What Were You Meant For

by Winfan2

Jay Halstead faces peril in his job on a daily basis with the Intelligence Unit but also deals with the difficulties of raising his ten year old son on his own as a single father. These challenges, along with the mystery surrounding Liam's mother and her disappearance years ago, keep life interesting. Every day is a challenge, one he can only hope he is up for.

49. Lost and Found part I

Lost and Found part I

Liam is fifteen in this chapter and it is written from the first person perspective.

Liam

I had a hard time getting the key to fit in the lock as it felt as if my body was going a hundred different directions, and none of them were the one I was hoping for. But finally I managed to complete the task, one that was typically full of ease, but tonight, I wasn't quite sober enough to make anything other than standing up somewhat attainable, and even that held its challenges. I swung open the door, caught sight of my father and quickly closed it again as if he hadn't noticed me. I hadn't even turned around when the door flew open and I tried to shore up all my neurons and synapses to fall in line and fly straight.

"What the hell are you doing?" He asks as he sizes me up. "You're grounded and supposed to be home."

I opened my mouth but I realized I had nothing to say—nothing worthwhile anyway. It had a been a long few weeks, bad weeks and it had all started with me finding that damn envelope. But I can't go back, not sure if I want to anyway. And here I am, getting hauled into our apartment just trying to hold it all together.

I was supposed to be at home all weekend. I had gotten detention twice this week, one for insubordination and the other for skipping a class. Blame the envelope—I do. So Dad grounded me for the weekend. But of course he has to work—so like any normal teenager I go to the party that I had been invited to and have a few drinks and allow Hannah Miller to shove her tongue down my throat with a tiny tablet on it that is making me feel like the room is spinning like a top and that Dad is glowing purple.

"Have you been drinking?" He asks me, his face deadly serious.

"No," I say—clearly a total lie.

"I can smell it Liam." He accuses me.

"Just a cup." Another lie. It was two cups and they were the big plastic red cups. They were also filled to the brim with a mixture of stuff that made my throat burn as if I had swallowed a lit candle. But I swear that was all I was going to do—have a couple of drinks and dance and be home by eleven.

He stares at me, like he can see the liquor sloshing around in my gut. Clearly I am not sober, but I don't think it's the booze I drank, it's the pill that slipped past gullet. It is making me think that sparks are shooting out of my fingers. I'm pretty sure they aren't, but it is pretty convincing all the same.

"What did you take?" Dad asks me, his eyes burning like my throat had earlier that night.

"I don't do drugs." Another lie. Not that I do a lot of drugs. I mean, sure I smoke pot once in a while. But that's it. Except for tonight and a few weeks ago. But Dad kinda has a no drug and no drinking policy. But I don't drink—much. His beers are all accounted for every night. But I know that right now that's not enough to plead my case and I also know that he's not happy—like, really not happy.

Suddenly I realize he's talking to me again. But as I look at him he appears to have flames dancing around him. Ugh, when am I going to come down from this? I should be sobering up already, but this high is dragging on and on and is taking me with it. I try and focus but as I look at my father it's as if his head is growing taller—not him, just his head. As I continue to stare at him I realize just how much we look alike or I guess how much I look like him. His mouth is moving but it's like the words are just falling out of his mouth and flying away.

I hear the word grounded again and decide to take a chance to say something profound. "If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound? So, if I'm grounded but you aren't here to enforce it, am I really grounded?" I think it's the most brilliant thing to ever come out of my mouth, but clearly my dad is not impressed. He says something that I still can't comprehend as a rainbow colored butterfly lands on his forehead. I shake my head as if that will help only to discover two more butterflies have joined the first.

Dad is talking again, showing me my phone, demanding some kind of explanation that I can't answer because I simply can't comprehend the question. All I know is that I am done. Done with night, done with the questions. I suddenly go from feeling like I can barely contain my body within my skin, to feeling as if I weigh a thousand pounds. I must be coming down, but it's too fast, like that sudden drop of a roller coaster. But of course Dad doesn't know what I'm feeling and keeps putting my phone in my face and pointing at a text. I don't get it and I don't care to. It is then that I make a magnificent blunder—the error of all errors and tell him to fuck off. The words are sticky in my mouth as if they fight to stay where they are and not come out. But I force them, push them to the surface and then instantly regret it. I know that I am going to pay and pay dearly for my indiscretion.

