The Contradiction of Solitude (40 page)

Never.

Absolutely.

The guard took my hand and stamped the back and waved me through another series of metal detectors.

My heart started to flutter madly in my chest. Thump. Thump. Pitter. Patter.

It cracked. It split open. It was vulnerable. To
him.

I was led into a room with a row of five chairs and a wall of plexiglass. I was told to sit down and pick up the phone.

I did as I was instructed and then I waited.

And waited.

My hand shook as it gripped the grimy phone to my ear.

“Hold my hands, Lay, don’t let go.” Daddy swung me around. And around. I soared. Up. Up. And away.

He laughed. His coal black eyes sparkling.

“More, Daddy!” I cried.

The door on the other side of the glass opened. I couldn’t look up. I stared at the counter. At the pencil scratches, meaningless vandalism.

I heard the chair squeal across the floor as it was pulled out and
he
sat down.

And I still couldn’t look.

“Why do you always leave, Daddy?” I was sad. He was going fishing again. Why couldn’t he ever take me with him?

I hated it in when he was gone.

“I wish I could take you with me. Maybe one day…”

“Lay.” His voice filled my ears and the tears started to fall.

Fall.

Fall.

As I fell.

Fell.

A.

Part.

M
emories came in sudden bursts. Like flashes of light that blinded and obstructed my view of the present.

Because as I looked up into coal, black eyes, so much like my own, I didn’t see my father as he was
now
.

I saw him as he was
then.

I had been sent home from school for fighting. It was stupid as far as fights go. Riley wouldn’t let me play with her. I only wanted her to be my friend. But she said I was weird.

I didn’t get sad.

I didn’t really feel anything.

I just wanted to hurt her.

I took ahold of her hair and yanked on it as hard as I could. I liked the way chunks of it gave way in my hand. I smiled when she screamed and started to cry.

The teacher pulled me off her, but I still had her hair wrapped around my hand. I wouldn’t let go.

Mommy had to come to pick me up. The principal said he was concerned about such violent behavior in a Kindergartner. Mommy had yelled at me. I didn’t really hear her. I just remembered how much Riley had cried. I could still hear it in my head.

But I felt guilty because I didn’t feel bad about it. Because I knew, deep down, I should feel ashamed.

When Daddy got home from his store, Mommy told him about what had happened. I expected him to get angry like Mommy.

I didn’t see Daddy much. He was always at his store in town. Or away on fishing trips. He didn’t spend a lot of time playing with me like other daddies did. Mommy said he was just really busy. And that he needed time away so he could distress. I didn’t know what that meant. But I didn’t like it.

Mommy thought her cuddles were enough. That I was happy as long as she told me that she loved me.

I was only five but I knew I didn’t care about that.

Not at all.

But that night Daddy came up to my room and sat down on my bed. I covered my face with my pillow, worried he would be angry.

“Layna,” he said softly, pulling the pillow away.

I was crying. I didn’t want to get into trouble. Riley deserved it!

“Do you want to tell me what happened today?” he asked. I loved looking at my daddy. He was handsome. Like a prince in a movie. Mommy said I looked like him. I liked when she said that.

“I had to come home early,” I mumbled, kicking my feet back and forth over the edge of the bed.

“Why?” he prompted.

“Because I pulled Riley’s hair.” I wouldn’t tell him all of it. Then I’d really get into trouble.

“That’s not all, is it, Lay?” How did he know? Mommy didn’t even know. Riley was crying too much to say anything.

I shook my head.

“What else did you do?” His voice was so quiet. He smiled. Encouraging. I scooted closer to him and he pulled me onto his lap. His strong arms hugging me.

I snuggled down into his chest and felt good. Daddy wasn’t mad at all. But he might be when I told him the rest.

“Tell me, Layna,” he ordered, his voice hard.

“I cut her,” I whispered.

“You did?” he whispered back, his eyes bright. Brighter than the sun.

“I took a pair of scissors and I cut her arm. She bled a lot. Then I pulled her hair.”

Daddy hugged me even tighter and he kissed the top of my head.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Because I wanted to,” I admitted to Daddy the real reason.

“And how did that make you feel, Layna?”

