The Perfect Father

by Nenny May

  “Dropped them on my table this morning. I looked over them and, if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t cut Terrence out as a suspect.”

  “I’m not planning to. But I need to look at that transcript myself. I’m looking for something in particular.” Harrington drew out a drawer from his file cabinet and tugged out his father’s autopsy. He’d flipped through it again; the effects hadn’t dulled in the slightest. He needed to grow a backbone. He would be speaking about the man in the pictures. He would be standing by the man in the pictures in a few short hours.

  “What are you looking for?” Mathews wanted to know.

  “Can I just take a look?” Detective Harrington asked politely. Mathews chuckled. “What makes you think I have it on me?” He rose his hands, surrendering to Harrington.

  “Mathews you came here to mock me that I’ve been hauled off this case, you expect me to believe you didn’t bring those transcripts to taunt me?” Bennett smiled.

  “You got me there.” The big man reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick rolled up clunk of paper. “Here, but I looked over it, and he had a few conversations with an unregistered number, exchanged some threats with Terrence as well as his wife over an alleged affair they’d discussed over text.” Harrington shut the autopsy report and reached for the transcript looking particularly for whatever calls and or messages Lawrence had exchanged with an unregistered number.

  Placing both documents on his table, Harrington skimmed the transcript, flipping the pages. He was probably overlooking valuable information but he was looking for something specifically. He didn’t know what page he’d been on when he’d stumbled on the unregistered number’s first message, the document hadn’t been numbered, but when he’d reached the unregistered number, he’d tugged out his phone and compared it.

  He didn’t know whether to be excited, relieved or suffocated with a tension that had its hands around his throat. The numbers were a match. Whoever had left Christina Gresham that note, had been in contact with Lawrence Harrington during his last days.

  “Well, you seem to have this under control, Harrington, I’m going to take off… don’t miss your father’s funeral, half of Harlem will be tuning in for the live broadcast.” Harrington nodded putting the document away seemed harder now that head made progress. But he knew thoroughly reading through the document would have to wait. At least until after the funeral, after Lawrence had been cremated and poured into a jar. Where would it even sit? There was nowhere in Juliana and Claire’s apartment that suited Lawrence’s ashes. Though maybe they’d cleared out a space overnight? He hoped that were the case. Darting out the door of his own office, hands clammy, he’d thought once more about the unregistered number. It was a match, now more than ever he needed to meet with the man or woman behind that number, behind that note. It would have to wait … he reminded himself, now hoping he didn’t get tongue tied between his father’s speech.

  She hoped she’d heard wrong. She hoped on everything dear that she’d heard wrong. Her own screams still rung in her ears alone, perhaps she’d begun hearing things. She just had to. “It happened yesterday.” Grace enumerated glumly. The emptiness in her cousin’s voice jabbed a dagger in her chest. This would be her cousin’s fourth miscarriage; halfway through her first trimester. It wasn’t fair. “Jacob had been out, he’d wanted some fresh air, and when he’d gotten back, it was over.” Christina’s bottom lip quivered. She was drowning, it was an ocean of guilt and she didn’t have the energy or will to fight it. She’d contributed to Grace Gresham’s situation. She didn’t know what specifically had caused the miscarriage, but she’d had a role to play. She wished she hadn’t. At this point the deed had been done and regret could once more poke its ugly head out. She’d stressed Grace, a girl that was only concerned with Christina’s well being. “It was already a high risked pregnancy. It was bound to happen.”

  But Christina could have done something to prevent it, she could have been there for her cousin. She could have answered the goddamn phone calls and for a minute or two, shove aside her selfish, self-centered problems. She’d been selfish, oh, God, she’d been selfish. Immersed with the flaws and faults in her life to the point she’d hurt those around her. Those that just wanted to help her…What was wrong with her? When was she ever going to get the hang of this life thing? It was almost like each step she took was the wrong one. That might not be the case, but it sure as hell felt like it.

  “I am so, so, sorry, Grace. How are you feeling?” What was Jacob feeling? The pair had pushed their wedding to the summer of the following year, a reaction to the news of Grace Gresham’s pregnancy. The couple had wanted to concentrate completely on the pregnancy in lieu of the feedback they’d received from their obstetrician. Relying on Grace Gresham’s record of failed and prematurely terminated pregnancies particularly in her teenage years; she didn’t exactly have much luck on her side with sustaining a pregnancy full term.

  Christina had known this. She’d overlooked just how much a child meant to Grace at this point in her life, she’d overlooked the strains in her cousin’s life and put her problems front and center. In that moment, sitting there, crumbled on her bedroom floor, she felt a flash of anger. It wasn’t directed at anyone but herself. It was almost as if it were shielding her from the pain of raw regret. She’d played a part in the death of her cousin’s baby.

  “I went to the hospital; they took out the… baby through a D&C… my second one this year. I’m on a few pain killers and antibiotics, but… yeah, that’s about it.” She didn’t want to talk, Christina would respect that.

