“Harry had fallen in love with a black man. His name was James Grant. He died on February 26, 1989.”
HERE IS THE THING ABOUT fury.
It starts in your chest.
It starts as fear.
Fear quickly moves to denial. No, that must be a mistake. No, that can’t be.
And then the truth hits. Yes, she is right. Yes, it can be.
Because you realize, Yes, it is true.
And then you have a choice. Are you sad, or are you angry?
And ultimately, the thin line between the two comes down to the answer to one question. Can you assign blame?
The loss of my father, when I was seven, was something for which I only ever had one person to blame. My father. My father was driving drunk. He’d never done anything like it before. It was entirely out of character. But it happened. And I could either hate him for it, or I could try to understand it. Your father was driving under the influence and lost control of the car.
But this. The knowledge that my father never willingly got behind the wheel of a car drunk, that he was left dead on the side of the road by this woman, framed for his own death, his legacy tarnished. The fact that I grew up believing he’d been the one to cause the accident. There is so much blame hanging in the air, waiting for me to snatch it and pin it on Evelyn’s chest.
And the way she is sitting in front of me, remorseful but not exactly sorry, makes it clear she’s ready to be pinned.
This blame is like a flint to my years of aching. And it erupts into fury.
My body goes white-hot. My eyes tear. My hands ball into fists, and I step away because I am afraid of what I might do.
And then, because stepping away from her feels too generous, I edge back to where she is, and I push her against the sofa, and I say, “I’m glad you have no one left. I’m glad there’s no one alive to love you.”
I let go of her, surprised at myself. She sits back up. She watches me.
“You think that giving me your story makes up for any of it?” I ask her. “All this time, you’ve been making me sit here, listening to your life, so that you could confess, and you think that your biography makes up for it?”
“No,” she says. “I think you know me well enough by now to know I’m not nearly naive enough to believe in absolution.”
“What, then?”
Evelyn reaches out and shows me the paper in her hand.
“I found this in Harry’s pants pocket. The night he died. My guess is that he’d read it and it was the reason he?
?d been drinking so much to begin with. It was from your father.”
“So?”
“So I . . . I found great peace in my daughter knowing the truth about me. There was immense comfort in knowing the real her. I wanted to . . . I think I’m the only person alive who can give that to you. Can give it to your dad. I want you to know who he truly was.”
“I know who he was to me,” I say, while realizing that that’s not exactly true.
“I thought you would want to know all of him. Take it, Monique. Read the letter. If you don’t want it, you don’t have to keep it. But I always planned on sending it to you. I always thought you deserved to know.”
I snatch it from her, not wanting even to extend the kindness of taking it gently. I sit down. I open it. There are what can only be bloodstains on the top of the page. I wonder briefly if it’s my father’s blood. Or Harry’s. I decide not to think about it.
Before I can read even one line, I look up at her.
“Can you leave?” I say.
Evelyn nods and walks out of her own office. She shuts the door behind her. I look down. There is so much to reframe in my mind.