Chapter 8: The Conversation That Should Have Happened Years Ago
Dan came home at eleven forty-seven.
Ryan's car was in the driveway.
Dan sat in his own car for three minutes before he came inside.
I watched from the kitchen window.
He walked in through the side door, the way he always did.
Stopped when he saw the three of us at the table — me, Ryan, Carol — with three cups of tea and his letter in the center.
He looked at the letter.
Then at Carol.
"You read it," he said.
"She showed me," Carol said.
"Sit down, Dan."
"I don't want to—"
"Sit down." Her voice was quiet and completely firm.
"Please."
He sat.
He didn't look at me.
He looked at the letter.
"I meant what I wrote," he said.
"I know you did," I said.
"And I'm not going to agree to it."
His jaw tightened.
"I'm not here to fight with you," I said.
"I want to tell you something, and I want you to hear it before you say anything back.
Can you do that?"
He didn't answer.
But he didn't leave.
"I know about Diane," I said.
His head came up.
"I know about the note on the table and the locked door.
I know that was thirty years ago and I know it still lives in this house." I kept my voice level.
"I know about Michael.
I know Carol heard you in the hospital and never told you she heard you, and I think that's something the two of you need to talk about.
Not me — you and her."
Dan looked at Carol.
His face had gone very still.
"I heard you," Carol said.
Her voice was steady.
"I've known since that day.
I should have said something.
I didn't know how.
I'm sorry."
The kitchen was absolutely silent.
Dan's hand, flat on the table, moved slightly.
His fingers pressed down.
"You heard," he said.
Not a question.
Just the word, landing.
"Yes."
He looked at the table.
A long time passed.
"I'm not asking you to fix thirty years in one morning," I said.
"I'm not asking you to be a different person.
I'm asking you to let us live here without walking on glass.
I'm asking you to talk to someone — a professional, not us — about the things that are making you this hard to be around." I paused.
"And I'm asking you to close the door.
Not because I'm telling you what to do in your house.
Because it's a small thing and it matters to me, and I matter to your son."
Dan's eyes moved to Ryan.
Ryan had been quiet the whole time.
Now he leaned forward.
"Dad," he said.
"I love you.
I've watched you carry this my whole life.
I don't want to watch it anymore." His voice didn't waver.
"We're not going anywhere.
We want to be here.
But not like this."
Dan looked at his son for a long time.
Then he looked at the letter on the table.
He reached out and picked it up.
Folded it once.
Twice.
Set it down again.
"I don't know how to talk to someone," he said.
"A professional.
I wouldn't know where to start."
"I'll find someone," Ryan said.
"You just have to go."
Another silence.
"The door," Dan said.
He wasn't looking at any of us.
"I didn't know anyone knew why."
"I know," Carol said.
"And I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you that I did."
His hand on the table moved again.
This time Carol reached across and put her hand over it.
He didn't pull away.
"Okay," he said.
Quietly.
To the table, the way he always spoke when the words cost him something.
"Okay."
It wasn't everything.
May you like
It wasn't fixed.
But it was the first true thing he had said in the room in a long time, and all three of us recognized it for what it was.
