Page 18 of This I Know
“Are you going to tell me where to this time?”
“It’s not like it’s a secret,” I say as I open the cabinet and grab some food. I’m not lying, but I’m not entirely telling the truth. “I’m going out. I’ll be back later.”
She glares at me. Her hands are still tied up in that apron. “You know, it’s always nice to communicate with your mother once in a while. That’s all I’m saying.”
I can hear in her voice that she’s half-joking. My mom doesn’t get mad at me. I think that’s a byproduct of having a lousy dad. You’re sometimes left with a guilt-ridden mom.
“Actually, you’ve never said that before. But I’m an adult now, you know.” I pull a granola bar out from the shelf. “You still want me to tell you every little thing I do? What about the nights when I won’t be coming back from a girl’s house? I know that would make you squeamish.”
“Really?” She laughs. “I’m your mom, Ethan. There won’t be a day when I stop wanting to know where you are.”
“I know.” I sigh, a smile playing on my face. “Unfortunately.”
She lifts her finger at me. “And what you just described better not happen for many years. As in, many, many years.” She waves her hand. “Actually, you’re right. Please never tell me.”
I laugh, then pour myself a glass of milk and down it in a hurry. I unwrap the granola bar and eat it in three bites. “Don’t worry.”
We joke like this all the time, our own little way of coping with things. With me being essentially fatherless and having to move on with the burden of everything he’s done, and with her losing a husband, someone who was once her best friend, who has betrayed us both in a horrible way. You’ve got to laugh sometimes.
I look at her as I finish chewing. There’s a sadness in her eyes, but there’s hope, too. She’s a strong woman. She has strong eyes. She’ll be okay, in the end. Me? I’m not so sure. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to move past the dreaded but so accurate title of Serial Killer’s Son.
“You know I’ll be back,” I say giving her a sly smile. I leave, closing the door gently behind me.
It’s a beautiful day. The sun is out, and I strip off my outermost shirt before starting my truck. I toss the unneeded shirt in the back, then I get comfortable and prepare myself for the drive ahead. I check that I have enough gas. It looks good. I place my hands on the steering wheel and take a deep breath. I can do this again.
Iwantto do this again.
If she wakes up this time, I’ll tell her the truth. I’ll tell her who I am. And if she’ll stand to let me explain, I’ll let her know I was there the other day, too. Because after seeing her yesterday, I realize now that she deserves to know the truth so much more than I deserve to feel comfortable.
It’s easier to find a decent getaway parking spot today. I pull into the first available spot, which turns out to be only a few yards from the hospital entrance. I look around when I slip my truck into park. There are fewer people here today. This time, there’s no heartbreak and no tears before I can even step inside. In fact, the only person in sight is an elderly woman who’s walking slowly toward me, holding her keys out to enter her car, which I’ve apparently parked next to. I get out of my truck, then wait for her to pass before continuing. Our eyes lock; her face is weathered and grey, and her hair is splayed this way and that as if she doesn’t give a damn anymore.
I don’t deserve to be here. This place is for those who have earned it, people like her who are most likely visiting their loved ones who they’ve struggled alongside for years and years. This is a privilege. She’s earned this, not me.
Before I know it, the woman is gone and I’m repeating the same casual movements as before, the ones that produced such good results the last time I was here. Luckily, I slide through the empty halls without seeing another soul. I’m steady now. There’s no longer a desire to grasp for something to keep my panic steady. There’s the confidence of where I’m going, how to get there, and who I’m going to see – repercussions be damned.
Then I’m there. I arrive at the familiar room forty-nine and stop to place my hand on the doorknob. I take one deep breath, getting ready to introduce myself and explain, then quietly push the door open. I peer inside, the same silent way I did just days ago, eager to see what Avery is like when she’s awake. She’ll most likely hate my guts. But this time, unlike a few days ago, the bed is empty.
She’s gone.
The sheets are neatly pressed and folded back into place, and so is the entirety of the room. All of her flowers, cards and decorations are gone. The sterile smell of cleaning agents hits my nose. The room has lost all of her that it once held, and now it’s just as gloomy as the rest of the hospital. Even the curtain is now drawn, creating a dark, dank atmosphere.
I know I should be happy for her; this must mean she’s gotten better. But my heart still drops.
“Can I help you?” booms a voice close behind me.
That’s it. Unless I can play this off totally cool and do it quickly, I’m in for it. I never should have come back. I spin around. The voice came from a nurse, invading my personal space and looking up into my face.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying my best to hide my surprise. “No. I was just looking for someone, but it looks like she’s gone. Gone home, I mean.”
The nurse peers past me into the empty room. “Avery? Why, yes, she was released today.”
I nod, no doubt looking like a fool. “Oh. Well, good. That’s good. I guess I missed that.”
The nurse doesn’t release my eyes. “If you need anything, you be sure to let us know.”
My saving grace is the nurse walking away, still eyeing me suspiciously, and I take advantage of the moment to slip out as quickly as I can, residing to the fact that I’m sure I’ll never see my father’s only surviving victim again. And that’s just as it should be.
Avery
