Torn

Chapter 19 - Stitching Up Old Wounds

“A man dropped by today, before you woke up,” she started slowly. She held her steaming cup between her two frail hands and watched the liquid shake. “Apparently Frank wasn’t as incompetent as we always assumed.”

“What do you mean?” I urged, my eyes starting to tear away from her and down to the mysterious paper on the table in front of me.

“He prepared a will a long while ago. The man wanted to discuss it with me but I refused to talk about this with him here. I wanted to do this alone with you. I felt that if you read what was inside this package of…things in front of him, it would make it awkward for you.”

“Mom, on with it already,” I ushered her with a shaky hand.

“He’s left you a letter which I believe explains it all…” she whispered, her eyes straying to the legal paper in front of me. My eyes followed as I noticed it wasn’t hand written. I would have never guessed it was a letter from first glance. “I’ll leave you to it while I go make us some breakfast.”

With trembling fingers, I picked up the paper in front of me. My eyes slowly read each word, line for line, letter by letter, as my heart raced inside my chest. I could feel my breathing becoming shallow and my lungs becoming tight. Frank had left me a letter…why? I spent my entire childhood believing he hated my existence, that I was a sad excuse for a child. All those times he hit me, I always believed I was terrible kid who deserved it, that I made those mistakes so I had to pay for them.

I would have never, in a million years, expected a letter.

Willow I. Maverick,

I can imagine you’re reading this with a somewhat shocked expression. You’re probably wondering, how is he even sober enough to write this? It’s pretty shocking to me as well. I’ve put together a will of sorts, and I thought it was more personal to write you a letter, considering you’re my only daughter and your wretched mother ran out on us. But I’m not just doing this because my lawyer thought it was a practical idea. I’m doing this because you’re my daughter.

I know it seems as though I wasn’t a good father…not even a decent father to you. I deserve that. You probably think I’m a prick. I don’t blame you for that. You have the right to think of me however you want, honestly. As you’re reading this, I know you’re looking back on all of those moments when I did those things to you, when I punished you. Most of the time, I wasn’t sober enough to realize my right from wrong. I’ve always been an angry drunk, ask your mother. Under no circumstances did you deserve to be treated the way I had treated you. You deserved to grow up with a father who loved you like a normal father should. I should have loved you correctly, put you up on my highest pedestal. And I didn’t.

When your mother left me, that was the end of me I believe. I’m using the alcohol to fill a void she drilled a hole through. We were high school sweethearts; she held every being of me in the palm of her damn hands. Whether she knew this or not, she up and left us behind like we meant nothing to her. I couldn’t forgive her for that or the fact that she left you behind for me to take care of. I was used to her taking care of you, shielding you, feeding you, and preparing a life for you. All of the sudden, I’m thrown this curveball of a decision I did not choose to make. Maybe that’s why I’ve done such terrible things to you. Maybe that’s why I looked down on you so badly. I’m messed up, Willow. I’m not thinking clearly or doing things right. You’re my daughter and I’m supposed to provide for you the love and care you always needed.

It was never your mother’s fault. It was never your fault. It was never the alcohol’s fault. It was my own. I chose to make the decisions that I had, make the mistakes that I did, and hurt you the way that I had. For that, I don’t deserve a life made for those who work for it. I’m too dysfunctional to work properly in this life. You deserve a life I never had, something that will take you so far in life and give you so many things you won’t know what to do with it all. And I can’t help you achieve those things.

So I’m dropping this letter off to my lawyer’s mailbox before I take one last visit to the bar by the highway. I’m going to try to drink the pain away, try to fill the hole in my heart that was left behind. It won’t work though, no matter how much I put into my system. I can’t take the pain anymore, I can’t take the thoughts running throughout my mind, and I can’t take the guilt I feel for doing those things to you. So I’m drinking until I can’t. I’m letting myself wither away slowly and painfully like I always deserved.

I’m so sorry for putting you through those years of pain. I wasn’t stable enough to raise you like your mother thought I was. I should have stepped up and became a better father for you. But your mother will come back for you. She’ll take care of you and give you everything I couldn’t. All I gave you was pain. I’ll never be sorry enough for that. I love you, whether you choose to believe this or not.

                                                                                             Frank P. Maverick

My vision was blurred immensely by the last line, right before his official printed name. With hands trembling, I lifted them up to my eyes to dry them from the tears I never thought I would shed for Frank. My heart was pounding against my chest, radiating a pounding noise throughout my head and ears. All I could hear was the pounding and the gasping as I willed myself to find some air in my too-tight lungs.

Dropping the paper onto the table with a shaky hand, I let out a sob I felt like I’d been holding in for years. All those times he’d hurt me, called me those names, and inflicted that pain upon me…wasn’t because I was a sorry excuse for a daughter. I’d spent every day for the past ten years believing that I was the cause of all of this mess. Maybe if I’d been more appropriate, done the chores when I was asked, got home on time…maybe if I paid attention to the little things that caused such big hurt, he would stop hurting me.

I wasn’t a terrible person. I wasn’t a sad human being. I was a daughter he’d always wanted, all those years. It wasn’t my fault or my mom’s like I thought. It was his, his mental inability to take on the task of putting his issues aside and raising what my mom left behind. While my mom fixed herself without obligation, Frank was trying to fix himself with the hefty weight of a growing daughter. He never had a chance to fix his heart like my mom had.

That’s not saying that his excuses were valid, that it was okay that he hit me like he had. No one should have to be put through those things like I had, no matter how terrible of a person they were. But it explained so many writhing hours of feeling not good enough, of being so depressed and hurt because I thought I was the sole reason for this pain.

“Oh sweetie,” my mom cooed, kneeling down next to my chair while the sobs escaped. My hands were soaking wet with tears as I tried, and failed, to wipe them away fast enough. “He loved you, no matter what he’s done. He loved you so much,” she cried along with me, releasing all of those moments of pain she never could.

*~*~*~*~*

I spent the night with my mom, curling up on the couch that was now cleaned up, watching movies and just talking. I shared so many things with her that I never expected to. Those ten years I waited around for her to rescue me, all of those things I kept bottled up inside, dying to let her know, were finally thrown to the surface. I never felt so free of pain, so void of weight on my shoulders.

It made me realize that I was capable of trusting someone again. I didn’t know how Frank managed to do it, the way he erased my fears as easily as he instilled them. Now that the secrets were bubbling to the surface, it seemed easier to open up and let people in. I didn’t want to hide away anymore. I didn’t want to be silent any longer. I felt like I had a voice now, a voice that was tired of being shot down and stamped upon.

And the more I realized my silence was starting to be forgotten, the more I wanted to see Flynn. I owed him so many explanations, so many words left unsaid. If I could open up so easily to my mom, I felt like I could at least try to do the same with him. I owed him that much at least.

“Where are you off to?” my mom asked, her head peeking from the kitchen where she was washing up the dishes from our late dinner.

“I owe someone a favor,” I said, waving goodbye to her before going off to find the boy who stuck around when no one else did.