Monsters 07: Broken Bridges

I kept my composure while driving. No use getting worked up over one phone call in five years. Yeah, that’s right. In five fucking years, he never bothered to track me down, even after he leaned about what happened in school when I was younger. I was passed between foster homes because he couldn’t step up and be a parent.

I thought about finding my father, or seeing if he was even alive, for awhile now, even before I started going to therapy. The night my mother died, when the police came to the house, they said they called him and couldn’t read him so they left a message. They assumed he would call when he received it.

Is it horrible to say that I wasn’t surprised? Considering the situation, it was pretty bad. I always hated him for that and I don’t think anyone who didn’t know what happened what blame me for that if they knew.

I hesitated and pulled the car over while staring at the street name I had to turn down. I had to calm myself before I hit the gas. I wasn’t nervous when I started coming this way, but now, being so close…

I found the driveway easily. It was one of those long, windy ones that private people liked to have. The house was pushed back, nestled in the center of a large lawn with lots of oak trees. As I parked and got out of the car, my eyes widened.

It wasn’t a house at all, but a huge, vine-wrapped mansion. The windows were large, somewhat tinted, the door painted red with a knocker drilled right into its center. I felt a stab of resentment, thinking about my old, small house. I wondered, as I got the courage to move forward, what type of job he had that rewarded him with this.

Before I could knock, or use the knocker, the door opened slowly. A man’s face filled the dark gap between the door and the frame, and he pushed it open the rest of the way. It was hard to believe the person in front of me, now that I saw him clearly, was my father.

He was nearly six foot, short brown hair freckled with grey, and deep-set green eyes. He was not a heavy man by any means, but he had some muscle to him. His face was definitely showing his age, and I noticed that even before I looked into his eyes. I was surprised to see him in a suit and tie, but what threw me was the cane he leaned on.

“You look well,” he said, staring intently at me. “How have you been?”

I blinked. The bastard was acting like nothing happened, like I’d been on vacation or something, not that he hadn’t abandoned his only child when he had no one. I didn’t answer, just stared at him. I’m pretty sure my lip twitched in disgust.

“Quinn,” he said, his voice straining, “please come in.”

I drew back from him as he reached for me, then, sidestepped and entered the house. I shouldn’t have bothered, but I wanted to see. I wanted to see what was so much better than being at home with his son. He didn’t say anything as he shut the door.

I still hadn’t replied to his question. I was too busy looking around, envying him for everything he had. But then I realized how much it looked like those fancy mansions in the movies and I relaxed.

He must have taken my silence for admiration because he said, “It belonged to your grandfather.”

So my grandfather who I’d never met had given my asshole father a mansion he didn’t even deserve? That was generous. It was probably out of pity though. I could hardly blame my relatives if they all ended up doing something like that.

I watched him limp to the couch and set the cane down across his lap. I didn’t ask about it. But he was looking at me like he wanted to say something.

After I examined the living room, preferably the small table with the liquor, a good distance from him, I turned around, “What is it?” I asked, leaning against the furthest wall.

He blinked at me and shook his head. For one terrible moment I wanted to wake over to him and take the cane from his hand, and strike him across the face with it. Instead, I looked at me feet and waited.

“You want something,” he said, almost as though he were explaining it to me, “why else would you have called? If it’s money, I have plenty.”

I bit the inside of my cheek before I exploded. It calmed me down, but not enough, because my hands curled into fists at his words.

“Is that what you think?” I hissed, trying to keep my voice even.

He nodded, watching me. Then he gestured to the bottles beside me.

“I don’t want any,” I said before he could ask.

“You don’t drink?” he asked, slowly looking at me over, like my appearance suggested otherwise.

I couldn’t say how much I did like to drink. I didn’t want him to know we had anything--especially that--in common. The only difference was that I wasn’t a full-fledged alcoholic. It surprised me that he wasn’t slurring his words.

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“That’s too bad,” he murmured.

“Not really.” I shrugged. “If you want to know why I’m here, ask me, otherwise I’m leaving.”

“You don’t need money?”

I stifled the urge to laugh at his arrogance. “I don’t need any money from you.” I hesitated, then, “You never showed up.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He actually sounded like he meant it. Then his voice caught. “I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t look into your face, because every time I did, I saw your mother.”

“You couldn’t?” Now I laughed, the sound very hollow to my ears, like I hadn’t done it in a very long time. “You were supposed to be my father! Do you know what that means? It doesn’t mean running out on your only son when things got tough, just because your wife was a bitter woman. You were supposed to be there for her, for me. You were supposed to help!” My voice cracked and I sucked in a breath.

He frowned at me, braced his cane on the floor and stood, slowly. All he said, all he could think to say after I poured my heart out was, “I need your help.”

He came closer and squeezed my shoulder. I jerked away, knocking into the liquor tray, and stepped into the foyer. “Why do you think I would even consider helping you after you left me?”

He probably wanted help buying booze or drugs.

He looked at me, and I stared at him; for the first time I’d really looked at him since I arrived. I really saw who my father was but I didn’t care. I reminded myself the type of man he was, that he could never, ever say anything to change what happened.

“I need a kidney, Quinn.”

Except that.