Page 109 of Lavender Moon

After being verified and searched about twenty times, I’m finally let into a room that resembles a school cafeteria, only even more depressing as fuck. Thin, flimsy tables with metal chairs are scattered about the room, and various prisoners meet with their families at a respectfully ordered distance.

After standing for a few awkward moments with my hands in my pockets, I finally stride over to take a seat at a vacant rectangle table. Clasping my hands on the table’s surface, I remind myself at least six times to stop bouncing my knee.

The metal door at the far-left corner of the room opens, and a guard steps aside, letting in yet another inmate garbed up in an unflattering khaki jumpsuit. I watch curiously from my seat for a moment as he’s escorted further into the room. When I’m sure of who I’m looking at, I slowly rise from my seat. It’s been a long time… fifteen years, in fact. The years have not been kind, making him look like he’s aged twice that much. His dark hair is completely grey, and deep creases line his face. Clearly he hasn’t given up the life of drugs and drinking, judging by how thin he is, along with the rest of his sallow appearance.

His sunken green eyes lock on mine as the guard unlocks his cuffs and walks away, leaving us to stare across the room at each other.

The man who used to be my father swallows hard, but to my confusion, he then forces a smile.

“Kaleb,” he nods subtly, and I can’t think of what to do but nod back. We stare at each other another beat before I awkwardly gesture to the table, and he follows suit with me as I take a seat.

“You grew up nicely,” he mentions, waving a hand in my direction as he sits. “You’re big,” he adds with a light chuckle, mocking surprise. “So how’ve you been? What have you been doing with yourself?” He dives so casually into the small talk, as if we’re old coworkers instead of father and son.

“I joined the Army,” I answer, releasing my nerves on a heavy breath with the words.

He sits back with raised eyebrows, looking impressed. “Well good for you,” he says, his tone light with encouragement. “I’d love to hear more about that when I get out of here. About when do you think? By the way, I’m dying for a smoke,” he converses.

“Excuse me?” I relax a wrist on the table and dip my chin in disbelief.

“I called the shop, and a few days later, here you are.” He raises his hands at me in presentation. “I didn’t get to touch base with you, but you still came. So when am I getting out of here? Do you have some paperwork to sign or something?” he asks brightly, folding his hands on the table like this is a given.

I freeze for a moment, staring at him across the table, trying to come up with the right words that will come across civil when I realize that this motherfucker has absolutely nothing to say for himself after fifteen years of absence, preceded by about six or seven filled with abuse. Nothing except asking what I can do for him. I don’t owe him civil.

“I’m not here to bail you out, Rick,” I inform him in a low voice, pinning his eyes with my own. And then I watch as his smile stays in place while his eyes dim.

“What?” he scoffs, still trying not to let himself falter. “Kaleb, come on. You drove like, what, three counties to get here? Just to say hi?” His voice is getting more exasperated with each word. “Tell me it was to actually get me out of here, and not just for a drive by.”

I shake my head, partly in disbelief at what I’m actually hearing, and partly to tell him hell-fucking-no.

“Kaleb, seriously,” he tries again. “I know I wasn’t a good father like you deserved, but I was going through some things… and they just snowballed. I’m still your dad. I know it’s late in your life, but if we get out of here, we could go have dinner with your grandfather, and … and, uh… we can talk some more.”

I can tell by his hesitating stammer, the absent wave of his hand, and the way he broke eye contact he doesn't mean that last part at all.

“Pops died over four years ago,” I coldly inform him, and watch as his eyes go cold and his shoulders stiffen.

“He’s gone?” His voice wavers and that faux smile’s been put away.

“He died alone in his shop,” I nod. “You see, the world wasn’t just going to stop turning and wait for you to be done getting wasted off your ass. If you gave enough of a fuck to try turning your life around, it maybe wouldn’t have gone that way.”

“I did try,” he snaps back, leaning in. “Don’t you fucking remember? I tried; it didn’t take.”

“And then you quit.” I raise a brow at him, leaning in myself. “You gave up, and gave in to a life of drugs and a constant state of fucked up.”

“And just what was I supposed to do, huh?” he challenges through gritted teeth. “Nothing was working.”

“You were supposed to keep trying,” I supply, my tone matching his. “Even if nothing ever came of it, you were supposed to keep trying, and never stop. Even if it was just so that your kid could see you gave enough of a shit about him to not give up.”

“I lost my wife,” he tries to justify.

“I lost my mother.”

“You were too young to remember.”

“Exactly!” I counter, holding a finger up at him. “Instead, I grew up without one and spent the majority of my childhood cowering from an abusive, drunk father instead, never knowing if he was going to hug me or hurt me!”

I think I see a flicker of regret in his eyes, but even so, I press on.

“Yeah, you lost your wife, but I lost a hell of a lot more than you did, asshole,” I grumble out. “I went to war where I got blasted by a bomb, watched my best friend die, and came home a broken-down wreck. Here’s the thing though … I fell in love. I fell so deeply in love with someone that I started to have a sliver of an idea of what you went through when you lost my mother, and I was this close to turning into you,” I hold my finger and thumb a half inch apart. “That thought scared the shit out of me so bad I actually tried pushing her away so that I would truly have nothing left to lose.”

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