“Ava had complicated feelings toward him, and she was the one he tried to kill.” Alex’s eyes darkened. “When someone raises you, it’s hard to let that go.”
“That apply to you too?”
Alex’s uncle had been the one behind his family’s hit, and he’d died in a mysterious fire soon after that revelation came to light.
I never asked about the fire, because I was sure I didn’t want to know the answer. When it came to Alex, ignorance was bliss. For the most part.
“No.”
I shook my head, exasperated but unsurprised by the curt answer. “You think I should visit Michael?”
“I think you should do whatever you need to do to put him behind you.” Alex shifted his attention back to the game. The Nats had closed the score when we weren’t looking; they were now down by only one. “Don’t let him ruin your life any more than he already has.”
Alex’s words ran through my mind for the rest of the game.
They were still echoing in my head when I returned home and opened the desk drawer. A thick pile of letters nestled against the dark wood, waiting for me to pick them up.
I think you should do whatever you need to do to put him behind you.
It was ironic how quickly I’d jump off a literal cliff, bridge, or plane, but when it came to the personal moments, the ones that mattered, I was a child standing at the edge of a pool for the first time.
Scared. Hesitant. Anticipatory.
After another minute’s pause, I sat in my chair, opened the first envelope, and started reading.
* * *
The Hazelburg Correctional Facility’svisitation room resembled a high school cafeteria more than a prison facility. A dozen white tables scattered across the stark gray floor, and other than a handful of generic landscape paintings, the walls were bare of decoration. Security cameras whirred in the ceiling, silent voyeurs to the reunions playing out between prisoners and their families.
My knee bounced with nervous tension until I closed my hand around it and forced it to still.
The tables were close enough I could pick up other people’s conversations, but they were drowned out by snippets from Michael’s letters in my mind. I’d read them so many times in the week since I opened them that their words had seared into my brain.
How’s your residency going? Is it anything like Grey’s Anatomy? You used to joke about keeping a journal listing all the show’s inaccuracies once you were a resident. If you actually have one, I’d love to see it…
I just saw Groundhog Day. Life in prison feels like that sometimes…living the same day over and over again…
Merry Christmas. Are you doing anything for the holidays this year? I know doctors have to work through the holidays, but hopefully you’re taking some time off. Maybe go see the Northern Lights in Finland like you’ve always wanted…
The letters were generic and innocuous, but they contained just enough inside jokes and shared memories to keep me up at night.
Reading the letters, I could almost believe Michael was a normal father writing to his son and not a psycho bastard.
The door opened, and a man in an orange jumpsuit walked in.
Speak of the devil…
My stomach twisted.
His hair was a little grayer, his wrinkles a little more pronounced, but otherwise, Michael Chen looked the same as he always had.
Stern. Cerebral. Solemn.
He sat across from me, and heavy silence stretched taut between us like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.
Prison guards watched us with hawk eyes from the edge of the room, their heavy scrutiny a third participant in our nonexistent conversation.
Finally, Michael spoke. “Thank you for coming.”
It was my first time hearing his voice in two years.
I flinched, unprepared for the nostalgia it triggered.
That was the same voice that had soothed me when I was sick, encouraged me after I lost a basketball game, and yelled at me when I snuck out clubbing with a fake ID in high school and got caught.
It was my childhood—the good, the bad, and the ugly, all wrapped up in one deep, rumbling tone.
“I didn’t come for you.” I pressed my hand harder against my thigh.
“So why did you come?” Except for the brief shadow that crossed his face, Michael betrayed no emotion at my unsentimental response.
“I…” My answer stuck in my throat, and Michael’s mouth curved into a knowing smile.
“Since you’re here, I assume you’ve read my letters. You know what’s happened with me over the years, which isn’t much.” He let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Tell me about you. How’s work?”
It was surreal, sitting here and talking to my father like we were on a fucking coffee date. But my brain had blanked, and I couldn’t think of another course of action except to play along.
“It’s fine.”
“Josh.” Michael laughed again. “You have to give me more than that. You’ve wanted to be a doctor since high school.”
“Residency is residency. Lots of long hours. Lots of sickness and death.” I flashed a hard smile. “You know a lot about that.”
Michael winced. “And your love life? Are you seeing anyone?” He skipped over my last statement. “You’re getting to that age. It’s time to settle down and start a family soon.”
“I’m not even thirty yet.” Honestly, I didn’t know if I wanted children. If I did, it wouldn’t be until way down the road. I needed to experience more of the world before I settled into the white picket fence and suburban house life.
“Yes, but you have to allot a few years to dating first,” Michael reasoned. “Unless you’re already dating someone.” His eyebrows rose when I remained silent. “Are you dating someone?”
“No,” I lied, partly to spite him, and partly because he didn’t deserve to know about Jules.
“Ah, well, a father can hope.”
We continued our small talk, using mundane topics such as the weather and upcoming football season to sidestep the elephant in the room. Other than punching him in the face, I’d never confronted him about what he did to Ava.
The knowledge sat in my stomach like a concrete block. Ignoring it felt wrong, but I also couldn’t bring myself to shatter the light, if somewhat forced, conversation between us.
I’m sorry, Ava.
After floating adrift for the past two years, I could pretend I had a father again. As fucked up and selfish as it was, I wanted to savor the feeling for a while longer.
“How’s prison?” I almost laughed at my inane question, but I was genuinely curious. Michael’s letters detailed the minutiae of his days, but they hadn’t revealed how he was dealing with his incarceration.
Was he sad? Ashamed? Angry? Did he get along with the other inmates, or did he keep to himself?”
“Prison is prison.” Michael sounded almost cheerful. “It’s boring, uncomfortable, and the food is terrible, but it could be worse. Luckily…” A dark gleam lit up his eyes. “I’ve made some friends who’ve been able to help me out.”
Of course he had. I didn’t know the ins and outs of inmate politics, but Michael had always been a survivor.
I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or pissed that he wasn’t suffering more.
“Speaking of which…” Michael lowered his voice further until it was nearly inaudible. “They’ve asked for a favor in exchange for their, ah, friendship.”
Icy suspicion welled in my chest. “What kind of favor?”
I assumed friendship was code for protection, but who knew? Crazy shit happened in the prison system.
“Prison politics is…complicated,” Michael said. “Lots of bartering, lots of invisible lines you don’t want to cross. But one thing everyone can agree on is how valuable certain items are. Cigarettes, chocolate, instant ramen.” A small pause. “Prescription pills.”
Prescription pills were valuable even in the real world; on the prison black market, they must be gold.
And who had easy access to pills? Doctors.
A fist grabbed hold of my guts and twisted.
Once upon a time, I would’ve given my father the benefit of the doubt, but I knew better now. Perhaps he did miss me and wanted to make amends. He had, after all, written to me for two years.
But at the end of the day, Michael Chen only looked out for himself.
“I see.” I forced my expression to remain neutral. “I’m not surprised.”
“You’ve always been smart.” Michael smiled. “Smart enough to be a doctor, obviously. I mentioned that to my friends, and they asked if you wouldn’t mind helping us out.”