More Than We Can Tell

My father sits in one of two armchairs by the window, which takes me by surprise. After the hospice realization, I expected to find a bed-bound invalid. He’s wearing a green sweater and a pair of jeans. An IV line disappears under his sleeve, and a bag of fluid hangs suspended behind the chair. A plastic tube wraps around his face to feed him oxygen, too. Otherwise, this could be a room anywhere.

He hasn’t said anything. I haven’t either.

Josie is between us, efficiently checking his arm, checking the IV monitor, checking the oxygen tank. Silent motions so she doesn’t get in our way.

I want to beg her to stay in the room.

At the same time, I want to beg her to leave.

Everything about him is thin. Thin, graying hair. Thin skin. Thin. The clothes all but hang on his frame. His cheekbones jut out from his face, making his eyes look deeper than I remember. He should be in his late forties, but he looks ten years older. Maybe twenty. I could pick him up and break him.

I think of that moment in the kitchen, when I admitted that Matthew makes me nervous, how Declan said, Rev. Seriously. You’ve got that kid by like forty pounds, and I said Matthew didn’t make me nervous that way.

That feeling is identical to what I’m feeling now.

No, not identical. What I’m feeling now is amplified times a billion.

I don’t want to say hello. I don’t want to be the first to speak.

I want to hold a pillow over his face and finish whatever his body has started.

Josie completes whatever she needed to do, and she slips out the door. It closes with a gentle click behind me.

“Ah,” my father says. “Now I see.”

His voice makes me want to cower, and I have to hold very still. “Now you see what?”

“I see the boy trying to be a man. Your e-mail amused me.” He laughs softly. “Your demand to speak face-to-face. As if you were taking something I did not want to give.”

My phone pings with a text message. I ignore it. “How did you know where to find me?”

He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

I don’t think he’s going to answer me, but he glances at the door. “There was a woman here. A former judge. We became friends. I spoke of how I wanted to find my long-lost son. She pulled some strings for me.”

There was a woman here. He convinced a dying woman to do him a favor. My father, a man who convinced an entire congregation of his benevolence. Of course.

“Why did you want to find me?”

“ ‘The rod and reproof give wisdom, but a child left to himself brings shame to his father.’ Have you been left to yourself, Abraham?”

The name hits me like a bullet. I flinch. “That’s not my name anymore.”

“I gave you that name. It is yours whether you want it or not.” He pauses. “Abraham.”

I flinch again. The name dredges memories from somewhere deep inside me. I want to get down on my knees and beg forgiveness. The instinct is so powerful.

But then I think about what he said. A child left to himself brings shame to his father.

It’s a verse from Proverbs. The words stick in my mind, poking at me, until I figure out why. I look at him. “The verse is that a child left to himself brings shame to his mother.” I pause, thinking of Mom’s palm against my cheek last night. You grew into such a generous, kind young man.

I focus on that feeling. It’s almost enough to chase my father’s influence out of my head.

He looks surprised that I’ve corrected him. “I believe it’s open to interpretation.”

Of course he does. “Fine. Interpret however you want. I haven’t brought shame to my father or my mother.”

“Perhaps I should be the judge of that.”

“You’re not my father anymore.”

“Abraham, I am still your father. You are still my son. Nothing can change that.”

I grit my teeth. Another verse comes to mind, stopping fury before it comes out of my mouth. A soft answer turns away wrath; a harsh word stirs up anger. “Stop,” I say, but my voice sounds weak instead of soft. “Stop calling me that.”

“You’ve been gone away too long, Abraham.” His voice is gentle. “I can see how the world weighs on you. Come sit by me.”

My heart slows, just by virtue of that tone in his voice. When I was a child, I learned to crave it. A gentle voice meant I had a chance to get things right.

I can’t say anything. I’m worried that my mouth will open and I’ll promise him everything he wants.

“Come,” he says again. He doesn’t say my name. “Let me see how you’ve grown. You’ve obviously kept up your lessons. I’m proud of you.”

His words hit their target. I sit in the other chair.

He reaches out and puts his hand over my own. My hand shakes, but I don’t pull it back.

“Do you know why I chose that name?” he says. “After your mother lost her battle with evil, I knew you would have to be strong to overcome those forces. I knew you would be tested again and again. So I named you Abraham.”

Of course I know this. He used to tell me all the time.

I’ve read the whole story. The ultimate test was when God asked Abraham to kill his own son, and he actually went to do it, hoping God would intercede.

Every time I read that passage, I wonder about that level of faith.

My father keeps talking. “I knew you would be tested again and again. When they took you from me, I knew that would be your biggest test of all. I knew you would come back to me. And you have.”

I haven’t.

But I can’t say the words. Because I have. I’m here.

I want to close my eyes and think of Geoff and Kristin.

Mom and Dad.

Not Geoff and Kristin. Mom and Dad.

I take a long, shuddering breath. Mom was right. I should never have come here.

