by Dermot Davis
"Just making some changes, moving things around. I had no idea how filthy the place was getting. When was the last time we painted anything? Do you remember?"
"Painted?" Andrew asked, like it was a foreign concept. "I don't know if we ever painted, until now," he said, noticing that the walls were freshly painted. "You painted the walls pink?"
"Do you like it? It's called Flamingo Sunset," his mom asked proudly.
"It's very girlie, isn't it?" he asked, unsure what to think.
"That would be me," Angela said with a smile. "I've neglected my girlie side for too long." He had to admit the place looked more polished.
"What's with everyone getting a makeover?" he then asked when he noticed her attractive new hair style and makeup. "Did you dye your hair?"
"I didn't, of course not. I asked Rosa to do it, what do you think?" she asked as she turned her head around. He was quite taken aback.
"It's terrific," he answered, hoping to sound encouraging. "Suits you."
"So, what's going on?" she asked, as if she wanted to get back to what she was doing.
"Oh, I just came by to get something," he said as he went towards the stairs.
"Where are you going?" she asked loudly. "Are you going up to your room?"
Wondering why his mother might think him deaf all of a sudden, Andrew stopped on the stairs and turned to her as she followed. "What's going on with the shouting?" he asked. "Do I need your permission to go up to my room, now?"
"Andrew, you don't live here. It's not your room, anymore. I've been making some changes."
"What kind of changes?" he asked and, before she could answer, he turned and sprinted up the rest of the stairs. His mother followed him. "You've got all your girlie stuff in my room?" he asked and laughed, as if the room had become contaminated. "You've got your dresses in my closet now?" he asked distastefully, shoving aside his mom’s clothes, as he searched for his ball cap.
"My room is too small; I need the space," Angela answered defensively. "You've got a great big mansion now; I don't see why you’re complaining."
Realizing that his mom was totally in the right, Andrew softened. "Yeah, I'm sorry," he said, embracing her. "I was mostly kidding. It's just a bit weird seeing my old room being, I don't know, used for storage or something. I'm sorry. You can do anything to it that you want. I've got so many rooms now that I don't know what to do with them all. Oh, there it is," he said when he finally spied his baseball cap sitting on top of the wardrobe, as if it were on display. "Don't remember putting it up there," he said as he reached up to grab it.
When his cell phone rang, he saw that it was Lily calling back. "Mom, I need to take this," he said, not wanting to blow off Lily twice in a row, especially if she was in some kind of trouble. Reluctantly, he answered.
"Hey, Lily," he answered. "Just give me a sec and I'm all yours. Can you hold?"
"Sure," Lily answered agreeably.
Taking a final look around to see if he needed anything else, Andrew left the room. Looking around nervously, Angela followed. "Are you leaving now?" she asked loudly.
"Sorry, mom, I've got to get back to work," he said as he descended the stairs.
"Great to see you, son," his mom said as she held back. "Call the next time you want to visit," she called after him. "I might be out or working," she added, as an afterthought.
Making his way back to his car, Andrew turned to look back at the house. Realizing that it was slowly changing into something more updated and attractive, he wondered if all of his memories of childhood were undergoing the same treatment. It’s like his understanding of reality had begun to be rewritten, ever since he’d spent an hour in Dowling’s sensory deprivation tank. Coincidence? He wondered. Putting the cell phone up to his ear, he got back into his car. "Lily, I'm getting back into my car; I'm putting you on speaker phone, okay?"
Angela stood at the window of Andrew's former bedroom and watched sadly as her son drove away. Hearing the door of her own bedroom open and then close, she turned to see an equally sad-looking Fiona appear in the doorway.
"He's gone?" Fiona asked.
"Yes, sweetie. He didn't come to visit. Andrew just came by to collect that old Angels baseball cap of his."
Fiona looked up at the top of the wardrobe to where she had placed the ball cap. She was stunned to see that Andrew’s former prized possession was absent. As it was the first thing that she looked up at when she woke up in the morning, she knew that she would miss it terribly.
"He didn't recognize anything of yours," Angela said, like they had just dodged a bullet. "Poor thing thought that all of those dresses were mine, like I could fit into any of them," she said with a smile. "I wish," she said, more as an attempt to cheer up her lodger, who did manage a wry smile at Angela’s words. "Was it hard for you to stay put?" she asked the young woman.
"You have absolutely no idea," Fiona said and her voice broke. Her eyes were still teary from hearing his voice. "I almost ran in, like, every two seconds. Until he got that phone call, of course," she said bitterly and her eyes narrowed.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Angela said reassuringly. She sat down and placed her arms around Fiona, who had sat down upon the edge of the bed. "Granted, I don't talk to him much but he's never once mentioned that girl's name."
"Really?" Fiona asked hopefully. Angela looked at the girl who had become like a daughter to her.
"He talks about you, a lot. A real lot," she said, smiling. "Are you still up for visiting your dad today?"
"Yeah," Fiona said slowly and her face changed instantly, as if she had just switched mental gears. "Let's go visit my dad."
