A few days later, as I was lying on my bed staring at the popcorn ceiling, Aunt Greta knocked and pushed open the door. “Hon, your dad is on the phone. Better take it. Who knows when he’ll be able to call again.”
The familiar feeling settled over me whenever I heard the word dad—half-fear and half-irritation. I took the cordless from her hand. “Hello?” I said, as Aunt Greta slipped out of the room.
“Hello, Ashlyn, how are you?”
He sounded exactly the same, as if I were on my bed at school and he were at home. “Hi, Dad. I’m fine.” Not scared. Not angry. Not second-guessing myself at every turn. Fine. I was a good liar. I should be. I’d had enough practice telling my dad what he wanted to hear.
“Are you all settled in?”
Define settled, I didn’t say. “Yes,” I said. “Aunt Greta and Uncle Ed have been very nice. They made baked ziti.” I waited to see if he’d take the bait, and say something, anything, about the crusty cheese edges.
“Hmmm,” he only mumbled. A non-answer. “And you’re ready for work? You leave in a few days, correct?”
“Saturday morning.” I knew what he was doing here. Instead of asking me how I felt or even asking about his brother and his family, he simply focused on the cold, emotionless logistics. He was keeping me an arm’s length away. Like he always did. If I wasn’t so used to it, I’d probably be more upset than I already was. I mean, if my dad and I had the kind of relationship where he offered fatherly advice and showed interest in me as a person, I bet I would’ve been bawling my eyes out to hear his voice, knowing I was only going to see him in a prison uniform in his cinder block cage for the next year. But it was just the same as it always was.
“Make sure you are on your best behavior. It might feel like fun—kind of like summer camp—but you are there to work.”
“I will be.” I gritted my teeth.
“This goes without saying but keep the flirting to a minimum. You can’t let some boy distract you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. He was never going to let me live down my mistakes. I clenched my jaw so hard it ached.
Dad just kept plowing forward. “And keep in mind Uncle Ed will pick you up for our visits, so you’ll need to request the time off in advance. I’m sending the visitation paperwork to Ed’s house. He’ll get it to you.”
I realized my nails were digging so hard into my palm they were making angry red marks in my skin. I didn’t say anything in response. We were talking about prison visits. What was I supposed to say?
“In case you were wondering,” he said, with the certainty that only he was capable of, “I’m doing okay here.” Truthfully, no matter how frustrated or angry or just done with my day that I thought I was, I had been curious. And scared. I felt a lot of things about my dad, but I loved him. My love for him was part of the problem. It was easier to ignore someone you weren’t so emotionally connected with. “I’m still getting used to the routine, but that’s to be expected.”
“Good, that’s really good.” I exhaled into the receiver. In the background, I heard voices and scuffling.
“Time’s up, Ashlyn. I’ll call again soon. I have the number for Sweetwater.”
“Okay. Take care, Dad.”
“You too.”
The phone clicked, and then there was nothing.
It took a full minute before my lungs decided to start working again. And another full minute before the bedroom door opened again.
“Are you okay, sweetheart? I couldn’t help overhear.” I was more stunned by the look of pure sympathy on my aunt’s face than I was at the fact that she had been eavesdropping.
“I guess.” Anyone’s guess was as good as mine at that point.
Aunt Greta sat down on the bed next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “I know you didn’t say much to him, but it’s exactly what you didn’t say that came across loud and clear.”
Despite her embrace, I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling exposed. My nonresponses were carefully calculated from years of practice masking what I was really thinking from a father who didn’t seem to care anyway. “What do you mean?”
She stroked what was left of my hair. “Your tone was guarded. You only answered his questions and didn’t ask any of your own. He didn’t engage with the ziti comment, which I’m guessing was probably pretty discouraging.”
Aunt Greta did not miss a thing. I crossed my arms tighter. “You got all that?”
“Honey, I’m a social worker. My job is to read people. And right now, you are either angry, terrified, or a little of both. Which is it?”
“Both,” I whispered.
“I’d probably be the same if I came home from school to find out my family was leaving me.”
The tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them. “Why did he do it? Why did he do this to us?” Was it something I did? If I’d made better choices, would my dad have too? I wanted to ask it out loud, but I couldn’t.
Aunt Greta sighed. “I wish I knew. I’ve seen a lot of people do a lot of hurtful things over the years, and the best answer I have, which isn’t nearly as nuanced as the truth, is that they’re selfish.”
“I could’ve told you that.” The second after it slipped out, I wanted to clap my hands over my mouth.
My aunt gave me a knowing little smile. “Well, I can’t say I’ve spent much time with your father in the last decade, and not for lack of trying, but from the outside, it looks like selfishness is a decent assumption. If I were to keep guessing, I might also say he is a desperate man, and afraid. With a bit of pride thrown in.”
I jumped up, my hands balled into tight fists again, wiping the scalding tears from my face. “What did he have to be afraid of? We had everything.”
Greta’s lips pursed into a horizontal line. “Maybe you should hash that one out with your uncle.”
