This I Know

by Holly Ryan

  In the den, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the lack of lighting. And when they do, when I get a good view through the darkness, I stop short.

  The only positive thing I remember about my father is his love of flower pressing.

  Flower pressing.

  That’s funny now that I know the truth about him. It’s ironic, such a violent man so fond of something full of so much beauty and innocence. And it’s laughable, and a little disgusting, too. I want to gag at the thought, and I don’t even know what he did yet. But that’s my dad for you – a walking, talking contradiction.

  My dad hasn’t lived with us for almost a year now. My mom kicked him out when she discovered his drug habit – harmless, he claimed (“It’s only pot”) – and since then, she talks to him once a week, every Sunday at five p.m. on the dot. The call always ends heated, usually with my mother hanging up with an angry button press and dabbing her nose with a tissue. I sometimes bring her a box of tissues, depending on how it is. The last time required the whole box.

  Since he’s been living somewhere else, I’ve seen my dad maybe two times. My mom made it clear that it’s been up to me whether or not I want to see him. I’m an adult now. My eighteenth birthday just so happened to coincide with the time when my dad’s behavior was getting really bad. He missed the party. He didn’t even hand me a card the next day at breakfast when I encountered him near the fridge. He looked tired and his eyes were bagged, sure signs of a hangover from God knows what. I looked at him, waiting for him to say something, anything, a simple happy birthday, Son, then I took a swig of orange juice straight from the jug, turned, and walked away.

  The den is still dark. The vertical blinds are pulled shut, and only varying streaks of light break through here and there, casting shadows over the floor. Bits of dust pass through the streaks, lit up as they float by. My father’s collection of pressed flowers is strewn around the room. They’re on his desk, his old, favorite black leather chair, and even the floor is covered with a rainbow of all the delicate work. Once neatly stored in drawers and between heavy books, between slabs of heavy marble and drying cardboard, entire pieces of blue salvia, dandelion, and rose are now carelessly flung.

  Someone did this. Someone was here, and they were mad.

  This looks like the work of my mom. I’m not surprised. She must have come down here just a few minutes ago after hearing the news. It must have gotten the better of her, and she finally lost it. Ashley was right to tell me to leave her alone.

  “Oh man,” I say through my hands.

  I walk over to the set of tall clear acrylic drawers resting on his desk and I run my fingers across their seamlessness. The drawers are smooth and cool and stimulate my mind.

  “Ethan.”

  My father always says my name when he finishes a flower and wants me to take it from him. He never looks up, just holds out his hand.

  This time, he sets a blue African daisy into my palm. Its petals spread over the width of my small hand, almost covering it completely. I hold it tenderly, shielding it from the nonexistent wind with my other hand. I’m afraid to make a wrong move. I don’t want to ruin it. Because this, right here … this is beauty.

  “The second drawer,” my father says.

  He holds a magnifying glass in one hand and a Japanese utility knife in the other. He dissects the next flower with care and precision, steadying his hands against the desk in order to prepare it for the press. This one’s a Larkspur, and I know it’ll take even more care than the last.

  I walk the African daisy to the stack of drawers and slide open the second one from the top. This drawer’s empty, so when I place the daisy inside it sits perfectly alone.

  “Now come,” he says.

  I take my place beside him. I’m barely tall enough to see over the heavy oak desk, but I try to do so without getting in his way.

  He hands me a spare magnifying glass. “Take a look here. And watch what I’m doing.”

  The magnifying glass wobbles under its own weight as I grasp it with my tiny fingers, but I can see through it and I use it to watch my father work. I’m careful and I try to keep my breaths quiet.

  My father’s thick, calloused fingers cut away at the helpless pieces of flower petal and stem. The sections of flower collapse under him, surrendering to his will. He tosses the pieces to the floor.

  He’ll want me to remember this. Tomorrow, we’ll be eating dinner together and he’ll say, “Son. Do you trim the third petal of the red Larkspur, or the fourth?” and I’d better know what to say.

