Page 7 of This I Know
She likewise holds up a hand. “Sorry, sorry.”
“I’ve gotta get ready.” I set my glass down. “Your day full?”
“I’m on call, so yeah, I’d say so.” She pulls a serious face. “I’ll have my phone on me though. Okay?”
Without giving me time to answer, she pulls out her phone. “Speaking of …” She twiddles her thumbs and then stops, pulling out a piece of paper and a pen. She’s copying something from the screen.
“Here,” she says at last, holding the paper out to me. She stuffs the pen back into the drawer it came from. “That’s where he is.”
“Thanks, Mom.” And I really mean it. She’s just saved me the trouble of somehow asking her for it. I glance down at the paper.
Will Co. Adult Detention
95 S. Chicago St.
I look up.
My mom hasn’t taken her eyes off me. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’m sure Idon’twant to do this.”
My mom gives me a sympathetic look. She sighs. She rests her arms against the counter, facing me, and thinks for a moment. “You don’t have to.”
I stand, pick up my backpack, and swing it over my shoulder. “Yes, I do.” I lean in and give her a quick hug before heading for the door.
“Ethan, wait,” she says behind me. “Here.”
I turn; she’s holding out a Poptart. A Poptart. Like I’m ten years old again.
I take it from her. “Always thinking ahead,” I say. That was smart of her. The drive to this area of the city is a long one, and although I’m rarely ever hungry when I first wake up, I don’t do well on an empty stomach. And knowing my father, I’ll need all the strength I can get for what I’m about to do.
“I know you can do it.” She watches me from the doorway. “And keep your phone on you, if you can. Remember what I said.” She’s yelling now as I’m almost to my truck. “Mine will be on me. I’ll be just a call away.”
I turn around. “Wish me luck. I’ll need it.”
She’s carried her mug of coffee outside and she raises it now and smirks at me, a nonverbal salute that saysI love you, but I know that man – you’re screwed.“Fuckin’ a.”
The drive is literally gut wrenching. As in, I think I might puke.
It’s the length of the thing that’s so awful. It’s longer than I thought.I’ve already been driving for an hour. There’s still thirty minutes left to go, and every minute of that time is dragging on. I can’t stand so much drawing out of the event, so much waiting, when all there is to do is sit here, drive, think, and just wait to get there so I can get this over with.
So I can gethimover with.
I should point out that this isn’t a first-time thing. I’ve been through this one other time in my life – four years ago, when my father was arrested for petty theft. It feels like so long ago. That was the first time, and it’s funny how he had us convinced it would be the only time. Obviously, we were wrong.
I stop for at a light. I try to stretch in the cab, but my arms hit the roof.
It had been hard enough then, dealing with him being arrested for something so minor. I mean, I know everyone makes mistakes, but to see my father like that, behind bars and glass, even if it was only for the time being, it was … well, it was many things.
It was embarrassing as hell.
It was traumatizing.
And I hate to admit it, but it was altogether kind of scary. That place, those people. The cliché orange jumpsuits. And the knowledge that my father was among them.
The way I handled it was to believe him when he told us that when he got out, he’d change everything. I can’t believe I fell for it. I should have known better. We both should have – my mom and me – but at least she had the sense to leave him.
I didn’t.