Chapter 5
Simon walked the exercise yard and tried to stay within the shade to avoid direct sunlight on his lily white skin. There seemed to be a noticeable lack of tension around the yard and the prison common areas, in general, since the last big riot. Duke and most of his gang had been transported to intensive care along with a few members of the opposing gang. Those that remained standing, on either side, were either confined to solitary or had been transferred to the maximum security prison up north. There was talk that that was where Duke was headed, once he became well enough to be released from the hospital and travel.
Simon appreciated what Andrew had done for him as, without his forewarning, the situation could have wound up so very different. It could have been Simon that ended up in intensive care, or much worse. He wondered to himself if Andrew had anything to gain by his warning, anything beyond avoiding a nagging conscience. Off hand, Simon couldn't think of any way in which the young man could have benefitted from sharing his intuition. Considering how Simon had negatively impacted Andrew's life—including the fact that he may have been in part responsible for the death of Andrew’s school buddies, though he didn’t want to contemplate that—he came to the realization that Andrew was a pretty decent kid, after all.
Must everyone have an agenda? Simon couldn't remember the last time that someone in his world, himself included, had done anything without having a selfish motive for doing so. In fact, he couldn't remember himself doing any selfless act for another individual in a very long time. Shamefully, that included the acts he had done for his very own daughter, whom he supposedly treasured above all else.
Where had he taken a wrong turn with his life? Obviously, thinking and behaving in so purely a selfish manner was hardly the grandest and most noble way to live one's life. Painfully, Simon had to delve way back into his past to remember a time when he thought about someone or something else before he thought about himself. In his memory, he had to go back to a time when he truly loved someone else: his wife. Yes, he dearly did love his wife and would have put his own life on the line in an instant in the event that he could protect hers.
Yet, something did threaten her life and, much worse, it was outside of his control. Her life was taken from her and she was taken from him. He had suffered intense heartbreak and pain and all he could do was stand by and watch. Did so
mething die inside of him when his wife was stolen from him? His beautiful and loving wife, whom he so totally adored... her life force, gone, in an instant. Yes, of course his life did change in that moment. Curiously, he had never stopped to consider in what way his life had changed as a result of her death.
Certainly, he was angrier than he ever been before. He was angry at himself, at life in general, angry at God. Had his anger defined his life since? In some way, had he been trying to get back at the world? Had he wanted to destroy the cruel and unjust world, for taking away his beloved wife? His one true love and his reason for being? And what of Fiona, who was born on the very day of his One True Love's death? Had he been subconsciously angry at his child, ever since?
Recalling the day in question, Simon had railed against the doctor's decision to save the child before first saving the mother. What an idiotic decision the moronic doctor had made! Saving a baby at the expense of losing a grown woman's life? A baby could be replaced relatively easily; her immature and ill-timed death somewhat readily forgotten. A mother's life could not be so readily substituted nor the memory of her easily blocked out or the loss disregarded. Even as he thought about it, almost twenty years after the event, Simon felt the anger and despair rise up within him. He was still felt as equally enraged and helpless to fix the situation in the present as he did then.
Perhaps that must stop, he had the thought. He had always surmised that an anger or despair buried deep within was very much akin to providing sanctuary to an evil poison. Yet it turned out that, from its hidden position, the emotion had been seeping insidiously into his bloodstream and infecting and affecting his every thought and act ever since. There was no thought and no act that did not carry the contagion of this poisonous emotion; his entire experience with the world had been tainted and, perhaps even more disastrously, he had unwittingly spread the infection to others.
That all had to stop and stop now, he decided. What better time than the present? He had miraculously been taken out of time, taken out of his life, essentially. It was now, when he was down, that he was discovering who his true friends were. The really sad part was his realization that he had too few genuine friends, if any. Even those individuals, who were friends in the past, likely had questionable motives. Could he consider anyone that he had worked with as a true friend? He could not, he realized. Owing to an almost maniacal lifelong dedication to his work and career, the people that he had worked with, members of the Order of the Wise Serpents, were the only friends that he had.
Abigail had turned on him. She left him imprisoned… to rot. He was certain that she hoped that he would be indicted and put away for good and pretty much wither and eventually vanish. His funds had been frozen by the authorities and she would not release company funds to post bail and secure his release. In short, he was pretty much screwed and could expect to remain in prison until somebody somewhere championed his case or further evidence was found to secure his release. Both of which events seemed very unlikely to transpire.
And what of Abigail, the organization, and the Order of the Wise Serpents? He had dedicated many years to their advancement and yet still felt very much in the dark as to their true purpose in the world. Unable to see beyond the veil of his immediate position, he had no inkling as to the true intentions of the organization. Nor, indeed, did he yet possess a full knowledge of the individuals who were actually in full stewardship of the organization’s activities. Had he spent the most productive years of the prime of his life working against the common good?
Certainly, he had come across many ethical considerations that had bothered him over the years. There were decisions that either he had made or was forced to make, many of which still bothered his conscience. Yes, he had recently decided to take matters into his own hands and work at cross-purposes to the organization. Yet he had only done so in cases that he considered to be clearly evil, if not downright sinful, and impossible for him to support. Knowing, at the time, that his conscience would not allow him to act in truly evil or sinful ways, he was certain of his actions and had accepted the possible consequences of his choices.
