As soon as I get into the bedroom, I dig around in the medicine cabinet for my Xanax. If there was ever a time I’ve needed it, it’s right now. This is too much for me to deal with. My son getting arrested? You don’t see that in many parenting books.
Damn it, where’s my Xanax?
It’s not in the medicine cabinet. I fumble through bottles of Tylenol, Motrin, Benadryl, triple antibiotic cream, antifungal cream, face lotion, hand lotion, expired antibiotics—God, why do we have so much crap in the medicine cabinet? But no Xanax.
Then it hits me. I shoved the bottle back in the drawer of my nightstand last time I took them. I wanted them next to my bed for easy access the next time I woke up in a cold sweat.
I make a beeline for the nightstand and open the drawer. The pill bottle rolls to the front, and I feel a jab of relief. I grab the bottle, wrench it open, and pop one in my mouth. I swallow it dry.
There’s something else that catches my eye from within the drawer in my nightstand. At first, I think it’s a photo of Liam. But then I realize it’s the photo of my father. The one I always keep in my nightstand, so I don’t ever forget him.
Of course, I put it there before I realized who he really was. What he did.
I pulled out the photograph to get a better look at it. My father looks like he’s in his late twenties, about ten years older than Liam, but God, they look so much alike. The photograph is like looking into a time machine showing my son in the future. Same hair, same eyes, same crooked smile, same build. It’s uncanny.
I can only imagine what else Liam inherited from this man.
I don’t remember much about my father. I have a vague memory of holding his large hand as he walked down the street with me. I also remember when there was a mouse in our home and my father put out a trap to catch it. He showed me the trap, the mouse’s tail captured by the metal bar, as the tiny animal squealed in distress. He laughed when I cowered behind my mother’s legs. It’s one of my first memories.
I always looked at that memory as an example of my father taking care of our family by getting rid of our rodent problem. But now I wonder if there was more to it than that. Did he enjoy torturing that little mouse the same way Liam enjoyed starving those hamsters to death?
In the past, when I’ve looked at this photograph, I experienced a rush of affection for this man who never got to see his daughter grow up. But right now, I feel something very different. Jason and I tried to do everything right as parents, but we couldn’t change our son. There was something innately wrong with him. Something in his genes.
Liam is, after all, the grandson of a murderer.
I pick up my phone and punch in my mother’s number. She answers after the second ring. “Oh, Erika, thank God. I was scared you were never going to speak to me again.”
She has no clue what we’ve been through with Liam in the last twenty-four hours. Any resentment I might have felt for her keeping a secret from me takes a backseat to everything else. “You did what you felt was right. I can’t be angry at you for that.”
“I only did it to protect you. Because I love you.”
She was protecting me because she loves me. The same way I want to protect Liam, even if he doesn’t deserve it. Even if he doesn’t love me. Even if he can’t. “Mom, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, darling. What is it?”
“What was my father like?”
“What… what do you mean?”
“His personality. What was he like?”
“Oh.” She hesitates. “Well, he was… very charming. As you can imagine. All the women loved him. Liam, I think, takes after him in looks. Don’t you think?”
I think he takes after him in more than looks. That’s what I’m afraid of, anyway.
“Would you say he was… manipulative?”
My mother’s laugh sounds hollow. “He manipulated me into marrying him, that’s for sure. It was… well, I don’t want to say it was mistake because I got you. But he wasn’t a good husband, even before.”
“Why not?”
“He was just very self-absorbed. He wasn’t really ready to settle down. He wasn’t the sort of man who wanted to stay in on a Saturday night and watch television. He always wanted to be out doing something. And when we had a child, that only made it worse.”
I take a breath. “Was he cruel to you?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Yes, he certainly could be. Very cruel.” She sighs. “He just wasn’t a good person, Erika. Probably the best thing that ever happened was him exiting our lives. He wouldn’t have been a good father.”