  The smell of the dead flowers brings me back. As I wipe the corner of my eye, I see something sticking out from behind my father’s desk. I reach in, behind the inches-thick wood of the heavy old thing, grasp a smooth glass object, and pull it out.

  I hold it in front of me. It’s a picture frame. It’s huge, much larger than the ones we use around the house for our family photos and whatnot. And it was difficult to get out. But it wasn’t too heavy to manipulate – just awkward – and it isn’t too bad now. Now that I’m holding it with both hands, it’s wide enough that it covers most of my field of vision.

  I study the image encased and swallow hard. That tear re-forms in the corner of my eye. This time, I don’t bother to wipe it away.

  The picture is a huge collection of flowers, all the most beautiful, delicate kinds that we’d worked on together, each carefully pressed and then strewn together in an obsessive way, forming the shape of a tree.

  It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen; the culmination of my father’s lifetime passion and the care of someone who loved something deeply. It looks like it’s the only thing that survived the rampage that went on in here. But that’s not why I’m upset, why my heart beats faster in my chest and my palms sweat against the edges of the frame.

  I’m upset because I hate the man.

  I hate looking at the things he’s made, and I hate everything he’s done, even this picture that’s so undoubtedly beautiful. How could he create something so beautiful and so horrendous at the same time, with those very same hands?

  It’s beyond wrong.

  Without hesitating, I raise my arms and send the picture crashing to the floor. The noise echoes throughout the room. When it hits the ground, the frame breaks in half and the glass flies across the carpet. I stand in silence, towering over the mess.

  I’m sure my mom, wherever she is in the house, just heard that, but I also know she’ll understand.

  The picture is no more. It’s now strewn everywhere, like the pieces of my damn life.

  Holy shit, I do not want to wake up today. I do not want to wake up today, I think, as if it’ll actually make a difference.

  I hear through my bedroom door: “Ethan!”

  I pretend it didn’t happen, but finally I resign to my fate, violently shoving the covers off my body. I rub my eyes. It’s bright, and when I open them, the sunlight hits me like a slap in the face. She must have come in here when I was still asleep and opened the blinds.

  I cringe but mange to get myself up, get dressed in the same clothes I wore yesterday, and trudge down the stairs.

  It’s Saturday, but we always wake each other early. It’s a kind of pact of ours, a personal health movement, an accountability, same as our halfhearted attempts at drinking a green smoothie every day. If either of us fails, the other gives that person hell. We both share, genetically, the same susceptibility to be lacking in the will power department, so we feel like we owe it to each other.

  My mom is eager to see me, and even from this far away I can tell she’s in a good mood. There are at least two things you need to know about my mom: the first is that she’s undoubtedly a morning person. I could slump down the stairs, disheveled and sloppy and an hour late for school and she’d be in bright spirits and probably do nothing more than laugh at my misfortune.

  The second is that she gets over things in record time. Usually a good night’s sleep, and maybe an extra-strong cup of coffee (her
personal brand of anti-depressant) is all it takes and she’s good to go … that is, until the next bad thing hits. And it always does.

  I slip into the half bathroom off the kitchen hallway. I admit it: I’m avoiding her. But I’ve had all night to think about what to say, so as soon as I muster up the mental strength, I’ll do exactly that. Until then, I check myself in the mirror. Although I’m almost tall enough for the top of my head to reach outside the boundaries of the mirror, if I bend slightly I can clearly see the rest of my head. My dark hair is out of control. I was in need of a trim before all this happened, and I can’t see myself blocking out the time to get one any time soon. I guess that’s how it goes; when something so life changing lands in your lap, the trivial things like haircuts and dentist appointments and oil changes tend to get put on hold.

  I run my fingers across my chin. My stubble has grown out, too, but I don’t have the energy to shave. I don’t care, either. Like I said – trivial things.