Simon had not expected the consequences of his choices to come so hard and fast, however. Now that he was considered a detriment to the organization, he was paying the price. Indeed, he also knew that he may not have yet received his full punishment from the organization. Although only hear-say and rumors, it was said that the organization would end the lives of those whom they considered to have seriously transgressed. Simon speculated that, perhaps, the organization had yet to deduce the extent of his waywardness, his deviation from the company line, and were still compiling evidence.
Possibly, then, Simon reflected, it was a good thing for him to be taken out when he was. Had he been allowed to stay in the organization, with his covert actions undetected, he might have reached a point of no return. He might have amassed a stack of transgressions that, once discovered, could have left higher-ups feeling that they had no choice but to take him out. As things presently stood, incarceration had probably saved his life. If Andrew had anything to do with it, as the boy had claimed, then Simon inadvertently owed him a debt of gratitude.
How to change his life for the better, going forward, then, appeared to be the question at hand. He wouldn’t waste this opportunity; he would turn over a new leaf and live his life more authentically, serving the greater good. Simon determined to make amends to his daughter and possibly even to Andrew, the young man that Fiona so clearly loved. If Simon had reached the half-way point of his total life years on earth, then there was no reason for him not to spend his remaining years rectifying the years that he had lived for purely selfish reasons. Yes, indeed, it could be that Andrew had done him an immense favor, after all.
"Blake," a guard shouted as he approached, while Simon was still walking laps. "Visitors," the guard said and waited for Simon to be led back toward the building.
Fiona sat with Angela at a long table filled with other visitors and inmates. Nervously awaiting Simon's arrival, Fiona fidgeted in her seat. "Thanks for coming with me," she said to Angela who looked more than a little over-dressed for the occasion.
"Of course, sweetie," Angela answered as she reached down and patted Fiona's hand. "Happy to visit your father with you. He must feel so lonely and miserable in a place like this."
"Perhaps he deserves it," Fiona said softly as she looked around at the misery etched on the faces of all those about her.
"We don’t know even if he does… and in this country, at least, thank heavens, a person is innocent until proven guilty… and your father hasn't had his final say, anyway," Angela said rapidly in a torrent of words that only made partial sense to Fiona.
"Uh-huh, I guess," Fiona said, more to appease a nervous Angela than because she necessarily agreed that her father was truly an innocent man. "Anyway, here he comes," she added as she saw her father being led through the doorway.
"You're looking well," Angela said as Simon sat down. "Well, better than the last time, anyhow," she awkwardly added, when she sensed that the others felt that she might be overdoing the compliment. She flushed but neither Simon nor Fiona noticed her embarrassment.
"It gets easier, bit by bit," Simon said like a man who had made peace with the world. "Thank you both for coming," he added, looking mostly at his daughter. "I know that it's not easy, coming here."
"You do look different," Fiona noticed as she looked at her father more carefully. "Are you less scared or something?"
"You could say that, yes," Simon answered with a smile. "I've been doing a lot of thinking. Reassessing things," he said, looking at his daughter with more love than she was used to receiving from him. The effect made her feel uncomfortable. "I haven't been such a great father, have I?" he asked.
Fiona looked at him closely while thinking of a measured and appropriate response.
"Should I give you two some—" Angela asked but was interrupted by Simon.
"No, not at all. Stay, Angela," he
said with a warm glance in her direction which caused Andrew’s mother to blush ever-so-slightly. "We're not going to get into it here, are we, sweetheart?" he asked Fiona. "I'm simply stating the obvious, really. I haven't been... I feel like I may have let you down, in many ways, for a long time," he said, looking into his daughter's eyes. "And I just want to say that I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what, exactly?" Fiona asked, skeptical of his newfound state of contrition.
"Sorry for being a lousy dad."
"Yeah, but what exactly?" Fiona insisted. "Sorry for what?"
"You want specifics?" Simon asked, annoyed at her unexpected petulance.
"Yes," Fiona instantly answered. "I want specifics. What have you done, specifically, that you are sorry for?"
"Well, I," Simon said, taken unawares and seemingly unable to think of anything off-hand. "What do you want from me?" he asked. "Probably for the first time, I'm telling you that I'm sorry. That's not enough for you?"
"It's a good start," Fiona agreed, "but, no, it's not enough. I want you to think of something that you did that you are particularly sorry for. Anything. Recent or past, and make amends for it," she said and waited for his response.
As a frown broke out on Simon's silent face, Fiona sighed as if she felt vindicated.
"Don't be so hard on your—" Angela said softly to the young woman but was stopped mid-sentence by Simon's upturned palm.
"Fair enough," he said to his daughter and he took a deep breath to calm and center himself. "I dare say you have some... specifics," he admitted to Fiona, trying not to sound as aggrieved as he was feeling inside of his heart.
"I do," Fiona agreed calmly.
"Well, then," Simon said, bracing himself for an avalanche of alleged or, possibly, actual transgressions.
"You don't have to be sorry," Fiona said then paused and appeared to consider the best approach to take with him. "I just want to hear it from you. I guess I want you to admit to some of the lies that you told me."