“Better since our last visit. The doc changed my meds, so I’m sleeping like a baby.”
“That’s great. Although, I don’t know how anyone can sleep in a noisy prison.”
“Hey, what are you gonna do? Complain? So, how did it go with the interview? Did you get the job?”
“I did.”
“Congrats, kiddo. I knew you would.”
“Thanks, Peter.”
Peter Meyers was a man of contradictions. Intelligent, charming, personable–yet there he was, serving a lengthy prison sentence.
The man sitting across from me was my biological father, who’d gone off the rails after my biological mother died. I was four years old when he was arrested and imprisoned. My father had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.
I started asking about my birth parents when I was twelve. My folks sat me down and explained the situation to me. Their willingness to talk about my life, pre-adoption, was one of the reasons I loved them so much. They never hid the truth from me. It kept me grounded.
Mom and Dad often asked me if I wanted to see my real father. It took me a few years to build up the courage to do so. My first visit was a pretty big deal. I was angry with him for a long time before I realized that he was just a lost man without my mother.
“What’s your boss like?”
His question caught me off guard.
“Uhh, yeah. He seems to be alright. Time will tell, I guess.”
I didn’t dare expound on the sordid circumstances in which I’d first got acquainted with Max the year before. Some things were best left alone.
“He’s Russian,” I added.
Peter’s eyes grew smaller as if he were far away suddenly lost in thought.
“Russian?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I see.”
“What is it that you see? Oh, come on, Peter. You’re not going to be boring and stereotypical, are you?”
“That would be hypocritical, considering my current address,” he smirked.
“A smidge, yes. Anyhow. When are you meeting with the parole board again?”
“Next month.”
“What are your chances? Realistically.”
“Who knows? I’ve tried to be realistic about that before. But, the board, like any organization, can get it wrong. Will you come?”
I was under the selfish serving impression that perhaps my father was better off where he was. He’d been inside for so many years, who knew if he’d cope on the outside? Reoffending statistics were so high. Or was it because I didn’t want to feel responsible for him?
I didn’t answer Peter’s question. Instead, I deflected.
“Aren’t you concerned that your drug habit will overcome you on the outside, Peter?”
I didn’t consider Peter to be my true father. To be fair, he was never there for me. Ian and Claire Harris were my parents. But, that didn’t mean I didn’t care for Peter, because I did. He simply wasn’t father material. So, we developed a sort of ‘friendship’ instead. I said what I really thought, and he tried not to play the biological father card.
“I can’t say that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. But it’s all theory until I try. You didn’t answer my question, Angel. Will you come to my parole hearing?”