He’s more than a man. He always has been.

“What do you want?” I say.

“I want to die,” he says simply.

I stare at him. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” He lifts his hands. “Do you not see? Do you not see what has become of me?”

I still don’t understand.

“This pain. This is my test, Abraham. The agony. This is my punishment for letting you go. And now you have returned.” His arms drop, and he rests his hand on my forearm. He gives it a squeeze.

I wonder if he knows his hand is directly over the burn from the stove.

Maybe he does. My father does nothing that isn’t deliberate.

If it’s deliberate, it’s a mistake. It’s a reminder. A needed reminder.

You were so afraid.

My arm turns to steel.

My father is still looking at me, his eyes almost haunted. “You have returned. My boy. This is a sign. A gift. You are here to end my suffering.”

It takes me a moment to realize what he just said. Shock freezes me in place. My breathing goes shallow.

“What?” I whisper.

“Your purpose here. You have come to end my suffering.”

A moment ago, I literally considered putting a pillow over his face.

Now the thought makes me sick.

“My lungs are filled with cancer,” he says. “It would take nothing. Your hand. For just a moment.”

I don’t know if he wants me to suffocate him or break his neck or something else I can’t even consider, but I fly out of the chair and back away from him. “No.”

“Yes. ‘It was by faith that Abraham obeyed.’ Do you not see?”

I see nothing. I see everything. I shake my head fiercely. “No.”

“I am in such pain.” His voice breaks. “How can you bear to witness such suffering?”

Time stops. The words hit me like a thousand knives. A hundred fists. A strike of lightning. A burst of flame.

“How could you?” I yell. “How could you witness such suffering? Do you know what you did to me? Do you have any idea?”

“I raised you,” he says gently, but now his voice has no power.

“You failed me.”

“I created you.”

“I don’t care.” I’m still yelling. I wish Dad were here to catch me now. “You are not my father.”

“I am. I suffer now because of your failings. You will do this for me.”

The door clicks. Josie pokes her head in. “Is everything okay in here?”

“No,” I say.

“We’re fine, Josie,” my father says kindly. “My son is upset. You understand.”

“Of course,” she whispers. She ducks away. The door clicks shut.

Everyone always does what he wants.

“Do it yourself,” I say, my voice a whispered rasp. “Do it yourself.”

“You know I cannot. I want to enter the kingdom with purity of—”

I slam my hand into the wall. “I AM NOT DOING THIS!”

Pain rockets up from my wrist. It’s good. I welcome the pain. It centers me.

I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what I expected. There’s no closure in this room.

I grab the door handle.

“Please,” my father says. His voice breaks again, and in it, I hear the pain he must feel. Despite everything, his pain tugs at something inside of me.

Some of it is empathy. Some of it is not.

I know pain like that.

“Please,” he says again, and his words have dissolved into a sob. “My son. Please. I am dying.”

“Good.”

Then I slam the door behind me and walk out.

I fly out of the parking lot. I need to get away from this place. My foot can’t step on the accelerator hard enough. Declan will have a fun project tomorrow, because I’m beating the hell out of his transmission.

When I reach the stop sign at the end of the street, I’m panting. The car feels insufferably hot.

I pull against the curb and turn on the hazard lights. I need to get it together.

I yank the sweatshirt over my head. Rub my face.

It would take nothing.

Your hand.

For just a moment.

I can’t breathe. I’m the one suffocating.

But then I can. Air flows into my lungs.

I said no. I said no.

He was just a man. A terrible man.

And he could not bend me to his will.

My wrist still aches from hitting the wall. I flex my hand, then stare at my fingers in wonder.

It would take nothing.

Your hand.

He wanted me to kill him.

After everything he did to me, it shouldn’t be shocking—but it is. He wanted me to kill him. Did he think I would do it because of my childhood? Because we’re strangers now?

Or did he think I would do it simply because he told me to?

Maybe all three.

I press my hands to my temples. Declan and I had a conversation in the car about violent thoughts. I’ve been so sure I would one day act on them.

I said no. I said no to my father. The one man deserving of my rage and violence.

I said NO to my FATHER. For the first time in … ever, I feel in control.

I’m giddy now. Breathless. Shaking.

I need to call Declan. He’s probably been staring at his phone for the last half hour. I run a hand through my hair to push it off my face, then dig through my pile of sweatshirt to find my phone.

Messages wait on the screen. Declan couldn’t even wait.

But then my eyes focus. Not Declan.

Emma.

Emma: No. Not OK.

with ethan

Emma Blue has shared her location with you.

My heart stops beating. When did she send these messages? I look.

Twenty minutes ago.

Twenty minutes.

with ethan.

How? How did that happen?

She shared her location. Dad has done that by accident before, when he gets frustrated and starts pushing buttons he doesn’t know how to use. But Emma is technologically savvy. If she shared her location, she needed me to know it.

No. Not OK.

Oh, Emma.