  “I’m sorry for ignoring you, for making this pregnancy that much harder on you. I’m sorry for… being a crappy cousin.” She coughed out a mirthless laugh. “And most of all I’m sorry you have to go through this. You really don’t deserve it.” There was a sniffle at the other end of the line, Christina clutched her phone closer to her cheek, adding; “And whenever you’re ready, I’m always here to listen to whatever you have to say.”

  “You weren’t there before…” Grace mumbled bitterly.

  “From now on, I’ll be there. Even though I’m not ready to talk, you will be and that’s all that matters.” And as if a switch had been flipped, Grace Gresham snapped.

  “No, don’t give me that, bullshit. I called; many times! I suffered sleepless nights because I was worried about whether or not you were still alive!” Grace scolded. “Can you take a moment to picture what that was like for me? I wasn’t supposed to get stressed, but I was. And I’m not saying you’re the sole reason I had my miscarriage. You’re not that important, Christina. But you sure had a big role to play in it and I am not letting you off the hook.” Christina nodded. She deserved that. Why then did it sting? Why then did her eyes brim and glimmer, soaked? “And to make matters worse, Carter has started day drinking again so he wasn’t even sober enough to vouch for your safety. I had a feeling you had cancer, I was there when you picked up the goddamned result and your countenance changed soon after and I just wanted to know whether or not you were okay, but you never gave me the opportunity.” Her eyes had begun to leak.

  “I’m sorry.” Christina croaked.

  “Save it, Christina. It’s my turn to take some time off. Because, you might have had a rough last few days with Terrence being hauled into the spotlight and finding out you have cancer, but I’ve had a rough last few years. One miscarriage after another. It hurts!” Christina nodded, even though Grace couldn’t see it.

  “I’m sorry,” She said again. She couldn’t help it.

  “Stop it; I don’t need your goddamned apology. I need you to reflect over my role in your life, because I can’t keep worrying about someone who isn’t giving a shit about me.”

  “I care about you!” Christina argued.

  “Then prove it!” How was she going to manage that? And she had a feeling a shopping day wasn’t going to solve it. It was a temporary solution to a deep rooted problem. She needed to make a change to how she treated
Grace, because she didn’t have too many people on her side, concerned with her. She could count them on a single hand. And she couldn’t afford to lose anyone at the moment.

  “I will.” She’d whispered into her room.

  “Because, I’m tired Christina, tired of removing tissues that should be babies, I’m tired of getting my hopes up… I couldn’t even buy any baby clothes… I just had a feeling this baby wasn’t here to stay.”

  “Maybe it’s not the right time yet?” Christina offered as a consolation.

  “Then when is? I just want to become a mother. Not that you’d understand, you’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t care for motherhood. But I do, and I would give anything to have a baby, my baby in my hands.”

  Out the window, the sun had risen. She had a meeting at the hospital. A support group meeting. “One day, Grace. You’ll get a baby. But you can’t let this deter your dreams. It’s going to happen when the time is right.” She said. What do people even wear to such functions?

  “Yeah. I’ll call later on. I need to lie down.” Grace had moaned. They’d exchanged pleasantries and brought an end to their call. This time, though, Christina Gresham had been resolute. She would respond to Grace Gresham’s call, no matter what time of the day. She only wished it hadn’t taken the death of an unborn baby to set her on this path.

  Pulling herself up and about she’d thrown on a pair of sweatpants and a round neck from Gap. It wasn’t much, especially dressed down with her trusty flip-flops. She’d tied the look together with a scarf concealing her hasty dead of the night decision. By the time she’d stepped out of her home it was about 10:15 A.M. and she was going to be late for her meeting by 11:00 A.M.

  She hoped they didn’t depend on her to tell her story. She didn’t have a story worth telling, she wasn’t emotionally in the place to tell a story especially to a group of people… strangers. It didn’t make it any easier. They would snicker, or they would stare at her, with pity and concern. They would pity her. As she rode the subway towards Park Avenue, she’d been uncomfortable to say the least. She didn’t want to be pitied. No, she would just sit there, quietly, and she would listen to whatever anyone wanted to say.

  She hoped they didn’t depend on her to tell a story.

  When Christina had arrived at Dan Marsons Medical Center, she’d been late and had stumbled about like a freshman in a new school looking helplessly for her class. But this wasn’t like college or high school. No one had offered to help her find her meeting room. And so, upon arriving late, she’d walked into the meeting later than she’d intended. The curious stares and few stutters didn’t make her participation any easier.

  She would be lying if she claimed to understand her presence at the meeting. She hadn't been forced, or coerced in any way, but she'd come never the less. She'd chosen a seat at the very back corner and hidden her glum features behind her phone screen. “I see we have a new face among us, can you please tell us your name and a little bit about your struggle?”Their therapist Rebecca Hetherington asked, her voice as soothing as trickles of water against hard dry rocks. At that question, Christina had put away her phone, listening to the fear that gnarled in her ears. Thankfully, Rebecca hadn’t been looking to Christina. No, she’d had her sights set on a woman in her late forties with hair much like Christina’s, freshly shaven. The woman, plump to say the least with skin as pale as milk rose to her feet.

