I pull out mydriver license and hand it to him.
“Well, it’s notsightseeing. I’m here to pick up a prisoner,” I say.
“Oh yeah? Who?”he asks, in an all-business tone.
Oh God. Ireally don’t want to admit to being related to a convict.
“John PatrickJordan. He’s being released today.”
“How do youknow him?” he asks.
Shit. So muchfor anonymity.
“He’s my ummfather, and don’t worry, I won’t pick more than the one I’msupposed to.” I say, jokingly.
Unimpressed, heopens the gate and instructs me to pull up at to a red brickedbuilding. Relieved to be done with Mr. Personality, I pass throughthe gate and park where I’m supposed to. I grab my wallet and headinto the building. The office is cold and sterile looking. There’sa long counter with a woman guard wearing the same battleship greyuniform as Mr. Personality. Her dark hair is pulled back into thetightest bun I’ve ever seen. The walls are white and the floor isconcrete. This place feels lifeless and void of everythingpositive.
“What can I dofor you?” she asks.
I tell her I’mto pick up my father, then I give her his name. She taps on acomputer keyboard and picks up the grey phone beside her. Whenshe’s done speaking, she puts the receiver down and points to abench against the wall. “Have a seat. It’ll only be a fewminutes.”
While I’mwaiting, I pull out my cell and access my email. Katie wrote again.Seeing as I’m stuck waiting here, I may as well write her back. Inher note, she says a quick hello and then adds her phone number. Ikeep my response short and cordial, including my number at the end.I look up when I hear the sound of metal latches. A door opens onmy side of the counter and a guard enters followed by an olderlooking frail man with a straggly grey beard. He’s wearing a wornlooking faded checkered shirt plus blue jeans and is carrying aplastic bag with the name John Gordon written on it. I lean forwardand stare harder, trying to make a connection between the old manin front of me and the father I knew fifteen years ago.
“Julia, is thatyou?” he says.
My firstinstinct is to jump up and hug my dad, but years of harbouring agrudge stops me.
“Call meJules,” I say, standing up.
“This is mydaughter. Isn’t she beautiful?” my father says to the stoic lookingguard.
I smile withembarrassment. “Are we ready to go then?”
We walk out ofthe building and to the truck. Once inside, my dad leans over andpats my leg, “How are you?”
I move my legand he pulls his hand back. He must know this isn’t easy for me.“I’m fine. Just so you know, I’m living at a friend’s apartmentwhile he’s in Europe, so you can’t stay long.”
“I understand,Julia, and thank you.”
“It’s Jules,and you’re welcome.”
“Sorry. I’lltry to remember to call you Jules.”
I feel soconflicted with him sitting so close to me. I feel overwhelmed byanger, sadness and resentment. My father has always claimed hisinnocence in the death of my mother, but regardless if he isinnocent or not, if he wasn’t a drug addict when I was a child, shewould still be here today, - for that matter, so would Abby.
On the way backto the city, my dad looks out the window. His blue eyes, the sameeyes as mine, sparkle when the sun hits them. I look down at hishand. There’s a faded blue tattoo beside his thumb that says,FN99.
“What does thattattoo mean?” I ask.
He brieflylooks at it and says, “FN99, fucking near 100 in reference to howlong my stay felt in prison.” It must be strange for him to be outin open spaces, looking at things for the first time after allthese years. I wonder if he’s scared or overwhelmed? If he is, Ican’t tell, his expression is hidden by all the scruffy hair on hisface.
* * *
As soon as wereach the city limits, my father starts fidgeting with his hands.“I feel so overwhelmed.”
I saynothing.
We pull up tothe tall luxury apartment and I swipe my security card to let us into the underground parking.
“Wow. You livehere?” he says.
“For now.”
In theelevator, I look over at how frail and emaciated he is. He used tostand at about six feet tall, now, he’s hunched over and only ahead taller than me.
Once inside thesuite, he stands at the doorway, clutching his bag.
“It’s okay,Dad. Come in.”
I put coffee onand then sit on the sofa. He sits on the chair across from me.
“I guess I’dbetter get cleaned up, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you, especiallyin a fancy apartment building like this.”
“Why do youlook so thin and unkept?”
“I just gaveup, I guess.”
I nod.
“I need to tellyou something, and I need you to listen carefully to what I say.Will you do that?”
Shit. He’sgoing to talk about the “incident”. I’ve been dreading this. It’sexactly the reason I never went to see him in prison. Though, Iknow his character well enough to understand that if I don’t lethim say his piece, he’ll just keep bugging me until I do.
“If you’regoing to talk about Mom, make it brief, and I don’t want to talkabout, Abby. Got it?”
He takes a deepbreath, “Ok.”
When he startstalking, he fidgets with his hands again. “That horrible night thatyour mother was taken, it wasn’t me that did it. All I rememberfrom that night was that we were waiting for a delivery. Ourfriend, Slinky was coming over to drop off a package. Do youremember him?”
“No.”
“Anyways, itwas about one am when he showed up. The three of us sat in thekitchen and loaded our rigs.”
“Loaded yourrigs?” I ask, confused.
“Fixed ourneedles, Julia, I mean, Jules.” He continues, “When the three of ushad finished fixing, Slinky said goodbye and left. I don’t recallmuch after that. I learned later that I was brought to the hospitalfor an overdose. Apparently,
