Will he be OK without me there?
How will he manage that burden that he’s borne for so long?
Maybe I should call him.
I crack only five minutes in to that movie. Text him three simple words: How are you?
The answer doesn’t come for half an hour. I know, deep down to the core of my soul, that he saw my text right away. It’s this ineffable feeling that settles over me the moment I click ‘send’, that very moment he also lays eyes on my text, and he fights with the urge to answer.
And then his answer comes: I’m fine, Addie. Good luck in your show. Stay strong. I love you.
Stay strong.
Don’t crack.
Don’t even think of coming back.
Don’t dare invalidate the sacrifice I’m making. That you’re making.
Because, out of everything, the one thing I’m truly sacrificing is him; I can rebuild my relationship with my parents. I can regain their trust. But I can never again in my life know what it’s like to have Snake hold me in his arms while I drift off to sleep. I’ll never learn every one of his secret smiles. I’ll never see the time where he feels like he’s finally moved on from his wounds from war, where he faces the day free and happy.
I’ll never know what it’s like to call him my old man. Or him call me his old lady.
Never know how it feels to wear his property patch.
Before I know it, my teardrops blanket the screen of my phone and I shove it under my pillow to keep away the temptation.
I’m giving all that up.
And he’s giving so much, too. A sacrifice and a secret — his relationship with me — that he’ll carry quietly until the day he dies.
But I’m not as strong as I wish I was.
That night, before I fall asleep, I text him one last thing. Something that I know I shouldn’t. Something that could ruin us both. But something I can’t keep inside.
A hope. A wish. A dream.
* * * * *
The night of the show, I’m swamped by strangers. People I’ve never met, people I’ll probably never see again, people who are not even my type of people at all — they’re clean-cut, they’re wealthy, they’ve never known what it’s like to shoot a gun, to have their lives in danger and, hell, they’ve probably never ridden a motorcycle even once in their lives.
These people aren’t my people.
But these people love my work.
And these people, in the midst of fawning over the photographs I have set up all over the wall of the gallery for presentation, they buy my work.
They buy it, they compliment it, they compliment me and my ‘compositional eye’ and they make me smile in pride. Even if their words ring hollow because I know that we’ll never truly be the same people. Never share the same experiences or aspirations.
To them, in so many ways, I’m just a novelty. A look at a blue-collar, rugged, hidden side of this country that they’ll never set foot in.
I hear their words. I see them. And I see them for who they are.
Down to the very last fake smile.
“Well, isn’t that the handsomest man to ever be put to film? Do you have any more pictures of this stud? And any discounts for bulk purchases? Cause, honey, I am in the mood to decorate every one of my walls with this sexy hunk of man.”
Startled, I turn to face the source of the voice.
And the dumbest, most confused gasp and laugh burst from my mouth at the same time.
“Mom? What the fuck are you doing here?”
It’s her. It’s really her. Dressed up in her fanciest clothes; a dress displaying a scandalous amount of cleavage and an opulent necklace that was a wedding anniversary gift from Ruby. It glitters and sparkles in the light of the art gallery.
“What? I can’t take my wife out to a date every once in a while?”
My father comes around the corner. Except, he doesn’t look like my father. He’s wearing a collared shirt and slacks. He’s combed his hair, and there’s not a hint of grease under his fingernails.
And boy, is he smiling. Beaming. I’ve never seen him so proud.
“Dad? Mom? Seriously, what the hell? How did you get here?”
His face gets serious. “Snake and I had a talk. A long talk. It got a little heated. I made him crack. He told us everything that happened, everything that you were worried about, and that this was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up. It made me realize that, if my daughter is willing to run off to make this happen, I need to back off a bit and re-think a lot of the stuff I’m doing.”
Snake cracked? How? Visions of Snake, dead or tortured, fly through my head.
“Your father knew something was up. So did I. And Snake was acting a little strange. He kept checking his phone and then, about when you stopped answering our messages, Snake started drinking hard. I also may have also given him a lot of free drinks to get him talking.”
Suddenly I realize that I’m standing in a gallery with my parents — the people I love and respect most in the world — and I haven’t hugged them, yet. I correct that. I squeeze them as tight as I can, both together and individually.
“I never in a million years would have thought you would come here. Or that you’d even let me come here.”
“Never let you?” My
