Chương 9
Claire waited until the call ended.
Then she said, “There’s a flight at six ten.”
I stared at her.
“You looked?”
“While you were talking.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“I know.”
“I haven’t decided.”
She rotated her laptop toward me.
Portland to Chicago.
One seat left in economy.
“You have four minutes before the fare refreshes.”
“I hate when websites do that.”
“I think they invented urgency to punish anxious people.”
I looked at the screen.
My chest felt tight.
“What if I go and this becomes exactly what they want?”
“What do they want?”
“Me back.”
“Going to Chicago isn’t moving home.”
“To them it might be.”
“So let them be wrong.”
“What if Dad dies before I get there?”
Claire’s expression changed.
“That might happen.”
I looked away.
“What if I don’t want to see him?”
“Then don’t.”
“What if I do?”
“Then you do.”
“You make everything sound simple.”
“No.”
She reached over and closed the fare popup.
“I’m making it your choice.”
That was different.
My entire life with my family had been built around choices that came preloaded with consequences I was expected to absorb.
Attend the reunion or disappoint Mom.
Laugh at Dad’s joke or ruin the mood.
Help Josh or be selfish.
Forgive quickly or become the problem.
Claire was offering something nobody in my family had ever been comfortable giving me.
A choice that could remain mine even if they hated it.
I booked the flight.
The confirmation email arrived immediately.
My hands went cold.
Claire looked at the screen.
“You want me to come?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then I shook my head.
“No.”
She waited.
“I need to do this alone.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not offended?”
“A little.”
“That’s honest.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stood.
“I have to pack.”
“You own a suitcase?”
“Somewhere.”
“It’s in the closet.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I put it there when I got tired of tripping over it.”
I found it behind the vacuum.
Packing took eleven minutes.
Two shirts.
Jeans.
Underwear.
Toothbrush.
Camera out of habit, then back onto the shelf because carrying it felt absurd.
Claire drove me to the airport.
At the curb, I left my bag in the trunk for a moment.
People moved around us with rolling luggage, hugging, arguing, checking phones.
A man in a suit was trying to balance a coffee on the roof of his car while lifting a stroller.
Claire put both hands in her coat pockets.
“You can still change your mind.”
“I know.”
“And if you get there and want to turn around?”
“I can.”
“And if they say you owe them something?”
“I don’t.”
She nodded.
I looked at her.
“You rehearsed that.”
“I work with middle schoolers.”
“Same skill set?”
“Your family has better vocabulary.”
I kissed her.
Then I took my bag and walked inside.
The flight was delayed forty-five minutes.
Of course it was.
I sat near the gate eating overpriced pretzels while a toddler repeatedly escaped from his father.
Every time the father caught him, the kid laughed like freedom had been temporarily postponed rather than defeated.
I watched until my phone buzzed.
A message from Lily.
Dad is awake again.
Then another.
He keeps asking for you.
I stared at the words.
Before I could answer, a third message appeared.
Mom tried to take the box.
My stomach tightened.
What happened?
Lily responded almost immediately.
Josh stopped her.
That surprised me enough that I sat forward.
Why?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
Because he says he knows what’s inside.
I called her.
She rejected the call.
A second later, a message came.
Can’t talk.
Mom and Josh are fighting.
Then:
Josh says Dad wrote you letters.
I read that twice.
Letters about what?
No response.
The gate agent announced boarding would begin soon.
People stood immediately despite being told to remain seated.
I stayed where I was.
Five minutes passed.
Then Lily sent another message.
Not to you.
About you.
I typed with both thumbs.
What does that mean?
This time she answered quickly.
I don’t know yet.
Josh says Dad started writing them after you left.
He found one last year.
Mom made him promise not to tell you.
The boarding announcement blurred into background noise.
I called Josh.
For two years, his number had been blocked.
I removed the block and dialed.
He answered on the fourth ring.
Neither of us spoke at first.
Then Josh said, “Hey.”
His voice sounded older too.
“What’s in the box?”
He exhaled.
“Conor.”
“Don’t.”
“Okay.”
Another pause.
“Letters.”
“To who?”
“Mostly Mom.”
“Why are they in a locked box with my name on it?”
“I don’t know all of it.”
“Lily says you found one.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Last Christmas.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“Mom asked me not to.”
I laughed.
“You’re forty years old.”
“Thirty-seven.”
“That correction really helps.”
“Look, I screwed up.”
“What did the letter say?”
Josh was silent long enough that I stood and walked away from the crowded gate.
“What did it say?”
“Dad said he’d been lying.”
A cold sensation moved through my stomach.
“About what?”
“About you.”
I leaned against the wall.
“Be specific.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No, I mean I don’t know exactly.”
“You read it.”
“I read one page.”
“Then tell me what was on the page.”
Josh breathed out.
“He wrote that the whole ‘mistake’ thing was bullshit.”
The airport seemed to tilt slightly.
“What?”
“He said you weren’t an accident.”
I closed my eyes.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“He called me one my whole life.”
“I know.”
“Mom said I wasn’t planned.”
“I know.”
“Everybody knew.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Okay.”
His voice cracked slightly.
Then he said, “Dad wrote that he started saying it because he was angry.”
“At who?”
“I think Mom.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You read the letter.”
“I told you, one page.”
“Why only one?”
May you like
“Because Mom caught me.”
I opened my eyes.
