No Hiding in Boise

by Kim Hooper

  I went on my backpacking trip, came back a week later to a message on my machine: “It is yours, you asshole. I’m due in March. Would be great if the child had a father.”

  I didn’t call back. I’m a coward, remember?

  She came to my door two months later, got the address to my shitty apartment from the coworker who had invited me to the party where I’d apparently conceived a human being.

  She was clearly pregnant. I still couldn’t believe the baby was mine though. I had spent maybe three hours with this person. I just couldn’t see how we would be forever tied together by those three hours.

  She was furious, of course.

  “So you’re keeping the baby?” I said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “We’re a bit past that discussion. If you had an opinion on the subject, you should have expressed it a while ago,” she said. “And, yes, I’m keeping the baby.”

  I knew I couldn’t be outwardly angry about this, but I was pissed. I’d had no part in the decision. None. I guess I assumed she would have had an abortion. I assumed most unmarried, unexpectedly pregnant women in a liberal town like Bend would get an abortion.

  “I just want to clarify—you want no part of this?” she asked.

  She drew an imaginary circle around her belly.

  “I mean, I’m not going to abandon my kid,” I said.

  I knew that was the right answer. I saw a flash of hope on her face.

  We talked for two hours—about logistics, plans. We decided I would move in with her (she had the nicer apartment). We would be parents, not lovers (“I mean, if it goes that way, fine. But that’s not my focus,” she’d said). It made sense to share expenses, share childcare. She had it all worked out. I nodded along, even though I felt my throat constrict, like I was choking on something.

  When the baby came, we named her Teresa. Well, Janine named her. I let Janine take the lead on everything. I felt like a stupid puppy on a leash with her. I tried to play the role of the proud dad, but I was terrified, panicked. I’d never held a baby, first of all. She was so small—not exceptionally small by baby standards, but I had no baby experience. I started working more at Wild World, took a second job at a bike repair shop. I told Janine it was to earn money for us, but I really just wanted out—of the house, of this strange life.

  When Teresa was about six weeks old, she had one of the worst nights of her young life. People say babies cry, but she was howling. It was an animalistic, primal expression of discontent, and neither Janine nor I had any idea what to do. She didn’t want either of Janine’s breasts, the usual soothers in these situations. Janine collapsed in a heap on the floor, said, “You take her. I can’t do this.” I thought it was insane of her to presume that I could.

  The next morning, while Janine and Teresa slept off the horrible night (Teresa had finally fallen asleep around four o’clock in the morning, after hours of rocking her that left my biceps sore), I packed all my things into my car. It took just a couple trips. I left a note for Janine, telling her I was sorry, I wasn’t capable of being a father. I left her all the money in my wallet, told her I would take out all the money in my bank account and send her a check in the mail. I did do these things, by the way. I’m not a total piece of shit. Well, maybe I am. After all, I left. I just left.

  I went on a monthlong backpacking trip in the Three Sisters Wilderness, a trip without any destination, just meandering. There was this girl I worked with at Wild World who joked, “Camping is really just living like a homeless person.” And that’s how I felt—like a vagrant, a vagabond. I grew so much facial hair that I didn’t even recognize myself when I finally emerged from the forest and looked in the mirror of my car. On that trip, I thought about what I’d done—abandoning my daughter. It was the thing I’d said I wouldn’t do. I decided she was better off without me. Maybe I decided that because it was the easy conclusion. If I’d decided she needed me, I would have had to go back to them, reenter the life I’d left.

  While in the wilderness, I’d thought about where to start over. I needed somewhere new. I picked Boise. I’d been there once, as a kid, and I’d liked it. I went to school, got a business degree. Then an MBA. I felt like I had something to prove— to Janine, to Teresa, to myself. When all was said and done, I was a thirty-five-year-old investment banker with a life people seemed to envy. It was strange. I dated, thinking when I met the right person, I’d tell her the secrets I’d kept for so long. But I never did. I thought it would be different with Angie. I felt like she understood me, saw me for who I was. But as more time passed, I knew I’d never tell her either. At a certain point, it was just too much to say, “I have a daughter somewhere.” I couldn’t do it.

  I thought about Janine and Teresa over the years. I googled, kept tabs. But it wasn’t until Evie was born that I started to unravel. I hadn’t had much emotion about the whole thing over the years, had started to assume something was seriously wrong with me. But the emotion was there; it was just hidden until Evie came.

  Evie looked so much like Teresa. It was uncanny. It was like the universe was punishing me on a daily basis—rightly so, I guess. Every time I looked at Evie, I was forced to think about what I’d done. It got to the point when I couldn’t stand being around Evie. It’s awful, I know. Evie didn’t do anything wrong, of course. She didn’t deserve a dad who was a detached asshole.

  I was getting the strangely familiar itch to leave Angie and Evie. It scared me. I didn’t want to leave them. I just couldn’t stand myself. I started to think the only solution was making peace with the past.

  I knew Teresa had moved to Boise, which I took as a slight shove from the universe. She was going to Boise State, working at a local bar—what were the chances? That’s when I started going to the bar. I’d get to know her, I thought. Then I’d tell her. And she’d forgive me. It was a simple plan, stupidly simple.

