I never meant to hurt her. I know now that despite what I felt at the time, none of it was ever her fault. Sure, she was doing what was best for her at the time, but she was doing it for us as well. I just didn't understand it then.
It took many years before I finally got it – and realized that while it wasn't her fault, it wasn't his, either. They tried to keep it together but in the end, it all fell apart.
And no matter what anyone says, they loved each other even after it was all over. After the separation and the divorce and the move… they still loved each other as deeply as they did when they were married. And maybe that's the reason they called it quits – because neither one could stand what it was doing to the other.
For years I held onto bitterness. I blamed her for the fact that he wasn't coming home anymore, for having to move away from the home and friends that I knew. Then I blamed him for the same thing, thinking if he'd just done as she asked, none of this would've happened.
Slowly, the bitterness diminished. I could tell she was worried about me. I'd gone from an angry, inconsolable person to one that was withdrawn and quiet. When things calmed down and we'd gotten settled in the new place, they sat down together and arranged 'visits'. Those usually fell during school holidays and he'd book off two weeks that we'd spend together. She never came, despite my begging.
My disappointment must have been obvious because he'd sit me down, look me in the eye and tell me how it must've felt to be her – to know that what was could never be again. She didn't want memories of those vacations because the pain from before was still too fresh. I'd think about that for a while and then, because I didn't want to hurt her, I stopped asking.
He always had such a sad look on his face when he drove away. To people who didn't know him, they'd think he was angry but we all knew. We all knew.
It wasn't all bad times, after the divorce. She kept a smile on her face for everyone she spoke to – even us. Sometimes it was hard to tell there was pain beneath her mask but there were shadows under her eyes and in the darkest part of the night you could hear her quiet sobbing.
He didn't cry. During our trips I'd wake in the wee hours and listen. He wasn't asleep, I knew that, but he wasn't crying, either. Once, by the light of our dying campfire, I thought I saw wetness on his cheek as he stared into the embers but by morning there was no sign of it. Just the strong gaze of a man firmly in charge of his emotions.
I told my godfather about it once. He sat down and listened as I poured out all my pent-up frustration. When the tears and the hiccups died down, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders like we were buddies and he told me things that helped me appreciate what they were going through. He was good for that.
He tried talking to my brother, too, but he was too young to really comprehend what was going on. All he knew was that she worked a lot and a man he barely knew came around once a year to take us camping. He saw more of my godfather than he did of his real father.
Of course he wasn't my brother's godfather. By the time my brother came along, he had a different partner so his godfather was a man we didn't really know. We never heard from him except for a card with money every birthday and Christmas. The money was always welcome but what I really needed then was a friend. I always had that with my godfather.
The day he showed up in his uniform, though, he wasn't coming as a friend. I opened the door and the smile on my face fell as I recognized the look on his – it was the same look I saw on my father's face the night he stared into the campfire.
If I had any doubts as to how my mother felt about my father, they were gone when I heard her scream. My godfather gave me a stricken look and then rushed to her side, catching her before she crumpled to the floor. He picked her up and carried her to her room, closing the door behind them with a kick of his foot.
Soon afterwards his wife drove up in her car, followed closely by our doctor. I doubt they saw me sitting on the porch swing. The two of them rushed up the steps and into the house without looking around. After a couple of minutes my brother came out and sat on the swing beside me. Neither one of us spoke a word. There wasn't a lot to say, really.
Looking back on it now, I know I should've tried harder to make some kind of connection with him but I was too wrapped up in self-pity to make the effort. There was a big age gap between the two of us – he came along about a year before the divorce – and we just didn't live in the same world. His consisted of toy cars and trucks and nap times and mine was schoolwork and baseball. Like I said before, he barely knew our father.
It was about that time I finally realized what my mother had been trying to tell me – she didn't hate him, she hated the job. After that fateful afternoon, I began to hate it too. Unfortunately the only target I had was the man who showed up in uniform on our doorstep – the one person who had always been there for me. Instead of blaming the job, I blamed my godfather. I'd like to think if he'd shown up in civilian clothing I wouldn't have lost those years with him but I'll never know for sure.
My mother wouldn't have him around for the longest time. Not that I blamed her – seeing him upset me, too. For a while he'd stop by every week or so but soon the gaps between visits would get longer and longer until he finally stopped coming at all. It was probably for the best. Without the constant reminder of what we'd lost, I finally replaced anger with reason and realized that it wasn't his fault.
By that time I was in high school and people were starting to talk about careers and choices. I still had a couple of years before I graduated but I listened to the talk and began to wonder: what made him choose to be a policeman? Why, when my mother begged and pleaded with him, didn't he find something else to do? What was it about that particular job that held him captive – that made him risk everything he loved?
I knew then that my self-imposed isolation from my godfather had to end. If for no other reason, I had to understand the job that so firmly held my father in its sway – and that ultimately took his life. I called the station and asked when he was working and then made my way down there by bus. It was a long trip and by the time I got to my last stop I'd talked myself into and out of that meeting a dozen times but I knew it had to be done.
I told the officer at the desk who I was looking for and then sat down on the bench to wait. Instead of letting my mind wander, I forced myself to really listen to the radio situated behind the counter. It chattered on nonstop about locations, descriptions, codes and calls. It was interesting, sure, but it didn't explain anything to me.
I must've sat there for an hour or longer, just staring at my shoes and listening to the radio, when I felt someone looking at me. I lifted my head and, when I saw him standing in the doorway, got to my feet. I fully expected him to scowl or walk away but he just stared. I'll never forget the words that came out of his mouth then…
"My god, Jimmy – you look just like him."
