My father and I were always close when I was growing up, especially after my mother's death. But there was always a small resentment I held for him. Maybe he realizes it, maybe not, but a small part of me always thinks of him not as my father, but as Stephen Donnell- the man who made me press the button to end my mother's life
Who left me to become her murderer. If Scott Simpson is a murderer for ending his wife's pain, when she had a matter of days left, then how am I any different? Pulling a triggerpushing a buttonwhat does it matter, when the ending is the same?
I feel like I should barge into the judge's chambers and demand that I be taken into custody.
The memory is sharp in my mind. My father, pain shrouding his eyes, telling me that it was up to me. The way he said it made it seem like a favor to Mom rather than an excuse for him. And he has refused to talk about it since then. Maybe that's why I have a difficult time expressing my own pain.
Realizing that I should be leaving the courthouse and getting back to work, I stand and turn. My father is silently watching me from a seat in the back of the room. I guess I look surprised at his presence because he tries to smile a little and speaks.
"Let's go talk over a drink."
I can see it in his eyes. For the first time in over twenty years, he's ready to let it out.
Minutes later we are seated in high stools at a bar I've never been to. One of his favorite hangouts, I assume. He orders a beer but I stick with ice water. The last thing I need right now is alcohol but I know that Dad feels he does.
We are silent for a few minutes, the crowd bubbling around us. "How did you know?" I finally ask.
"Lindsay," he answers. Lindsay. I should have guessed. I know she's worried about me but It never occurred to me that she would somehow talk my father into having this conversation with me. "She came to me earlier. Walked right into the men's room." He pauses to smile at that. Oh, geez, Lindsay, you're going to get into trouble doing something like that one of these days
"Bobby, when you were fifteen years old, I instilled something in you that, if I had realized I was doing it, I never would have. I made you bottle your grief like I do."
"I do not bottle my grief," I protest.
"Yes, you do. Why do you think cases like this one hit you so hard? It's a recurring theme- the battle to see who is hurting most."
I don't like what he's saying but something inside me knows that he's right.
"Bobby," he continues softly, "You didn't murder your mother and God, I'm sorry for letting you go on for so long."
Something in his tone strikes me deeply. I am seeing faces, memories. My mother in her last few days, hanging onto life by the wires connecting her to machines all around herLindsay, unconscious and bleeding in the hospital after George Vogelman stabbed herVogelman himself terrorizing us all after we had worked so hard for him. Who would have thought that such an innocent-looking guyPatrick Rooney, whose face haunted me for weeks after he had been killed while holding a gun to my headand suddenly I'm crying. Damnit! I don't cry. Haven't since Mom's death. But now here I am in a bar sobbing for all the tears I never shed. For Lindsay, being so strong throughout everything. For Helen, who pulled the plug on her grandmother but doesn't view it the same as I do. For Mom, Dad, and myself. Perhaps we can all be appeased now. Dad has his hand on my shoulder and when I glance at him I am startled to see that he, too, is crying. We might look ridiculous to the other patrons in the bar-two grown men crying like babies- but we don't care.
I don't know how much time goes by before we have both calmed down. Dad looks at his watch and looks back to me. "Now if I'm not mistaken," he hints, "You probably have someone waiting at home who is very worried about you."
Right again, Dad. I've shut Lindsay out again, refusing to admit that she was right when she suggested that I was taking this case to heart too much. As dormant as the memories have been, they have remained a nightmare for as long as I have allowed them to plague me. Talk it out–with Dad, with Lindsaylet the nightmare go.