Alex’s uncle had been the one behind his family’s hit, and he’d died in a mysterious fire soon after that revelation came to light.
I never asked about the fire, because I was sure I didn’t want to know the answer. When it came to Alex, ignorance was bliss. For the most part.
“No.”
I shook my head, exasperated but unsurprised by the curt answer. “You think I should visit Michael?”
“I think you should do whatever you need to do to put him behind you.” Alex shifted his attention back to the game. The Nats had closed the score when we weren’t looking; they were now down by only one. “Don’t let him ruin your life any more than he already has.”
Alex’s words ran through my mind for the rest of the game.
They were still echoing in my head when I returned home and opened the desk drawer. A thick pile of letters nestled against the dark wood, waiting for me to pick them up.
I think you should do whatever you need to do to put him behind you.
It was ironic how quickly I’d jump off a literal cliff, bridge, or plane, but when it came to the personal moments, the ones that mattered, I was a child standing at the edge of a pool for the first time.
Scared. Hesitant. Anticipatory.
After another minute’s pause, I sat in my chair, opened the first envelope, and started reading.
* * *
The Hazelburg Correctional Facility’svisitation room resembled a high school cafeteria more than a prison facility. A dozen white tables scattered across the stark gray floor, and other than a handful of generic landscape paintings, the walls were bare of decoration. Security cameras whirred in the ceiling, silent voyeurs to the reunions playing out between prisoners and their families.
My knee bounced with nervous tension until I closed my hand around it and forced it to still.
The tables were close enough I could pick up other people’s conversations, but they were drowned out by snippets from Michael’s letters in my mind. I’d read them so many times in the week since I opened them that their words had seared into my brain.
How’s your residency going? Is it anything like Grey’s Anatomy? You used to joke about keeping a journal listing all the show’s inaccuracies once you were a resident. If you actually have one, I’d love to see it...
I just saw Groundhog Day. Life in prison feels like that sometimes...living the same day over and over again...
Merry Christmas. Are you doing anything for the holidays this year? I know doctors have to work through the holidays, but hopefully you’re taking some time off. Maybe go see the Northern Lights in Finland like you’ve always wanted...
The letters were generic and innocuous, but they contained just enough inside jokes and shared memories to keep me up at night.
Reading the letters, I could almost believe Michael was a normal father writing to his son and not a psycho bastard.
The door opened, and a man in an orange jumpsuit walked in.
Speak of the devil…
My stomach twisted.
His hair was a little grayer, his wrinkles a little more pronounced, but otherwise, Michael Chen looked the same as he always had.
Stern. Cerebral. Solemn.
He sat across from me, and heavy silence stretched taut between us like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.
Prison guards watched us with hawk eyes from the edge of the room, their heavy scrutiny a third participant in our nonexistent conversation.
Finally, Michael spoke. “Thank you for coming.”
It was my first time hearing his voice in two years.
I flinched, unprepared for the nostalgia it triggered.
That was the same voice that had soothed me when I was sick, encouraged me after I lost a basketball game, and yelled at me when I snuck out clubbing with a fake ID in high school and got caught.
It was my childhood—the good, the bad, and the ugly, all wrapped up in one deep, rumbling tone.
“I didn’t come for you.” I pressed my hand harder against my thigh.
“So why did you come?” Except for the brief shadow that crossed his face, Michael betrayed no emotion at my unsentimental response.
“I…” My answer stuck in my throat, and Michael’s mouth curved into a knowing smile.
“Since you’re here, I assume you’ve read my letters. You know what’s happened with me over the years, which isn’t much.” He let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Tell me about you. How’s work?”
It was surreal, sitting here and talking to my father like we were on a fucking coffee date. But my brain had blanked, and I couldn’t think of another course of action except to play along.
“It’s fine.”
“Josh.” Michael laughed again. “You have to give me more than that. You’ve wanted to be a doctor since high school.”
“Residency is residency. Lots of long hours. Lots of sickness and death.” I flashed a hard smile. “You know a lot about that.”