  The night of the shooting, Angie and I went to bed before nine, as usual. We weren’t doing well. I was distant. I didn’t know how to tell her why. If she knew, she would leave me, I thought. If I were her, I’d leave me.

  I couldn’t sleep. I knew I was going to the bar that night. I was going to tell Teresa the truth. Or Tessa, rather. She goes by Tessa—one of the many things about her that I should have known, as her father.

  Sometime after ten, when I was sure Angie was asleep, I went upstairs, paced the kitchen while rehearsing my speech. I poured myself some scotch, threw it back. When you lack courage, you drink to create the illusion of it.

  Tessa, I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long. I understand if you never want to speak with me again, but I need to tell you the truth. I am your father. I left you and your mother when you were just six weeks old. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just thought you should know.

  I kept rehearsing after I got into the car.

  That’s what I was doing when I ran the red light— rehearsing. I was distracted. I wasn’t paying attention. I was a little buzzed on that scotch.

  I realized what I was doing about halfway through the intersection, but it was too late. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Ford Mustang coming at me. I heard the screech of his brakes. He came within a foot of hitting me. Adrenaline rushed through me. He got out of his car, yelling.

  “What the fuck are you doing, motherfucker. You could have killed me.”

  He was young—twenties or thirties. There was this fury in his eyes. I’d never seen anything like it—pure rage. I put my hands up in the air, a motion of surrender, apology. He didn’t seem at all placated by this. He kept yelling.

  “You entitled fucker in your fucking Beemer. Fuck you.”

  “I’m sorry, man,” I tried.

  “You’re sorry? Is that what you’d say if you’d killed me? Jesus Christ, man. Fuck you.”

  He was coming toward me, his pace fast and determined. He was still screaming.

  The only thing I could think to do was leave. Just
drive away. I put the car in drive. He ran toward me, slammed his fists against the back window before I drove away, my tires screeching against the asphalt.

  When I pulled into the parking lot of Ray’s, I wondered if he could have followed me. I parked, my heart still racing. Just go inside, I told myself.

  So that’s what I did.

  I went inside.

  I was fixated on sticking to the plan, telling Tessa the truth. I knew I would need a couple beers to do it, but it was going to happen. I would tell her, and she would forgive me. Even though my speech claimed I didn’t seek her forgiveness, that’s all I really wanted. Then I would tell Angie. And I would be able to look at Evie without hating myself. These were my hopes when I walked into Ray’s that night. This night will change everything. I had that exact thought. I was right, I guess. I was right.

  TESSA

  WHEN SHE’S DONE TELLING me the story—of how they met at a party, how she got pregnant, how he left when I was six weeks old, how she knew he’d moved to Boise and still lived there—I’m shocked.

  Then angry.

  She’d told me my father was dead. And not just dead-in-a-car-accident dead, but dead-from-a-drug-overdose dead. There’s a difference. She intentionally made him into someone I would never want to know. She lied.

  “He left us, Tess,” she says. “That’s still the truth.”

  “But why didn’t you just say, ‘He left us. He lives in Boise’?”

  I understand now why she didn’t like the idea of me moving to Boise. She had to wonder if something like this would happen, if our winding paths would cross.

  “I was afraid you’d go looking for him. I didn’t want you to be disappointed. I was trying to protect your feelings.”

  There’s not much to say in response to this. I know she meant well. It’s hard to lash out at good intentions.

  “I just wish you would have told me,” I say, the anger leaving me. “I’m not a kid anymore. I could have handled the truth.”

  “I guess I always thought he would come looking for us and I’d tell you then. When he didn’t, I thought, ‘Well, he really is an asshole.’ I didn’t think there was any good reason for you to know him.”

  “You shouldn’t have decided for me. Not once I became an adult. I had a right to know.”

  She nods, looks down at her lap. “I think maybe you’re right about that.”

  Sometimes, that’s all a person needs—an admittance of wrongdoing. Too often, egos don’t allow for this.

  When she looks up again, there are tears in her eyes.

  “Mom, stop,” I say, reaching toward her, even though I’m still upset.

  “I’m just sorry,” she says. “They say, ‘mother knows best’ … that’s the real lie.”

  I sit next to her on the couch, our hips touching. She takes a tissue from a box on the end table.

  “Okay, now you’re being dramatic,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  She dabs at her eyes with the tissue.

  “It’s just so strange, you two finding each other.”

  “He must have known who I was, right?” I ask her.

  She looks at me like she pities my naïveté. “Yes, honey. I don’t think this was coincidence.”

  I think of what Angie said about how Cale might have had a “thing” for me. She misunderstood. She didn’t know he’d had a daughter. I was his secret.

  “What do I do now?” I ask her.

  She shrugs.

  “Should I tell his wife?”

  She starts shaking her head before she responds.

  “Honey, I don’t know if that’s your place. She might be angry at you.”

  “For what?”

  “For existing,” she says plainly. “You are evidence of his lies. He’s in a coma. She’s going to need someone to get mad at.”

