Page 70 of The Lie Maker

“So do it,” she said.

What seemed to make the most sense, at least for now, was to record everything I could recall about the times my father got in touch after he went into the program. There wasn’t anyone else I could consult, to help me drag up details I might otherwise have forgotten, because these were stories I had never shared.

Ever.

So, that evening, after Gwen left, I got down to work.

The First Time My Father Got in Touch

I was ten. And I bawled my eyes out.

Dad had been gone about ten months. I was walking home, a backpack over my shoulder, shuffling along, looking down, trying to kick the same stone ahead of me, over and over again.

A red car passed me once, slowly. Didn’t take much notice of it. And then I was vaguely aware that it must have gone around the block, because it passed me a second time. I kept working that stone, thinking about the homework I had in my bag that I would most likely never get to. Academics were not really my thing, although I was writing stories and could fill an entire notebook with one. But this obsession, if you could call it that, came at the expense of my other subjects, which I didn’t really give a shit about. My teacher said to me one day, “You know, if you didn’t spend so much time in your head writing stories, you’d be doing better in math.”

On its third pass, the car stopped, or almost stopped. It was creeping along, matching my pace. I barely glanced over, just enough to tell that it was some model of Dodge, and that the car was in need of a good wash.

Someone called out, “Hey, pal.”

I stopped and looked into the open passenger window. There, behind the wheel, was Dad. A little thinner in the face. His hair was longer, and lighter. Maybe he’d dyed it.

Dad held up a brown bag with a yellow M on the side. “Want to grab a late lunch?” he asked. “Got your favorite.”

I took a moment to be stunned, and I was, on several levels. And then I felt this infusion of excitement.

He was back.

I burst into tears. Tears of joy, really. My dreams had come true. Prayers—not that I was big on those—had been answered. I was trembling. I was so excited I thought I’d explode.

“Whoa, sport, it’s okay,” Dad said. He put the car in park, got out, and ran around to the other side. He gave me a hug, pulled me in so tight that for a moment there I couldn’t breathe. I was barely breathing anyway as I threw my arms around him.

He led me to the car and opened the door, hustled me into the front seat. I still remember, to this day, the smell of the fries in the brown paper bag, but at the time I was not nearly as excited about a fast food lunch as I was about my father’s decision to rejoin us.

Gleeful, I said, “Does Mom know? Does she know you’ve come back?”

I watched his face fall. It was the moment he realized he had totally misjudged the situation. He’d thought I would assume he was just visiting, like an inmate who has escaped prison long enough to pop in on the relatives for lunch, but still on the run nonetheless.

“Oh, no, sport, it’s not—”

“She’s going to be so happy!” I squealed. “Me, too! I can’t believe it!”

“Listen, listen,” he said. “It’s not what you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not... back. I just thought... I thought I’d check in on you, is all.”

It was like finding out that the puppy Santa put under the Christmas tree was supposed to go to the house next door, only a million times worse.

I was speechless. I was on the edge of an emotional cliff, ready to fall off.

“But hey,” he said, trying to sound encouraging and giving my leg a friendly pat, “how about this, right? Together again!”

I still said nothing. I was holding back tears of sadness. The bastard. How could he do this to me?

“We’ll go someplace, park, have some lunch.”

We went to the most anonymous of locations. A mall parking lot. He found a spot between two towering SUVs, as though using them for cover. He killed the engine, started bringing food out of the bag. I said nothing. I was numb.

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