  And anyway, I’m sure I’ll fit right in where I’m going.

  Finally, I emerge and take a seat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

  My mom doesn’t say anything. She opens and closes the fridge, busying herself, not caring if the door slams. I guess that’s better than destroying more rooms of the house.

  “What are you up to today?” she says suddenly. She’s trying to be cheery. That’s good, but I hate that I’m about to destroy that.

  “Today? I, uh…” I take a deep breath. “I’m going to see him.”

  She turns. She puts a hand on her hip and raises her brow.

  I spread my hands out in front of me. “You know … wherever he is.” Because I don’t even know.

  “You’re what?” She brings her hand to her forehead. Her fingers knead her skin. “Ethan … I wasn’t expecting this.” She shakes her head. “I was expecting a lot after last night, but not this.”

  “You don’t think I should?”

  She laughs. “I don’t know why the hell you’d want to.”

  “Because he’s my dad.”

  She runs her other arm back and forth across the counter with a damp washcloth. That’s the third thing you should know about my mom: she fiddles when she’s uncomfortable. “I get it. I think.” She sighs and looks up. “But, Ethan, this just fucking happened. Why so soon?” The fourth thing you should know: she swears. A lot. “Where is this coming from?”

  I lean back against the uncomfortable metal spine of the stool. “I don’t know.” I shake my head and cross my arms. “The closure thing, I guess?”

  “The closure thing, you guess. Well, you’re eighteen. I can’t stop you. I told you that before. All I can do is let you know that I think this is a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. And I think you need to give yourself – and him – more time.” She hesitates. “And if I had my way, you wouldn’t have anything to do with that asshole.” She turns away, back to her faux-cleaning. “That’s it. I’ve said my peace.”

  I walk to her and stop at her side. I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Mom.” It’s more of a formality from me, to tell you the truth. Nothing my mom said particularly moved me. I just want her to feel better than she has been. Although she moves on so well, there must be something buried deep down that could use some comfort.

  She smiles. “I don’t know why I ever worry about you.”

  I smile back, all woozy with the idea of what’s ahead of me now that I’ve been given her semi-approval of the idea. “You worry about me?”

  “You’re my only son and you’re eighteen years old. You’re handsome. You’re adventurous. You’re starting your life. Of course I worry about you.”

  I look at her over my glass of milk. “Don’t call me handsome,” I say. I know she can see from the glint in my eyes that I’m half-joking. “It’s weird coming from you.”

  She likewise holds up a hand. “Sorry, sorry.”

  “I’ve gotta get ready.” I set my glass down. “Your day full?”

  “I’m on call, so yeah, I’d say so.” She pulls a serious face. “I’ll have my phone on me though. Okay?”

  Without giving me time to answer, she pulls out her phone. “Speaking of …” She twiddles her thumbs and then stops, pulling out a piece of paper and a pen. She’s copying something from the screen.

  “Here,” she says at last, holding the paper out to me. She stuffs the pen back into the drawer it came from. “That’s where he is.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” And I really mean it. She’s just saved me the trouble of somehow asking her for it. I glance down at the paper.

  Will Co. Adult Detention

  95 S. Chicago St.

  I look up.

  My mom hasn’t taken her eyes off me. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I’m sure I don’t want to do this.”

  My mom gives me a sympathetic look. She sighs. She rests her arms against the counter, facing me, and thinks for a moment. “You don’t have to.”

  I stand, pick up my backpack, and swing it over my shoulder. “Yes, I do.” I lean in and give her a quick hug before heading for the door.

  “Ethan, wait,” she says behind me. “Here.”

  I turn; she’s holding out a Poptart. A Poptart. Like I’m ten years old again.

  I take it from her. “Always thinking ahead,” I say. That was smart of her. The drive to this area of the city is a long one, and although I’m rarely ever hungry when I first wake up, I don’t do well on an empty stomach. And knowing my father, I’ll need all the strength I can get for what I’m about to do.