  “As you can tell by the bold choice with the hair,” The woman flashed her head running a hand proudly over it as if it were a new weave. “I have cancer.”

  “Don’t we all?” A voice pitched from the gathering. The woman nodded, her smile unaltered.

  “I’m actually rocking this look for the second time. My first time, my husband loved it, only lasted a while though, never thought it'll grow back with the chemo drugs, but it's been years and I couldn’t even remember what it's been like to lose my hair and all of a sudden, I’m back at it.” The woman shrugged. “I’m, Judy Cole and I have breast cancer. I’ve already had a Mastectomy on my right breast… I bet a number of you can’t even tell,” Judy joked. “Though, it didn't help at all against these stubborn cells, but we're in this battle till the end, aren't we?”

  “Yeah we are!” Rebecca praised. “Would anyone else like to share?” Christina had observed Judy who’d returned to her seat at the other end of the semi-circle with a sense of pride swelling in her chest, and she’d told herself that one day she would get the courage to do that. That day wasn’t upon her yet, but it would come. And she hoped Judy would be there to see it.

  A man had risen to his feet; he’d talked about testicular cancer. Christina found comfort in the diverse characters they’d gathered. That way she felt unique amidst her peers. They all had cancer, no two of them had the same type of cancer. No two people had to share the spotlight in regards to their disease. Maybe, just maybe, support groups weren’t all that bad.

  The meeting had drawn to an end all too soon after a prayer had been made on behalf of those that had gone out fighting. During this, in her heart, Christina had made a prayer for Michel. He had missed out on the chance to live with his disease. That didn’t mean she had to do the same. It wasn’t related, what she’d prayed for after, but she’d asked God since she’d gotten his attention, she’d begged that Terrence didn’t have a direct role to play in Michel’s death. Sure the prosecution had dismissed the charges, but on what grounds? Lack of evidence? Why then did she feel like if she were to look hard enough, she would stumble upon something she didn’t want to find?

  “I don’t recognize you,” A voice called out. It hadn’t been the group therapist… specialist… what were support group leaders even called? Christina hadn’t bothered to figure it out. The familiar voice had belonged to Judy, the perky freshly shaven woman with breast cancer.

  “Yeah, I’m new.” Christina forced, nodded as she spoke. She hadn’t intended to speak to the brave woman, at least not yet. But so far with the way her life had been, nothing had been following a precise track. She straightened and reached out a hand. “I’m Christina Gresham, independent defense attorney.” She’d flashed a smile that startled even herself. She liked the confidence that gurgled in her in the wake of Judy.

  “Well, I would have introduced myself but I guess you watched me do that earlier.” Christina nodded. “You seemed…shy earlier. Don’t do that, we’re all in the same journey. Different paths same destination, survival.” Judy adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “Where are you headed, I’m going to pick up some more medication.” Christina looked at her phone screen. How was she going to explain that she hadn’t even booked a chemotherapy appointment this far in her journey and that’s what the support group meeting had inspired her to do?

  “I have an appointment, with Georgia Tucker,” Christina lied. “But it was really lovely meeting you, Judy.”

  “Likewise, I hope you beat whatever form of cancer brought you here,” And then it hit her, she’d never mentioned her disease during their conversation.

  “Leukemia,” Christina had whispered but her new support group friend was out of earshot. In a gathering of people enduring something similar to what she’d been suffering, she felt anything but alone.

  She could beat leukemia. Michel hadn’t been able to, but she would.

  Chapter Eight

  They’d stood there, by the body, a gathering larger than what detective Harrington had anticipated. Not that he’d thought his father was unpopular, but at best he’d walked through the stained glass doors with a rough estimate of twenty people turning up. Had Lawrence known this many people? Or had many of them been his admirers? Detective Harrington didn’t know that many people from Gresham Square, and who from there had bothered to show up for Lawrence, but he’d liked to assume the audience that had turned out, were colleagues and coworkers, friends and family. He didn’t know how he would feel with the media prowling the scene for an answer to his father’s death. Sure there were cameras perched here and th
ere—It wasn’t a private service. With the name Lawrence had made for himself while he’d been alive, a private service was out of the question—though the reporters at the venue had been under strict instructions to conduct themselves with proper etiquette.

  Perched by the front pews at the church, Detective Harrington had glimpsed over his shoulder. The building was at capacity. Many heads bowed, a sign of respect, or a means to hide their despair? Barron wasn’t too sure. The thought of speaking before such a gathering left him in the dapple shade of his own apprehension. He hadn’t even been too sure about his speech. He wouldn’t say it was half-assed. He’d been up, till just before the crack of dawn throwing words together on paper. He returned his attention to the alter where Lawrence Harrington rested in a closed casket. The coffin was a properly polished mahogany casket with faux gold handles radiating beneath the church lights.

  When the six suited men; pallbearers, had brought Lawrence into the room earlier that morning, as at the time Barron had been arriving for the service, they’d looked as though they would buckle beneath the weight. Why had Juliana gone for such a heavy coffin, because he knew Lawrence wasn’t too much for six hefty men?