He grabs me, fists full of my jacket. I squint my eyes closed, and I wait—and wait—for what I'm not exactly certain. But it never comes. His fingers loosen and I slip slowly from his grasp. He let's me go and tells me he doesn't want to see me until the morning.

Jay

I walk the several blocks to the store, knowing that I need to walk off some of this frustration and nervous energy. I barely even notice anyone or anything around me on this Sunday morning, as all I can think of is Liam. My heart sank last night when I got home to find an empty apartment. I had been assigned to a stake out and usually they last all night, and Liam is more than aware of this. But we had caught a lucky break and wrapped it all up before midnight. At first I had a short reprieve when I found his phone and hoped he had just stepped out for a moment. But when I investigated his text messages to see if he had been summoned by a nearby friend or neighbor I discovered the deception. I could see my text message checking in with him, but the response I had received wasn't there. It hadn't come from this phone. I sighed and wondered how long he had been doing this. All those nights when I would check his location, satisfied that he was exactly where he was supposed to be, fell away like November leaves. His phone had been the obedient one, staying put, while Liam was who knows where, doing who knows what while I was busy patting myself on the back for a job well done.

I recalled back when he was young; four or five and I had a time-out towel that he would have to sit on when he was in trouble. It had characters from some Disney or Pixar movie that he had become enamored with at the time. I would fold it into fourths and plop it down and tell to keep his butt on the towel until the timer on the stove or my phone beeped. I always followed the minute for each year guideline: four minutes when he was four five minutes when he was five etc. At first he just folded his arms and glared, then he graduated to whining and complaining and then he learned the fine art of walking the line.

He first picked up the towel, keeping against his body and when I would reprimand him he would tell me his butt was on the towel. I had to hand it to him—he was right. So I amended and said the towel had to stay on the floor and he had to stay on the towel. And he then began to scoot everywhere on the towel. That's just how he was, and clearly still is—looking at everything and trying to figure out a way around it. I thought of his phone deception and wondered how long had he been pushing the towel around before I actually noticed?

The summer before Liam went to high school we moved to the Lincoln Park neighborhood. I was dating a real estate agent and she helped me find a nice two bed, two bath place on a tree-lined street three blocks from the near constant roar of the L. As a couple we didn't last, but the apartment did. Clearly me and relationships were not meant to be.

For years I had tried to get Liam into CICS Bucktown, but since he didn't attend Kindergarten there it had been an uphill battle. But finally he had been accepted in sixth grade and stayed until he aged out after completing eighth grade. It wasn't a private school, it stood for Chicago International Charter School and was one of fourteen campuses around the city. It had a better teacher to student ratio than the public school system and encouraged children in their efforts of how to learn instead of what to learn. And it was tuition free. I wanted the best for my son, then, now and in the future. I had hoped if he was on the Charter track then perhaps he could get a scholarship to one of the city's private schools. But he hadn't, so when I discovered that Lincoln Park High School was rated well, had amazing programs, honors and double honors classes, as well as AP classes along with being an International Baccalaureate program adding to an already diverse student body, I knew it would be a great school for him. It accepted students from outside of the area via applications and was also a magnet school. But, it was an attendance area school as well, meaning that all we had to do was live within the appropriate boundaries, so I decided it was time to move.

Liam hadn't wanted to go. He said he was happy where he was. He loved Bucktown and it's down to earth inhabitants as well as his bedroom and our step-saver kitchen. The postage stamp back yard and nonexistence front yard. He had loved its familiarity, saying it felt like a favorite pair of jeans. But I insisted on the change. It was for the best. I thought if he worked hard at school because of its demands then he would have little time to partake in other activities. His freshman year he made the soccer team and the baseball team and found a best friend named Jameson and a girlfriend named Macy. But it was an affluent neighborhood and we weren't all that affluent. Many of the students came from other areas of the city through scholarships, so the student body wasn't all wealthy, but I know it made Liam feel different and out of place.

Overtime was, and is, pretty much mandatory. When Liam was young I needed the overtime for all of the expenses that seem to come with a young child, mostly day care. But then, with overtime my child care bill would increase and the cycle only continued. I had always been very fortunate to find reasonable sitters that often gave me more than a fair price—probably feeling sorry for me as a single father. But when the childcare necessities becoming unnecessary, there was enough for a new apartment and the start of a college fund. But, with no child care meant total trust in a child who knew how to push the limits, one inch at a time. Perhaps with less overtime and more father time we wouldn't be here, but then again maybe we would.