I stared at her and shook my head. “Maybe another time. I’m feeling tired all of a sudden. I think I want to lie down, if you don’t mind.” I wrapped my arms around myself, sat on the bed, and turned away. I’d said too much already.
“Sure, sure. You’re going to be busy, busy, busy soon enough. Get your rest while you can.” I glanced up as she rose and went to the door, pausing just long enough to look over her shoulder and smile sadly at me. Then she was gone.
I hated that smile. It was the same one Cassie Pringle gave me before I left school. Filled with pity, but also relief that the terrible thing that had happened to me hadn’t happened to them. She was probably counting her blessings that she’d married the Zanotti brother with more sense.
When I heard my aunt’s footsteps on the stairs fade away, I rolled off the bed and slid my laptop out of my backpack. I flipped the top and drummed my fingers nervously near the keys as I waited for it to wake up before typing “my dad is going to jail” into the search bar. No one in this house, and most likely no one where I was going, knew what this super-weird mix of feelings felt like, but maybe the internet would.
I found forum after forum of people—kids like me—looking for support from strangers. “My dad is going to jail for abusing my sister and I’m depressed.” “My dad is going to jail for two to six years.” “My dad is going to jail and he’s the only man in my life who I trust. I have no idea how I’m going to cope without him.” None of them were quite like my situation, and reading their words solidified my understanding of how very strange and “first world problems” my circumstances were. Even still, I felt less alone reading their stories. Even if the details were different, those kids were being abandoned too. Just like me, they were wondering how they were supposed to reshape their lives around a father-shaped hole.
I googled “tax evasion sentences” and found page after page of people who cheated their companies and the government, as my dad had done. Selfish people, I thought in Aunt Greta’s knowing voice. I looked up Williams, the place Dad was . . . what should I call it? Locked up? Staying at? Spending time in? A lump formed in my throat and I shoved the computer off my lap.
“It’s not forever. It’s not forever,” I whispered to myself.
“Are you talking to yourself?” Hannah called from the hallway. “I mean, if you are, I guess that’s fine. It’s not that odd . . .”
I stared at her, unsure if she was joking. She stared right back. Hannah’s gaze was so unnerving, I had to look away. Was she making fun of me? If she was, this was going to be an even worse couple of months than I originally imagined. Finally, she broke her gaze and, thankfully, laughed. “Really, though, are you okay?”
“Sure,” I said. Not that I’d talk to you about this. Not a chance.
“No, you’re not.” Hannah came in and sat down, just like her mother had. “What were you doing online?”
With all the fight taken out of me for the time being, I passed her the laptop. She scanned the screen for a few minutes and clicked two or three times.
“He’s right, you know.”
“Who is?”
Hannah pointed to a tab that displayed a poem written by a boy whose father had been incarcerated for five years. “He says it’s not his fault. What his dad did.”
“So?”
She shrugged. “Just making an observation.” She clicked around some more. “Williams, huh? It’s about an hour from Sweetwater. Looks brutal.” I rolled my eyes as Hannah continued scanning the website. She looked up just long enough to catch me sending an eyebrow-singing glare her way. “Sorry, sorry.” Hannah shut the laptop and put it on my nightstand. “Look, I know we don’t know each other very well—”
“Or at all,” I muttered.
“Fair. Or at all. But here’s something about me. I don’t wallow. Things are rough for you right now, I get it.” No, you don’t, I didn’t say. “And Mom says they’ve been rough for a long time. And that totally sucks. I get it,” she said again. I sat on my hand that wanted to clench into a fist. “But if you sit in here and google stuff, you’re only going to make it worse. Plus, we’re leaving for Sweetwater soon and you won’t be able to sit around and stew, you know?” I nodded once. “Some friends and I are going out tonight. Maybe a movie. Not sure yet. But you should come. It’ll be good for you.”
I closed my eyes. Why did everyone else think they knew what was good for me? It was exhausting. “I don’t really feel up for it, but I appreciate the invitation. And thanks for the advice. I’ll take it into consideration.” It was what my dad said to clients, and to me, when he didn’t want to do something someone was asking of him.
Unfazed, she popped up off the bed. “Suit yourself. But when we get there you’re not going to be able to skip out on stuff. Especially staff campfires and dinners. The owner expects the staff to participate in all the activities.”
“Great. Thanks for letting me know,” I said, making no effort to mask my annoyed tone of voice. Luckily, Hannah the non-wallower moved on immediately.
“Consider yourself warned,” she countered, smiled sweetly at me, and left.
Alone in my room, I picked up the laptop and opened it again. I reread the poem aloud to myself, as if it was a prayer. “You are not responsible for the mistakes of others” jumped out at me, and I repeated it. It seemed like something worth remembering, so I opened my quote journal and wrote it down in slick black ink. I may not have been responsible for my dad’s mistakes, but I sure as heck could take responsibility for my own. I’d spent the last year doing everything right. Yet, here I was, in Wherever, Pennsylvania, still trying to prove I was ready to come home.
My dad’s voice, a sinister whisper, still poked and prodded at me. If I’d stood up straighter, worn a longer skirt, and gotten higher test scores, would he have reached for more? Would he still be in prison? It was totally ridiculous, but completely consuming.