  “It just seems strange to not tell her,” I say.

  “How would you even tell her? It’s not like you know her.”

  I’m about to explain that I do kind of know her when my phone buzzes with a text message.

  I look down and see the name “Angie Matthews” on the screen.

  “What is it?” Mom asks. I must look dumbfounded.

  “It’s her,” I say.

  Three more texts populate the screen. I read them.

  “Who?” Mom asks.

  “She says he’s waking up,” I say.

  “Who?” Mom asks again, still not getting it.

  “She wants me to come there,” I say. Then, finally answering Mom’s question: “Angie. Cale’s wife.”

  “What?” Mom says.

  “She says he whispered my name.”

  JOYCE

  WHEN I ASK THE woman at the Saint Al’s reception desk for Cale Matthews’s room number, she types his name into her computer and gives me the information without hesitation. I thought it would be more difficult. It’s possible the press conference did what Detective Kinsky intended it to do—alleviated fears about Boise being under threat of additional violence. Jed acted alone. The threat is gone. That is the message meant to bring relief to our city.

  I keep asking myself what my purpose is in being here. I guess it’s the same purpose I’ve had since that night—apologizing on my son’s behalf, making things right however I can, trying to understand. I am not angry at Cale Matthews. He made a mistake on the road. He ran a light, the most fateful, impactful mistake of his life. What happened next is Jed’s fault. As tempting as it is to add an asterisk to the event—*But he was triggered by someone else—I have to accept the statement without the footnote: Jed killed people. Jed is responsible for this evil thing.

  When I get to his room, I see he is lying in bed, asleep, it seems. A woman is seated in a chair next to his bed, her back to me. Her elbows are propped up on the railing of the bed, her arms collapsed, hands stacked on top of each other, creating a little pillow for her forehead. I don’t know whether to say something or just leave. I don’t want to intrude. Before I can decide, she turns around, startled.

  “Oh, you scared me,” she says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “If this is a bad time …”

  “For what?” she says. “Are you with the volunteer organization?”

  “The what?” I ask.

  We stare at each other with mutual confusion.

  “I’m sorry, I’m here to visit Cale Matthews,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says. “I’m his wife, Angie.”

  She stands from the chair, extends her hand to me. I use both my hands to take it, as if it is something fragile, precious.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

  Her eyes flick down to glance at my hands holding hers. I release, sensing she’s uncomfortable.

  “And you are … ?” she says.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.

  Here is where I have to do the thing that scares me most:

  “I’m Joyce Ketcher.”

  I do my best to remove fear from my voice, but I still hear it.

  “Joyce Ketcher,” she says, her eyes rolling upward, as if she’s flipping through a Rolodex in her head, asking herself how she knows the name. It’s obvious when she’s figured it out. Her eyes roll down and she stares at me.

  “His mother,” she says, not as a question but as a statement of fact.

  I nod.

  She sits in her chair again, facing away from me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t want to upset you. I really just wanted to tell Cale how sorry—”

  “He’s not exactly able to accept your apology,” she says, not angrily but curtly.

  I don’t know if she says this because he’s sleeping or because she knows how much he despises me.

  Assuming the latter, I say, defensively, “I don’t expect forgiveness for my son. I know what he did was awful. I just want to apologize to Cale for my son’s actions. I can come back when he’s awake or—”

  “He’s not sleeping,” she says, a bitter bite to her words. “He
’s coming out of a coma.”

  A coma.

  My son put this man in a coma.

  “Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know …”

  She turns to look at me now. Her face softens, as if seeing my probably-haggard-looking face zaps her antagonistic energy. We are just two women, here in this hospital room because of the men we love most.

  “I guess the press has done a good job of keeping his medical situation private,” she says.

  I don’t know what to do now. She’s already dealing with so much. It seems cruel to tell her what I know about that night. She will think I’m subtly blaming her husband.

  “I suppose I can just apologize to you then,” I say. “I’m so sorry about Cale’s … condition.”

  “You weren’t the one who shot him,” she says.

  She slumps in her chair as she says this, as if this fact is a disappointment, as if she wishes I were the one who shot him, so she could unleash whatever pent-up feelings she has on me.

  “Still. He was my son. I feel responsible.”

  That is the plain, simple truth of it. I decide in this moment that I will contact all of the victims’ families, by letter first, then in person if they’ll have me. I need to.

  “Cale’s had damage to his brain,” she says. I can tell she doesn’t say this to make me feel worse, but I do anyway. She goes on: “So we don’t know what he’ll remember or not. If you give me your number, I can let you know when he’s up for a visit.”

  She gives me a small smile, a smile that says I’m trying not to hate you. I’m trying to take the high road.

  “If he’s up for a visit,” I say. “I don’t expect him to want anything to do with me.”

  She nods. “Okay then. If.”

  We do the modern-day exchange of phone numbers—she tells me hers and I send her a text that says, “This is Joyce Ketcher.” So she has my number. I doubt she will use it, but at least I can go home knowing I tried.

  Just as I’m about to thank her and say an awkward goodbye, I hear the footsteps of someone else entering the room behind me.