I looked up at my big, strong daddy and I smiled. “I felt good, Daddy. Really good.” My face fell. “That’s wrong though. I shouldn’t feel good because I made Riley cry. Even though she’s mean and won’t let me play with her.”

I started to cry because I felt bad. So, so bad. I wanted to throw up.

“Shh, Lay, stop crying. She’s not worth your tears,” he scolded and I stopped, hiccupping and struggling to calm down.

“Mommy says—”

“Mommy doesn’t know everything, Lay. And sometimes people can do things because they feel good. And you shouldn’t be made to feel bad because of that. There’s nothing wrong with being who you are.” He sounded angry.

I was confused. I was always told hurting others and putting your hands on people in a mean way was wrong.

“But it’s not nice to make someone cry.”

Daddy pulled back slightly and wiped the tears from my face with his thumbs. “Did she make you cry?” he asked, and I nodded.

“Then you make them cry, Lay. You cut them. You make them bleed. And smile when it feels good. Don’t ever feel like who you are is wrong,” he told me. And I believed him.

He rested his chin on top of my head and started to rock me. “Now no more tears for silly, stupid girls. Let me tell you a story.”

“A story?” I perked up. Daddy had never told me a story before.

“A story about a star named Stella…”

“My sweet, sweet Layna.” His voice unfurled, spread out. Taking up all the space in my heart.

“Daddy,” I choked out. On a sob. On a sigh.

He looked so much older. Deep lines cut into his forehead. His once straight nose was now crooked and off center and I knew at some point it had been broken. His black hair was streaked with grey.

But his eyes were the same.

Bottomless.

Empty.

But when they sparkled. It was just for me.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he rasped, lifting his hand and pressing it to the glass wall between us.

I didn’t lift my hand. I kept it tight. In a fist. Away. Far away.

“It’s been twelve years, baby girl. Twelve years,” he remarked, partially in wonder. Partially in bitter accusation.

How could he blame me for staying away? How could he expect anything else?

I opened and closed my mouth several times. Wanting to say…
something.

Wanting to say…
nothing.

“You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Lay. I hardly recognize you.” I flushed under his scrutiny. Embarrassed. Delighted.

He stared at me. I squirmed. Why was I here?

Why had I come?

What did I hope to accomplish?

“Why?”

My father sat up straighter and blinked in surprise. The sound of my voice startling him.

“Excuse me?” he asked, frowning. He scratched at his chin. I recognized the tell. He was uncomfortable.

Around me.

“Why?” I said a little bit louder. A little bit stronger.

Daddy cleared his throat and scratched his chin again.

“What are you asking me, Layna? Why I’m in here? Why I did what I did?” His voice was hard. Giving nothing away.

But giving me everything.

“You told me once that if it made me feel good, I should never apologize. I should never feel bad for being myself. Was that it? Were you just being yourself?” I asked him.

I had to know.

I had to
know.

My father leaned in closer to the glass that separated us. He looked at me. He looked in me. He looked through me.

“What is this about, Lay? You can tell me. You could always tell me anything.” Whisper soft and full of so much love.

For me.

His little girl.

The little girl he created to be just like him.

Was it intentional? Or was it, just like so many things, a victim of circumstance? Genes and DNA wrapped up in dark hair and black eyes. A soul as wicked as his.

“I feel it, you know,” I let out. I patted my chest. “In here. I feel it all the time.”

Daddy smiled.

“That’s because you’re like me, Lay. You always have been. My little, little girl,” he said softly. Reverently.

“Tell me why,” I insisted.

I thought about Elian waiting for me out in the car. His sister Amelia. The way her death shaped the person he had become.

Broken.

Because of the man on the other side of the glass.

I should hate him.

And I did.

But there were other things mixed up with all the loathing. All the fear.

Home.

“They were my stars,” my father said, scratching at his chin again.

“What does that even mean?” I demanded, feeling myself getting irritated by his evasion.

Elian. Sweet, unconditional Elian. He loved me no matter how horrible I was. No matter what monsters lurked inside.

Now was the time I either slayed the beast.

Or embraced it.

“You tell me, Lay. I know you have your own stories to tell.” He smiled again. That sick, confident smile. This man had been my entire world for so long. Even when I despised everything that he was, he still existed as the focal point of
it all.