burst of black water that bubbled up and then disappeared back into the floor. I used the pipes like a club, bashing the wall closest to me until I’d busted through the drywall, growling and panting with the effort. “Why couldn’t you love me? I just wanted you to love me.”
I continued to swing the pipe, but my arms were shaking with fatigue and the wetness splattering on my bare arms wasn’t blood, but tears. I let out another yell, but it ended on a sob, and I dropped the pipe, hanging my head as tears coursed down my cheeks. I fell to my knees and then to my side on the cold, dirty floor. “I wanted you to love me. I needed you,” I gasped. “I didn’t have anyone else. I needed you, and you never helped me.”
I didn’t know if I was talking to God or my father, or maybe both. All I knew was the agonizing pain that had come up from deep inside my soul and was demanding to be set free. It was beating at my bones, ripping through my muscles, clawing at the inside of my skin.
I sobbed as I surrendered, letting it pour out of me, shaking with the pain and shame I’d held close to my heart for so very long. I cried for the feeling of worthlessness that I’d held tight to, owning it because I believed it was rightfully mine. I cried for the desperate longing to be loved by the one person who refused to offer it. “I needed you,” I choked again, my chest heaving. “I needed you to help me.”
I’m here to save you.
My eyes flew open, and I swiped at the blurriness, sitting up and looking for the child who’d just spoken near my ear. I scooted backward quickly, pressing my spine against the wall as I attempted to catch my breath. I used both hands to swipe away the tears on my cheeks. There was no child. The voice had come from my memory. But it’d been sweet and clear, and I’d swear she’d spoken right in my ear.
Jessie.
It’d been Jessie’s voice. The voice of that eleven-year-old, freckle-faced princess.
I’m here to save you.
I drew in another long, shaky breath, my heart slowing, a trickle of calm beginning to move through me as my shoulders relaxed. I brought my knees to my chest, sitting against the wall in the same way I’d once sat in that boxcar. I rested my forearms on my knees, noting the state of my scratched-up, bloody hands, and closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the wall.
I’m here to save you, she’d said, not once, but twice.
I’m here to save you.
It echoed in my head like the ringing of bells. Was … was that how God worked? Did he send people to save us when we needed saving? Signs? Small guides? Had I been too blind to see that I’d asked him for help and he’d answered again and again? My heart thumped with hope, a sweep of wonder rushing through me. I’d asked him to help me, begged him to save me, and he’d sent Jessie, not only to provide friendship and laughter when I needed it most, but to gift me the joy of music. She’d delivered it straight into my arms, like a messenger bearing miracles, and I hadn’t once recognized her for what she was. My gift. My fate. My love.
Oh, Jessie.
I pictured her eager face peering into the boxcar that day, pictured her grasping my hand and leading me through fields and over train tracks, transforming the miserable world I knew into a magical land filled with happiness and hope. I pictured her reading to me, engaging my imagination, and teaching me how to dream. I saw her going over musical notes, her finger touching on each one as she taught me the language I’d been meant to know, the language that flowed through my blood—my marrow, my very soul—as if it were the mother tongue learned in some distant place that I could no longer remember but still somehow carried inside.