Many of the kids in the school seemed to be in the same boat. Parents working long hours as surgeons, lawyers, and other white collar positions, busy closing deals and shmoozing clients. Then the other side held single parents four neighborhoods away, who were working two and three jobs just to make rent. I, at least got by on one job, one that I loved, and Liam always accused of me loving it more than I did him. Perhaps this was his way of showing me that it was true. Except it wasn't, of course it wasn't. It was an argument I often had with myself and whether or not I won the argument, Liam was always certain he was the one that lost.

As I pick out items at the store, I think of all the things I could have done better. But it's useless, too many things pop into my head. Although, I remind myself that I'm the one that stuck around and raised him. I didn't take off when life got a little uncertain, I stayed and fulfilled my paternal duties.

I find a box of Cheerio's and pull it from the shelf and reminisced; Liam used to love these little toasted O's; he would eat them by the metric ton when he was younger. I can't help but smile when I recall the time when we stayed at Erin Lindsey's place when I had a bounty on my head and she bought him a small box of Apple Jack's to eat in the car on the way to school. He immediately declared them his new favorite—no—his new best favorite and I instantly became the mean daddy when I took them right back out of his diet. Have I spent all these years as the mean daddy, the bad daddy? Have I wasted the years away doing all the wrong things?

Liam

I wake up and my eyes feel like they've been in the middle of a sandstorm; gritty and gross. I quickly realize that I'm still wearing my clothes from last night, right down to the shoes that leave a trail of debris on my bedding. I sigh and swing my feet off the bed and pull my shoes off. I get up, and am unsteady at first, but after a minute I'm okay. If my eyes feel like sand, then my mouth feels like the relative humidity of the desert. I can barely swallow and I figure it is the combination of drink and drug that I had consumed the previous evening. I shed my clothing in the middle of the floor and pick out replacements. I then make my way to the bathroom grateful that it is mine, well mine and guests. Dad has his own bathroom just off the master bedroom. He was awfully excited about having his own and I wasn't quite sure how I felt about his elation. Our bedrooms were separated by my bathroom and another utility/laundry/storage room and his bathroom. I hadn't wanted to move, but I had to admit the extra bathroom and other additional square footage was nice. We had a courtyard out back big enough I could toss a ball at make-shift strike zone and practice my footwork for soccer. Further away were the high rises, but this neighborhood held a more relaxed feel, with attached homes and apartments. Townhomes for the rich, apartments for those of us who weren't. We had the first floor, there was another apartment above us and the basement was for storage. It had taken me a few months, but I had to finally admit I did like the bigger rooms, the dishwasher in the kitchen and the sun making its way into the front and back windows in a way that never seemed as bright in our old place.

Dad had wanted to be in the Lincoln Park High School area so I would be eligible to attend classes there. Honors classes abounded and the graduation rate was over 90%. They had tons of sports and clubs plus opportunities for academic tutoring after school. I appreciated that he wanted what was best for me, but I wasn't exactly sure if this was it. But then again, maybe it was. He had always railed against his father for not backing his choices, but so far, I felt as if I've had very few choices concerning the opportunities in my own life.

I had met Jameson Reginald Parker Pendelton on my first day in English class. His pen had quit and I had about forty extra. He was a straight A student, played soccer and lacrosse and had pretty rich parents. They lived in one of those fancy townhomes—not townhouses, but homes, at least according to Lara, Dad's one-time girlfriend and real estate agent that found us this place. I certainly didn't care what term was used, but it seemed to matter a lot to her. She also said she was a Realtor not an agent. Whatever. She seemed nice enough, but I kept feeling like she was just trying to sell herself to Dad, like she was an apartment that had been on the market too long. The relationship didn't last, he had missed something that she had wanted him to attend because a body had dropped and he needed to deal with it. I guess she had a choice to walk away—unlike me who was biologically tethered.

I climb into the shower and blast the hot water and try to melt away all my indiscretions as if I can sweat them from my pores. I'm so thirsty that I look up and gulp the water that is peppering me with its fieriness. It is only now that I discover my brain has a pulse. I figure it's from dehydration so I keep gulping.

