Page 11 of Iris' Lying Eyes

At one point, Mom had a treadmill in here, but after a year of collecting dust, John insisted she get rid of it.

Of course, she complied. Their relationship, to this day, remains a mystery to me. Years of psychoanalyzing it have gotten me nowhere, which is why I avoid the damn topic. Knowing your mother chose her lecherous husband over you isn’t exactly something I want to focus on, like ever.

The room contains one small couch that was moved out of the main living area when Mom bought new furniture. There are also dozens of boxes inside the closet, and with a fatalistic shrug, I start at the front and tear into them.

More statements, bills, and old shit no one should hold on to for this long are dumped unceremoniously to the floor. A few pictures sail out of a box, and I turn away from the smiling faces. I can’t decide which is worse, staring at pictures of John’s victims or those of his and Mom’s wedding day, with their faces wreathed in smiles. What a fucking series of lies.

I’m halfway through the pile when I open a box and find another box within. It’s early afternoon, I’ve wasted a ton of time, and I’m getting hungry.

Maybe I should move on?

Rolling my eyes, I dump it onto the floor and wince when something shatters.

The first thing I see is a picture of me as an infant. I know because I have a lopsided pink bow on my head, and I’m screaming my head off. I hated having this picture on the wall so much, Mom finally gave in and took it down.

Beneath the picture is a box made of gorgeous wood and buffed to a shine. Setting it on the table, I flip the latch and open the lid. Dozens of letters overflow the top and slip to the floor.

The plain white envelopes are addressed to my mom, and with a kernel of disappointment, I sit on the floor and open the first one with bumbling fingers.

Pam, my heart, I’m sorry. I tried to write but couldn’t. You know how it is. Someone is always watching. How’s my bug? I bet she’s growing like a weed. Give her a hug for me.

Only ten years to go . . .

Me

Me. Who? Could it be…? Dropping the letter, I open the next, skimming the text hurriedly.

Pam, I have no words. I’m so fucking wrecked. If I had known this was coming for us, I would have run with you. Now all I have is regret. Will you wait for me? I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I love you.

Me

Fifteen years isn’t too long, is it?

Jesus, this sappy shit makes me want to puke. I search the date at the top and confirm that these were sent during her marriage to John. Did he know?

Pam, my soul, I dreamt of you and how we came together. You’re so beautiful. I miss your smile. I miss your breathy laugh. I miss holding you. Will I ever get to touch you again? Say you miss me. Tell me you’re still there. Say anything. Please.

Me

Eleven years to go . . .

Grabbing the remaining letters, I backtrack to the couch and sit down, staring at the return address. Howell Correctional Facility.

I had no idea he wrote so prolifically. I guess my mother had no qualms about communicating with a fucking convict. And he was clearly infatuated.

Pam, please. I know I fucked up. But you’re my family. You’re all I have. Well, you and my precious girl. How is she? Can’t you bring her up here? No one has to know. I’ll never tell. Does she know about me? Does she remember her Uncle Finny?

Me

Five years to go . ..

Uncle Finny? Searching my memories, I try to recollect meeting him, but other than Rain’s dad, I’ve got nothing.

The final letter burns my retinas, and I drop the paper before picking it up and rereading it.

Pam, it’s time. Have you waited for me? Doesn’t matter because I’ve waited for you. Now we can be together. You, me, and our girl. Don’t worry about him; I’ll crack his head open like a fucking egg. Does that fucker know she’s mine?

Have you told them of our love? I’m coming, Pam. I’m almost there. Can you feel my hands on your pretty skin? Taste my love on your treacherous tongue?

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