  “I know you can do it.” She watches me from the doorway. “And keep your phone on you, if you can. Remember what I said.” She’s yelling now as I’m almost to my truck. “Mine will be on me. I’ll be just a call away.”

  I turn around. “Wish me luck. I’ll need it.”

  She’s carried her mug of coffee outside and she raises it now and smirks at me, a nonverbal salute that says I love you, but I know that man – you’re screwed. “Fuckin’ a.”

  The drive is literally gut wrenching. As in, I think I might puke.

  It’s the length of the thing that’s so awful. It’s longer than I thought. I’ve already been driving for an hour. There’s still thirty minutes left to go, and every minute of that time is dragging on. I can’t stand so much drawing out of the event, so much waiting, when all there is to do is sit here, drive, think, and just wait to get there so I can get this over with.

  So I can get him over with.

  I should point out that this isn’t a first-time thing. I’ve been through this one other time in my life – four years ago, when my father was arrested for petty theft. It feels like so long ago. That was the first time, and it’s funny how he had us convinced it would be the only time. Obviously, we were wrong.

  I stop for at a light. I try to stretch in the cab, but my arms hit the roof.

  It had been hard enough then, dealing with him being arrested for something so minor. I mean, I know everyone makes mistakes, but to see my father like that, behind bars and glass, even if it was only for the time being, it was … well, it was many things.

  It was embarrassing as hell.

  It was traumatizing.

  And I hate to admit it, but it was altogether kind of scary. That place, those people. The cliché orange jumpsuits. And the knowledge that my father was among them.

  The way I handled it was to believe him when he told us that when he got out, he’d change everything. I can’t believe I fell for it. I should have known better. We both should have – my mom and me – but at least she had the sense to leave him.

  I didn’t.

  I reach the entrance and I pull over. I lean across the steering wheel.

  “Shit,” I whisper.

  Everything looks exactly the same. The compound is huge, and to get to the parking lot I’ll need to wind my way back through an expanse of trees and gates and checkpoints and driveway. The building is visible in the distan
ce – that’s the detention center. It’s a brown brick building, long and flat and hidden behind hazy layers of razor wire.

  Can I really do this again?

  Maybe this was a worse idea than I thought. Hell, I’m sure it is. This is going to suck. But here I am. I’m doing this for me, to gain some kind of closure, even though a mere day has passed since everything happened. If it has to go down at all, I want it to go down like this. To get it out of the way, try to figure out why he did what he did so I can just enroll in the therapy, or whatever it is I’m supposed to do to reverse all the damage this guy’s done to me. Then forget him and get on with my life.

  I shift my truck back into drive and make my way toward the entrance. As I pull into a parking spot, my hands start to shake against the steering wheel. I clench and unclench my fists over and over in an attempt to relax. I take a deep breath, and then reach to the seat beside me and grab that food. I try to eat some of my makeshift breakfast, those Poptarts my mom gave me, but I can’t stomach more than a few bites, so I shove the rest in my backpack. I zip it up and leave it resting on floor of the passenger’s side and then, without thinking, I head inside.

  The entire compound is huge, and the building I’m entering is no exception. I remember how it scared me before, when I felt so young, but now it just makes me depressed as shit.

  I try to keep up that non-thinking thing and enter the building. I submit to the search, and a heavyset guard, her hair in a tight ponytail and tattoos running own her thick arm, holds her hand out for my phone without a word. I knew this was coming; I’d already prepared myself for the mental loss of such a lifeline. I place the phone in her hand, along with my keys and wallet. I purposefully didn’t bring anything else with me.

  Once the quick pat-down and metal detector routine is done, the same guard leads me to the waiting area. When we arrive, she holds her arm out in yet another lazy message. She hasn’t said one word. Judging by her worn expression, if she had to open her mouth to say something to me, I bet it’d be something pissy, something along the lines of Take a seat … bitch.