LEBANON
Dear Lebanon,
I hope I’m long gone by the time you read this, because it’s a goodbye letter and you don’t deserve a goodbye, but Mom would want me to say something to you. So I have a request, and seeing as how I never asked you for anything, I figured you can give me this one thing: let me go. I just want to be left alone, with my thoughts of Mom and Grandma and be in a place where I am happy. I don’t want to see you or hear from you. You live your life. I’ll live mine. Goodbye.
Ruby
I read the letter again and search for clues because people always leave them, even when they don’t want to. I knew Layla was reaching for something but didn’t get a chance to grab it before I found her. That girl was speaking on things when she didn’t have any idea of what’s going on, of what I’ve done for her family. And for mine, too! If anyone is scared, it’s her daddy. Not me. Never me. I have courage.
I might’ve even made a good cop when I was younger. I always wanted to help people, even though they didn’t help me. But then I went to jail. My body took more pain than I thought possible, and in those moments where darkness swallowed me and fists beat me, I thanked Sara.
She bred me to this and for this. I survived prison because she gifted me pain while Jackson was gifted with love by his parents. Desolation ruled my life and hope ruled his. We grew, two sides to a coin always landing in Jackson’s favor.
So, I make my luck and find my opportunities and search out my clues. And the girl is part of that. It’s nothing to do with love between us. There is none. It’s about legacy.
A man’s legacy is a difficult thing to build, but very easy to destroy. When building a legacy, don’t start off big. Don’t think you’re going be president of the United States, a billionaire, a movie star. Start off small. If you want to create a legacy, just stay alive.
Go from there.
I learned this walking around yards built of concrete and circled by barbed wire, in cells so small your hands touch both sides without stretching them far.
Now, the problem with having a legacy is you need someone to hand it down to, even if they hate you. Sara would sometimes give me something after she was really bad to me. She made me pineapple upside-down cake once. It was damn good. Maybe that’s why I’m good at baking. This other time, she bought me a fire truck with a working siren. Couldn’t play with it much on account my left arm was broke thanks to her. Soon enough, the noise got on her nerves and she eventually threw it out the window. It broke into pieces of sharp red-and-white plastic on the street. Another time, she took me out to a nice restaurant. It had linen tablecloths and a lotta white people. One of them was our server, and he didn’t seem too thrilled about tending to us, but brought our food just the same.
I didn’t look at her during that dinner. Mostly paid attention to my steak. I didn’t know the next time I was getting a meal like that—hell, I didn’t know the next time I was putting food in my belly. She felt bad after she did things. I knew that, but gifts didn’t take away from what she did and it didn’t never stop her from losing her temper and hurting me again. But it was all she knew. It’s what I know now. I guess she and I got the same type of anger.
You sacrifice a part of yourself when you hurt someone and maybe you barter your way back if you show someone you didn’t want to do what you did. You can’t take back that hit or slap, punch or kick. The bruise or blackened eye or broken bone still taunts you, still lingers for a time.
A gift if you mean it, really mean it, can heal that wound, take over that memory, make you feel generous if only for a moment. Just one moment.
A toy. A steak dinner. A pearl necklace. A bakery.
One time I had this dream and Alice said I was crying, crying for her, for Sara. Couldn’t have been true. Alice probably just said it to give my dream some meaning. She always wanted everything to have a purpose to it. A logic behind why something happens. I think it gave her peace or at least a reason to not try and end it all in the bathroom like that selfish little girl did years ago.
Took me forever to clean that blood off the bathroom floor. Blood’s fickle. Sometimes it stains, wants you to know it was there. Other times that shit will wipe away as if the world’s willing to forget you in the blink of an eye.
If I can get the girl to see the potential, what I’m trying to build, she can see what her Mom never got a chance to witness. A success. Me as a success. This family not biting or scratching or clawing to survive. Jackson and his meddling daughter have never known hunger or despair. Not like I have. I just need them to stay out of my way. I just need to find the clues and she left them. Yes, she did. She almost spelled it out by bringing up her Grandma. Tennessee. The girl is going to Tennessee. But first things first, I’m going to talk to Jackson about his daughter. Then, I’m going to bring my girl back. And if she doesn’t want to come, well, I’ll make her see where she belongs.