I stop thinking and call her. The line rings and rings and goes to voice mail.

I know nothing about Ethan except a name. I know he plays computer games. I have no idea where he lives. From my conversations with Emma, I don’t think she knows much more than that herself.

Guilt eats at me. I should have messaged her earlier. I was too twisted up with thoughts about my father.

Stop. Guilt later. Back to the messages.

A tiny map appears below the line about sharing her location. I tap it. She’s on the other side of South River. Maybe ten minutes away.

She’s also moving. Heading east. Away from me.

She’s in a car.

EMMA. WHAT DID YOU DO?

I shift into gear.

Wait. I switch to my messages with Declan. I send him my location. Then I send him a text to call me.

Then I go back to her map and snap the phone into the clip on his dashboard.

I need to get back to the highway. I floor the accelerator.

Declan calls me immediately. I push the button for speaker.

“I need you to call nine one one,” I say.

He must hear the urgency in my voice. There’s alarm in his. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“It’s not me. It’s Emma. She’s with a guy. Something’s wrong.”

“Wait. What?” His voice is incredulous. “Rev. What about your dad—”

“Later, Dec. Later. Help me.”

“Okay.” I hear rustling. “I need more information. What guy? Where is she?”

“I don’t know. His name is Ethan. She’s been talking to him on the Internet.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. She sent me her location. I’m trying to go to her.”

“You’re—Rev, what are you doing?”

“I don’t know! But I don’t know what else to do!” I blaze through a yellow light just as it turns red. I’m a mile from the highway. Emma’s dot continues moving.

“Okay. Chill out. Hold on.” He’s breathing hard. “Damn it, Rev. I should have come with you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Mom and Alan aren’t home. I don’t have another phone. I’m running to your house.”

I hear the sliding door. I want to tell him we’re wasting time, and he needs to call the cops.

At the same time, I know that’s impossible. We have no information. I don’t even know what kind of car he’s driving. What is Declan going to say? Tell the cops to look for a car with a girl wearing glasses.

“Rev. I’m in your kitchen. I’m putting you on speaker. Tell Kristin everything you know.”

I do.

All the while, I watch that dot move along the highway. I’m on Route 50 now, going way too fast. He must be speeding, too, but I feel like I’m gaining ground.

Kristin has dozens of questions, none of which I can answer. Do I know Emma’s mom’s name? What about her dad’s? Do I know anything at all about Ethan, like where he lives or goes to school? Do I know where Emma lives?

No. No. No. No.

Fear began as a tiny twisting tendril in my stomach, but it’s grown into something more invasive.

“Rev,” says Kristin. “Do you think there’s any chance she’s being dramatic?”

I think of Emma, with her walls built every bit as thick as my own. She would not send a text like that if she didn’t mean it. She would not send her location without cause.

“No,” I say.

The dot leaves the highway. “They’re on the other side of the Severn River,” I say. “They just went north on Ritchie Highway.”

They’re at least eight miles ahead of me, but I’m still catching up. We’re heading toward Arnold and Severna Park now. Ritchie Highway is full of traffic lights, and it’s nearing rush hour, so I’ll be able to catch up a little bit. Hopefully.

I realize the line has been quiet for a while. They’re letting me drive. I’m letting them think.

Then Kristin says, “Rev, what were you doing all the way down there?”

Her voice is so quiet, so careful, and I know she knows.

Emotion hits me so hard and fast, and I almost lose it.

It would take nothing.

Your hand.

For just a moment.

I need to tell her everything.

“Later,” I say, and my voice breaks. I take a breath and hold myself together. “Later, Mom. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says. “But Rev. Please tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” I say. “Mom. I’m okay.” I pause. I need to focus. “I’m at the exit. I’m getting on Ritchie. They’re still heading north.”

“When they stop,” she says, “tell me the address.” Her voice is firm. “Park far away. Wait for the police. Do you understand me?”

Her voice is so serious. “Yes.”

“You don’t know the situation, Rev. All you have is one text message. Do you—”

“I know. I know.”

The dot turns left. “They’ve turned!”

“What road?”

“Arnold Road.” I can see it, several blocks ahead. “There’s a CVS.”

“I know where it is.” She’s quiet for a moment. “There’s an old park-and-ride lot back there.”

An old parking lot. Fear expands into my chest.

“Hey.” Declan’s voice. “She’s on the phone with the police. I’m watching you on the map. You okay?”

“Yeah.”

The dot stops. I’m stuck at the light for Arnold Road.

“They stopped,” I say. I swallow. “Half a mile down. On the right.”

He repeats that for Kristin.

This light is taking forever.

Declan must take me off speaker, because his voice is suddenly low and clear. “Rev. You don’t know anything about this guy. I was kind of kidding about your dad having a gun, but—”

“I know, Dec. I know. I’ll wait.”

“Promise, Rev.”

“I promise.”

Then the light changes, and I make the turn to follow.