I try and remember leaving the party, as well as what exactly had happened at the party. I remember the game, the circle game—and Hannah, Hannah Miller. It's a game where you sit in a circle, alternating boy, girl or however you want to set it up. You pass a tablet of ecstasy around with your tongue and whoever has it dissolve on their tongue is the winner. I won several weeks ago, but the high hadn't been nearly as intense after the tiny pill had made several revolutions around the circle and had slowly withered away. Tonight, it had been the first time to come my way and Hannah ensured that it wouldn't be going any further. Instead of slipping it on my tongue she jammed hers into my mouth. By the time she was finished I had no idea where the damn thing had ended up. But judging by my intense high, it had landed well. I gave her tongue props for its efforts and later definitely added on the adoration as I was recipient of more of its tricks. I shut my eyes tightly as my body attempted to revel in the memories of last night, responding in a way that I had rather not deal with at the moment, but I was fifteen and often had little say in what my body decided to react to—or at least parts of my body.

As I scrubbed away the smoke and frustration of the night I tried to recall if Jameson and I left together. Had I gone to his house first? He was the product of two white collar parents who made enough money that they didn't feel it was their duty to actually spend time with their son as they could afford a nanny to do it for them. Marta was a German woman who had raised him since he was two years old. She kept an eye on him and the townhome butshe left plenty of cracks for Jameson to fall through—and fall through he did. As long as he kept up appearances, no one was the wiser and no one particularly cared about what he did as long as he didn't get arrested, kept up his grades and looked good on the athletic fields.

He was actually envious of me because at least I had my dad some of the time. Jameson thought the fact that my dad was detective was really cool and even interviewed him for a report he had to write for one of his classes. Dad preferred it when I hung out Jameson's house as at least there was an adult there. But she was rarely in our space, because it was a huge space—three floors, four if you included the finished basement and the top floor was his dad's man cave when he was home and our playground when he wasn't—which was nearly all the time.

It was there that both Macy and I lost our virginity to each other and it was there where I cheated on her. I broke her heart and she took her forgiveness with her and broke mine. I don't even know why I did it—that's the thing, I really cared for her, but Carly was just—just entertainment. It is also where Jameson and I sneak his father's best scotch and smoke things that allow us to tolerate the world. It was our private sanctuary and we reveled in its privacy and the secrets it held.

I get out of the shower and dry off. I rub the towel over my hair, grateful that it is short right now. I go back and forth from short to longer style, uncertain just where it should land. It is darker blond now, almost a light honey brown, or that's what Hannah told me. The highlights are now a coppery color and are making a push for dominance. Now I'm standing there as I contemplate my hair color, wondering if I cheated on Carly with Hannah, but I don't think so since Carly and I were more like friends with benefits than a couple. I get dressed and walk gingerly out into the living room expecting to find my father's glare but discover the place is devoid of any parental figure.

I grab a big glass of orange juice and down it before I close the refrigerator door and find the note that says he went to the store. Then I fill up my glass with water and slam that down and refill the glass again before I go into the living room and sit down on the couch.

I sit there and think of all the things that my dad doesn't know. He doesn't know that I've been sexually active for several months. He doesn't know that the reason Macy, my first real girlfriend, and I broke up because I cheated on her. He doesn't know that on many of the nights he isn't here, neither am I. He doesn't know that I roam the city like an eager tourist with limited time. He doesn't know that my friend rigged my phone so that it can stay home while I am out and still answer his texts via a burner. He doesn't know that I helped Brandon and Jameson cheat on our civics test. He doesn't know that I'm aware of the combination on his lockbox where he stores his gun. He doesn't know I get it out and hold it in my hand, feeling its power while wondering how much damage it has done and just how much it has saved me from. I think back to Charlie and our day when we were thirteen—the day my father had every right to beat the living crap out of me, but doesn't. Charlie and I never really reconnected after that day, sensing that our crimes had severed something that didn't deserve to be saved. We quietly served our punishments side by side but nothing more evolved after that.

Dad doesn't know I fill his absence with less than stellar behavior because I feel so empty. He doesn't know that every day I damn my mother and her actions because she used her love as an excuse to leave. He doesn't know that I found the envelope.

I don't tell him how much I hate him. I hate him for always choosing the job over me. I hate him for being so good at it and helping so many people that aren't me. I hate him for risking so much and by risking himself, he is putting me at great risk. I hate him and the constant hole where he should be. I hate him because he always seems to be on the fringes and I often feel as is my life no longer fits together as it should. I hate him because he is the one that makes me whole and I hate him because I feel as if I am not the one that makes him whole. I hate him because he tells me I am important and he loves me, but he always says it as he is leaving. He says the very same things my mother did, just before she left me too.

