Just as Ifinish packing, my cell rings. The number on the screen looks likea government number. “Hello?” I say.
“Hello. Is thisJulia?”
The name cutsthrough me. The last time someone called me that was fifteen yearsago. I’ve gone by Jules ever since - my way of separating from thepast.
“Yes. But I goby Jules.”
“My name isAngelou. I’m John Patrick Gordon’s parole officer.”
Immediately,air stops flowing to my lungs.
My father.
He continues,“John is due to be released tomorrow, and he gave your name as acontact and your address as his primary residence.”
“He what?”
“If there’s aproblem with him staying with you, he won’t be released until hecan come up with solid accommodations.”
“Wait. What doyou mean, ‘accommodations’?”
“As I said, helisted your residence as where he’ll be staying. I’m just callingto confirm that he will be residing with you until he is able toreintegrate back into society.”
Sonofabitch!How dare he be so presumptuous as to think that I would let himstay with me after everything that’s happened.
I take a deepbreath and sit on the bed. “Angelou, is my father there with you?I’d like to speak with him.”
The phone goesquiet for a few seconds before a raspy sounding voice comes on,“Julia, is that you?”
“It’s Jules,and yeah, it’s me. Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
He clears histhroat and tells me that he’s sorry for using my name, but he triedto get a hold of me at the garage. Apparently, Betty gave him myphone number and address. My father’s voice is desperate, as hetells me that he doesn’t know anyone else he can ask.
I can’t believeit. I feel like I’m being emotionally blackmailed. If I don’t agreeto help him, he’ll have to stay in prison. Then it occurs to me,why should I care? He’s just an ex-drug addict that happens to bemy father. Not to mention, he’s the reason I don’t have a mother ora sister anymore. Still, I can’t help thinking about something mymom used to say, “Never turn your back on your family.”
Angelou getsback on the phone, “So, Jules, are you confirming that your fatherwill be staying with you or are you not in agreement with that setup?”
Shit! Shit!Shit! “Yes,” I say softly.
“Pardonme?”
“Yes. My fathercan stay with me until he can find his own place.”
I give theparole officer my new address and then agree to pick up my dad inthe afternoon. When I hang up, I don’t move, I just sit like astatue and stare at the wall. After all these years of me notvisiting him in prison or not even opening his letters, and now I’mgoing to be stuck in an apartment with him. I guess I always knewthis day would come…I was just hoping it would be a long way downthe road.
* * *
I had theshittiest sleep last night. All I could think about is what aclusterfuck my life is going to be now. I just started a new job,how the hell am I supposed to concentrate with my estranged fatherstaying with me?
* * *
At the newapartment, I stand at the bay window and look out over GranvilleIsland Market. The city looks so pristine from up here. It’s hardto imagine the grimy underbelly that exists only ten streets over.The morning sun rises above tall buildings and reflects offeverything glass. I should be excited to be in this place, but I’mnot. Instead, I’m preoccupied with the thought of the impendingdoom of my father’s arrival.
I put my thingsaway and then call Ed to find out what he wants me to do today. Hetells me to take the day off, so I can get settled. Walking aroundthe apartment, I find a note taped to the bathroom mirror. “Enjoyyour new digs, babe. Be in touch, Jay.”
I call a cabthen take the elevator downstairs. I’ve got to do a quick clean-upat my old place, grab my bike from the parkade and come back hereto pick up the truck before I head to Matsqui penitentiary to pickup my father. Father, what a joke. The definition of the wordhardly pertains to John Patrick Gordon. Fathers are supposed totake their kids to school events like plays and recitals, and helpthem with their homework, not send them birthday cards from a cellin a federal penitentiary.
From mypre-teen years up to adulthood, I’ve always responded the same waywhen anyone asked about my dad, “He’s away.” I guess I thought thattelling the truth about him being a convict made me feel liketrash. It’s hard to remember a time that I wasn’t embarrassed byhim, even before he went to jail. Though there were times of joy,(usually after my parents got their welfare cheques,) most of mydays and nights were spent looking after my sister while my parentsgot high. Because I was exposed to druggies passing out in ourhome, shady characters showing up in the middle of the night, andmy parents’ impromptu boxing sessions, I was street smart at theage of twelve. No wonder I’ve always felt less than everyoneelse.
* * *
When I geteverything done, I’m back in False Creek with my bike parked safelyin the secure underground parking lot. Upstairs, I wash my face andlook in the bathroom mirror. “Be brave. You can do this.” I take adeep breath and head out for my long drive to Abbotsford where theprison is located.
After an hourand a half of driving in rush hour traffic, the scenery changesfrom urban to suburban. Farm fields blanket both sides of the roadand lead to the base of the snow covered and majestic Mount Baker.The sports cars I was following just minutes ago, disappear and arereplaced with tractor trailers and pick-ups. Following the GPS, Iturn off the highway onto a two-lane country road. I pass smallfarmers markets and fields of bright orange pumpkins. Then, as iftransported from a futuristic sci-fi movie, the massive stonestructure appears. Rows of razor-wire coils sit atop tallchain-link fences that surround the cement building. There arenarrow slats in every wall. I’m guessing they
