Page 82 of Waiting for Tuesday

Dear John,

I’ve written this letter a thousand times, but there are no words good enough to express how sorry I am.

You were my little boy, and there hasn’t been a day that has gone by that I haven't thought of you. I’m writing this letter to ask for the chance to explain myself. Please give me the chance.

Love always,

Your daddy – Gabriel Mucci

I squeezed my eyes shut. The pain and rejection experienced by a five-year-old boy surged through my blood. I gripped the letter tightly in my hand. A phone number, written in the handwriting I could still remember, followed his words. Elegant, structured penmanship that was so different from the drunk I remembered him to be.

I didn’t know if I had it in me to see him again, but I didn’t know if I had it in me not to. Tuesday’s eyes flashed into my mind. Bright, green, and heartbroken… I put the letter on the coffee table, smoothed it out on the surface, and picked up my phone, not caring what time it was.

“Hello?” A gruff voice answered.

“Gabriel?”

“Yes?”

“This is John Eaton. I got your letter. When would you like to meet?”

Chapter THIRTY-SIX

John

* * *

The park wasempty as I sat across the table from my father. He looked the same. It had been nearly twenty-three years since I’d seen him, yet he was just as I remembered. Broad shoulders, full head of dark hair, good-looking.

I was told as a child I looked like him, but until right now, I didn’t see it. We had the same eyes, so dark they were almost black, and the same chin, except mine held the mark he’d given me before I was finally taken away.

He shifted in his seat, leaning forward to brace his forearms on the table. “I feel like I’m looking in the mirror, son.” He flashed me the charming smile that I used to love. The one that had women in and out of our lives all the years I could remember.

My stomach twisted. This was the man I still had nightmares about, even at twenty-eight years old, but he wasn’t my father. I shook my head. “No. I’m not your son. You gave that up twenty-three years ago.”

His smile fell away, and he nodded once. His gaze dropped to the table. “Fair enough.”

I knew I was making him uncomfortable, but I didn’t care. He deserved it. He deserved everything that happened to him over the last twenty-three years. The DUI’s, the arrests, the jail time.

I couldn’t help but think of Shelly as I sat there. She was the same age now as I was when he started doing those things to me. I was a helpless boy who was just being a kid. A defenseless child who loved him so desperately, in spite of all his faults. And even when he left bruises, I still forgave him. Because I still believed he was good. I still believed, even after all of that.

He cleared his throat then pulled a tattered sweater box out of an old paper sack and set it on the table. A blue rubber band was wrapped around it, and he pulled a pocketknife from his pocket and cut it free. “I brought some old photos. I hope you don’t mind.”

I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to get up and leave. But I came here for a reason. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but after all these years, I needed to hear him explain.

An image of a woman with long, brown hair sat on top of a large stack of photos. She had big, brown eyes and stood sideways as she smiled at the camera. She was pregnant, and the sight of her stirred feelings deep in my gut.

“This was your mother.”

I took the photo from his outstretched hand, breathless, my heart racing. I remembered seeing the photo before, but barely. She was so young. It was hard to believe she was my mother, but I knew she was. I could see myself in her smile. “How old was she?”

He met my eyes, as though reading my thoughts. “Eighteen.” He handed me another photo, this one of her holding me in her arms. “That’s you. Eight pounds, four ounces.” He looked down to the stack of photos and kept flipping. “This,” he said, handing me another, “was the night we’d come home from the hospital.”

It was of me and my mom sitting in a rocking chair. She was holding me in her arms, and I could see her profile as she looked down at my face. My tiny hand wrapped around her finger.

“We were so in love with you. We had our baby boy and were on top of the world.” He picked up another photo and held it a moment. “We’d only been home for a few hours when she started complaining of a headache.”

He grimaced. “ ‘Go lie down, you’re just tired,’ I said to her. I thought I knew everything…” He took a deep breath. “I tucked her into bed, took her a glass of water, then gave you your first bath.” He met my eyes and the corner of his mouth lifted. “You didn’t like it one bit.” Then his expression changed, and he looked over my shoulder into the distance as if remembering. “I promised you so many things that night…”

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