Jay

I walk home with a bag of groceries in each arm. I still have no idea what I'm going to say to my son. What he has been doing is not okay, and I'm sure he is well aware of that. But I am in a position where I have to trust him. I'm happy when he is with Jameson as at least there is an adult around. But honestly other than keeping the house from burning down, I doubt she is keeping much track of what the boys do. Liam told me that he will often eat dinner there, but Marta forgets that he is vegetarian and always piles on slabs of meat saying he is too skinny. No matter how many time he explains to her that he doesn't eat meat, won't eat meat, she keeps trying. But that reminds me of my own failure of allowing five years transpire before I realized my child never ate the meat that I had put on his plate. And I'm also sure they disappear into the bowels of the large house and she forgets them just as she forgets Liam's preferred dietary choices.

I try and remember myself at fifteen and I'm not sure I like what I see. I had friends growing up, but really I was mostly a loner. I can't honestly say if it was my preference or I just pretended it was to save my self esteem. Will would let me hang out with him until his buddies told him that I was cramping their style and he would gently shoo me away. I always thought it was just me and my dad that didn't click, but maybe it was just me and everyone else that didn't connect.

I would see it as me against them—against the the world, and that would get me into fights. I would have friends when we had a common enemy or a similar task, but having friends just have friends never seemed within my reach. I was happy that Liam seemed to always have friends or the least acquaintances around him on a regular basis. I had really liked his girlfriend, Macy Finch, she had aspirations of graduating at the top of her class, at making a difference in the world. I thought she was a good influence on Liam and was disappointed when they broke up. Liam never would tell me why they split up. But then I never gave him a reason why my relationships didn't work out either. I guess I didn't click with them either. I guess I didn't click with anyone—not even my own son.

I thought back when I joined the army. I wanted to make a difference too. I wanted to show that I was a loyal American and fight for my country. But when I told my dad he had said it was a bad idea, which I took as a personal attack—that I wouldn't be able to make it, that I wasn't good enough. So I showed him by making it into the Rangers. But now as I have had years to look back and reflect, and to do so as a father—I realized that maybe he was concerned for my well-being. Without my combat experience the baggage that I carry wouldn't be nearly so heavy.

But in my mind, if it didn't work out—death was never far away. Was that avoiding failure or simply giving in to it? I would admonish Liam for reckless behavior, as he been partaking in last night, but I was the king, devising a monarchy of destruction. If an IED could be the solution to my problems in Afghanistan then a random bullet from the streets of Chicago could do the same. But a child came into my life when I least expected and perhaps I resented him for changing everything—forcing me into survival mode—to ruin possible plans that I was no longer allowed to carry out. And he seemed to know it.

I sighed as I neared the apartment as I realized that the one person that I felt that I could reach out to and would who would always accept me, had left, with little chance of coming back. As hard as I tried, memories of Emma always sat on a perch in the recesses of my memory, and would squawk out at random times.

I set one of the grocery bags down and unlock the door and step inside and grab the bag again. I walk into the apartment to find Liam on the couch cruising through the channels on the TV. He appears clean and has changed his clothes. I had noticed that he hadn't bothered shedding them the night before. I flashed back on many a nights that I had failed to do the same. I walk into the kitchen and begin to unload the recently acquired purchases. "You hungry?" I ask, holding out the box of Cheerios. "Remember when you loved these?"

"Like when I was three," he replies in a tone I already don't like.

"Fine," I say putting the cereal in the cabinet along with several other items.

Once I finish I walk back into the living room and debate whether or not to tell him to turn of the TV or just grab the remote and do it myself. In the end, I do neither. "Let's talk about last night," I announce.

"I don't want to talk about it," he replies, clicking away, watching the flicker of light as the shows race by.

"Well, we're going to," I tell him as I grab the remote and turn the TV off—decision made. He doesn't say anything but won't look at me. I start off easy. "Where were you?"

"I don't know. I forgot the address."

"Try."

"Logan Square somewhere. I don't know the kids name. It was an impromptu gathering. I hadn't intended on going, but changed my mind at the last minute."

"Why?"

"Because I could. Because nobody was here to stop me," he says staring straight ahead at the dark screen of the TV.

"It was clear that you were drinking, but what else did you take?"

"Nothing, just the booze."