I didn't, really. My hair was lighter and longer and my eyes were brown, but somehow just hearing it made me feel good. I mumbled a 'hello' and stood there like an idiot with my hands shoved in my pockets, waiting for… something. I wanted to run to him and put my arms around him. I wanted to cry and tell him how sorry I was. Instead I stayed put, shuffling my feet like an eight-year-old being interrogated about an empty cookie jar.
He finally broke the awkward moment by inviting me to his office. I didn't realize how far up the ranks he'd gotten but then again, I didn't know how far up my father had been when he died, either. After the formalities were over – how have you been, how's your mother, etcetera – he finally asked me what brought me down there.
I didn't have a good answer. I started talking about the career fairs and the counselors and such, the words tumbling over themselves as I didn't get to the point of my visit. As he'd always done, though, he just let me ramble on and on until I ran out of things to say. The room grew quiet when I stopped although the noise and bustle continued on outside his door.
Finally he put into words what I'd been trying not to all along. He began slowly, testing my resolve to find answers. He didn't lecture on the subject – something my father used to say he was very good at – but instead introduced me to all points of view about being a police officer, good and bad. He talked about the intensive training, the long hours and the public's poor opinion of the police. He explained the tedium of paperwork, the boredom of patrol and the frustration when the bad guy twisted the legal system to his own ends.
He then spoke of the dedication of the sworn officer – the desire to help those who didn't appreciate it, the undeniable urge to continue righting wrongs in a thankless job. 'To Serve and Protect' wasn't just a decal on a door to these people. It was a palpable need that could only be satisfied by a blue uniform and a badge. To the few with the drive and determination to make it through the training and onto the streets, it was as vital as breathing.
He paused then, letting it all sink in, and then in a quiet voice he began telling me what it was like for him – and for my father. It was a side of the man I never knew. He never talked about his work at home, preferring instead to refer to it as good days or bad days. He may have talked with my mother about it but never where I could hear him.
As I listened to the stories about routine patrols, domestic disturbance calls, armed criminals and prowlers, I began to understand my father's decision to stay with the department. Although he'd transferred to different divisions at my mother's request, he couldn't leave it altogether because it wasn't just a job – it was who he was. If he'd done as she'd asked their marriage would still have collapsed because he was a cop long before they even met.
I don't know when he stopped talking. I was too deep inside my head by the time he finally fell silent. When he got up to get a cup of coffee, it barely registered. When he came back and placed a can of soda on the desk for me, I was still struggling to figure it all out. I'm sure he must've had things he had to do but he sat quietly as I fought with my new-found perspective.
Finally, I set it all aside and asked him to tell me how my father died. At first I didn't think he was going to answer but he drew in a breath and began recounting the facts as though reading from a report: a drugstore robbery gone bad, a criminal that tried to slip away, the subsequent foot chase and shootout. It seemed routine, the way he said it, but I knew that for him to tell it any other way would tear him apart.
He paused then and leaned in close, willing me to look up at him. When I did, he told me straight out that it had been quick – that he didn't suffer. From anyone else it would've sounded hollow but I knew he wouldn't have said it if it wasn't absolutely true. Still, it was such an insignificant way to die for such a significant man. I didn't realize I'd said the words out loud, though, until he answered me.
"It always is, Jimmy. It always is."
I left my godfather's office with a clear conscience and a firm resolve to put the past where it belonged and not let my father's sacrifice for our family go to waste. I also made a vow not to squander what time I had left with my godfather. If I'd learned anything at all in my young years, it was that life holds no guarantees. Everything can change in the blink of an eye and you don't get a second chance to go back and fix what was broken.
That was years ago. Now I stand here, waiting, trying not to move my head as I scan the crowd looking for her. I never meant to hurt her – that was the last thing I wanted to do – but from her conspicuous absence, I'm afraid that's just what I've done. My godfather tried to tell me not to worry, that he'd seen it happen before but she'd eventually shown up. Somehow, though, I can't make myself believe him.
I caught a glimpse of my brother earlier, sitting next to an empty chair. Try as I might, I can't seem to locate him now. I suppose it's just as well – I can't afford to be distracted at this point. A familiar voice reaches me and I turn my eyes to the man whose words have made such an impression on me. I can see him looking at us as he talks, as though everything he says is addressed to each one of us personally. I could be imagining it but I think his gaze rested on me a little longer when he delivered the line "You have some mighty big shoes to fill."
It's over, finally, and the crowd begins to move as families search for their loved ones. I stay where I am, knowing that if she showed she'll come find me – and if she didn't, my brother knows where I am. I don't expect my godfather to come talk to me. It wouldn't be appropriate.
A few minutes later my brother arrives as predicted. Not surprisingly, he's alone. I could ask him if she came but I'm afraid of the answer. Instead I shake his hand and accept his congratulations with a smile. I'm glad he came, after all. It's not his fault if she couldn't make it. It's not hers, either.
As we walk across the grounds I hear a voice calling my name. I turn, expecting a summons to the photo session that comes next, and am suddenly frozen in place. There, by my godfather's side, is my mother. I will my feet to move and the next thing I know, I'm standing in front of her. I don't remember her being that small before. I hold my breath as she looks me over, expressions of fear and pride battling for the upper hand on her face. Finally, the pride wins and fear is relegated to the space behind her eyes. She hugs me then, and it's all I can do not to squeeze the daylights out of her. It's not the blessing I'd hoped for, but it's enough.
An announcement comes over the loudspeaker and I draw back reluctantly. I search her eyes for some sign that I'm forgiven for what I've done, and my heart falls when I see tears instead. She nods as she steps back and I know that at least she'll be here when I return. I hesitate, in case I'm wrong, but my godfather's voice cuts into my train of thought.
"Officer Reed – it's time."