I know he's lying. I can spot the effects intoxication as well as effects of other substances and his eyes and actions clearly stated that he had enjoyed a buffet of substances and it scared me more than it angered me.

"You're lying. We can sit here all day until you come clean." I explain as I fold my arms and get into my 'waiting' stance. I use it all the time in the interrogation room and know my stamina will last much longer than his.

He sighs, throws his head back in aggravation and proceeds to tell me about this little game where you get in a circle and how some girl named Hannah forced the pill down his throat.

"What was the pill?"

"Ecstasy—okay!" The words burst forth.

"Not okay! My god Liam what the hell were you thinking?" I snap back in total shock. I wasn't sure what I thought he might admit to, but it certainly hadn't been this.

"I was thinking I wouldn't have the pill jammed down my throat." He says biting off each word.

"But you played the game and by doing that you knew there was a chance you would get the pill." I'm irate and not hiding it well. "Have you done this before?" He shakes his head no, but I'm not sure if I believe him. In fact I feel like I don't even know him.

"This behavior is unacceptable and you know that. It's the wrong choice, not to mention illegal," I say my eyes wide. I'm trying not to yell, but losing the battle.

"Well, guess I'm one of the bad guys then," he says. "Maybe it's what I have to do in order for you to pay attention to me."

"Don't start this again. I'm paying attention to you now. We watched TV together Friday night before your official grounding started. I could have started it Friday after school, but I didn't."

"Whatever," he mumbles. "What are you going to do now? You gonna ground me again—because clearly that works so well."

I recall his statement from last night about really being grounded if no one is around to enforce it as much as I want to deny it, it does make me wince. But I don't particularly care for his attitude, which seems to be gaining momentum. He's bating me, pushing me and it's pissing me off.

"I think we're going to start off with you cleaning your bathroom from top to bottom and then go from there."

"It's my bathroom, and it's fine."

"It's the common bathroom and it's a mess. Get going and I will check it after your done."

"No need, I'm not doing it." He states boldly, still staring straight ahead.

"You are going to do it."

"It's my bathroom," he argues again.

"And it's in the apartment that I pay for." I snap not believing just how much I sound like my father once had.

"I'm not cleaning it and you can't make me." He threatens as I feel the heat rise up my neck and into my cheeks. This reminds me of when he was ten and went on a little drug buy all alone and couldn't understand why I was so upset. So I approach it the same way and march into his room and began to grab things and take them to my bedroom.

Liam

I know it was stupid to push every button he had, but I just didn't give a shit. He figured he could just walk in and throw out a punishment and all would be fine. Nope—I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of allowing it to be that easy. Now I sit and watch him walk out with my laptop—a gift for my eighth grade graduation and what I did all my schoolwork on as well as searched out entertainment. The school gives each student a Chromebook, but it was slow and didn't nearly have the speed and capacity of my laptop, so I rarely used it. Now, I see my smartphone, tablet and remote control to my TV are displaced and after that my books are making the trek. I see Charlotte's Web—my connection to my mother on top of The Wizard of Oz—my connection to the world and all its eccentricities—Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—my connection to ethics all stacked on top of Alice and Wonderland—my connection to the man who is looting my room. I was a book nerd, I never tried to hide it—I've been called out on it—teased for it, but I never cared. I saw more than words on each page—I saw the world and my life in it within those pages and now my dad was taking it all away.

I got up and saw the ever-growing pile in his room and began to get agitated, which of course was what he wanted.

"Stop," I yell out, causing him to slow down and look at me.

"Ready to talk? Or to clean the bathroom?" He asks. Since my answer is neither one, I just throw out what comes next into my head.

"You don't know anything!" I know, it makes no sense. But I'm fifteen and hungover, what do you want from me?

He stops and is looking at me expectantly. "Then tell me. Tell me what I don't know."

So I do. I tell him I sexually active and how I screwed up with Macy—I spit it out at him like it's all his fault. I tell him that this was the second time I had done ecstasy and how I had no issue going out because I had been certain he wouldn't be home to catch me. And I tell him I did this all the time. I only leave out a couple of things including the activities at Jameson's in the man cave; this scotch sipping, the pot smoking. I don't want Jameson to pay for my sins and I'm so afraid that my boat is already full of all my transgressions that it will capsize and leave me in danger of drowning. Or, as I look at my father, sinking him. Each thing I say seems to beat him down a little bit further. I finally finish and he remains silent as if he's still trying to absorb all the bits and pieces of my outburst.

Jay

I listen as the information hits me like a hail of bullets. I have missed all of this. He has done it, because he knew I would. He would move a step forward successfully and continue on each time that I remained oblivious. And I had been completely oblivious. I had assumed he had towed the line, just because I had wanted him to. But that was irresponsible and weak. I sowed wild oats a few times as a teenager and I had two parents watching over me—clearly Liam had none.

I finally clear my throat and begin to speak. "Please tell me that you are careful and use protection."

"I use a condom—every time. I wouldn't want to make the same mistake as you." He states. He doesn't know of my specific error with the condom or lack thereof. But it certainly feels as if he does.

He has thrown this at me more than once; him being a mistake. But of course he was, neither Emma or I were prepared to become parents; our circumstances clearly dictating a child was the last thing either one of us needed or wanted. But he had never been told this, I always told him he was unexpected, but very much welcomed and loved. But he barely bought it when he was younger, now it was clear he wasn't even going to take a bite. His mother walked out on him in one giant step, and I was doing the same thing, only one inch at a time.

He has told me so much that I don't even know where to start. I had left him with a few books, his backpack and a TV which was pretty worthless without the remote control. My room on the other hand looked like a hastily thrown together yard sale. All that was missing were the stickers with the prices written on them. I have no idea what to do with this kid or how to regain any trust in him or how to get him to care enough to want my trust.

He sits there, his arms crossed, his face looking downward and sullen. I'm not sure, but I believe he is fighting tears. I think I am simply too stunned to cry.

"You will come to the district after school. Make sure that you don't forget your Chromebook and of course your burner phone that I know you have as a part of your little texting game to make me believe you are at home. If I text or call you, you better answer it. You will sit in the breakroom and do your homework. If you get done before we're ready to leave, you will help out anyone who needs it with whatever they need."

"I have after-school activities sometimes," he says, still looking at the floor.

"I have access to your schedule via the online grade book and know exactly when these activities take place. If I am not at the district when you get there, Sargent Platt will keep track of your arrival, so you better check in with her and I advise you not to be late." Before he can let loose with any snotty remarks I continue. "I don't want to hear that you missed the bus or couldn't find something and had to stay late. If you are late, every CPD patrolman will be looking for you and they will not be happy about it. It is a waste of resources, but I will do it and I will take the heat for it, which will make me even less happy than I am right now.

"If you ever hope to get through this grounding, to have the opportunity to play baseball this spring," Liam opens his mouth to protest, but after I glare at him he shuts it again and I continue, "you will do every damn thing I tell you.

"There will be no practice driving for your license, no batting cage time or jogging downtown on the weekends, no time at Jameson's, no time at Macy's though it sounds like that won't be an issue. There will be reports on the effects of drugs and drinking on the teenage brain. There will be statistics regarding causal sex and what can happen." He huffs as I say this. "You got something to say?"

"Nope," he replies. His face taut.

"We will talk about your grades."

"My grades are fine."

"And they better stay fine. We will discuss your grades, what you are learning in each class, who you hung out with during the school day. Clearly, I have no idea what you are doing or where your head is, so every night we will talk."

"Only because we'll be driving home together."

"That will be a great time to discuss your day. But, there are times when I am home in plenty of time and you retreat to your room. I'm here, but you choose to escape. So don't you dare put all of this on me."

I look at him, my eyes practically squinting, but he ignores me. Instead he asks me a question. "How long am I grounded for?"

"Until I say otherwise,"

"That is so not fair. Even a criminal is given a time frame," he protests.

I inhale deeply and decide he has a point, but at the same time, I am pissed off and don't believe that he has the right to dictate my plans. But, in the end, I give in and answer. "Six to eight weeks. You do everything you're supposed to, improve your attitude it'll be six—you don't, it will be eight or more. Push every button I have, it can go on forever.

"You can start by cleaning the bathroom. You have a long way to go to earn my trust back. Everything that you told me needs to stop. Don't think that you'll continue to get away with it. I thought I could trust you, but clearly you took advantage of my faith in you and basically trashed it. I'm not sure if I'll have full confidence in you again."

I can tell this last part stung him and I wasn't sure if I was happy about that or not. After several tense moments, he gets up and grabs the cleaning caddy from the closet and heads to the bathroom.

To be continued...

Soundtrack:

White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane

Still Around Scott Birman

Boy Got It Bad Kail Baxley