Seven Years

What a rotten day. Nothing had gone right. Someone had drawn a caricature of him, calling him a pothead, and posted it on several bulletin boards. Now his girlfriend was mad and refusing to talk to him. He kicked at a pebble and sent it careening under a car. If he found out who did that, he’d break their windshield – forget that, he’d break their face. His friends were still offish since the brush with the police last week – huh, as if he could call them real friends. He reached his truck in the middle of the high school parking lot and gave the tire a vicious kick. Even his truck was old and rarely started with the first crank. It had been his dad’s before him. He pushed the thought away quickly and opened the door. A flutter of paper caught his eye. Someone had stuck something under his wiper blade. He walked around the truck, grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket without looking at it. It was probably another copy of the caricature. It wasn’t until he was climbing out of the truck in his driveway that he paused to unfold it. His face suddenly went pale. It was Dad’s handwriting.

Marc –

I heard you were going to this school now. I’m glad to see the old truck is still running. But, that’s not why I’m writing.

Marc, you might hate me. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But, I’ve changed. I want to try to right the wrongs as best I can. I was so stupid to give you and your mother up for nothing.

If you forgive me, Marcus, write and tell me at this address: 2561 Azalea Trail, West Point, TX 72758

Love, Your Dad, Shawn Cullen

He leaned his head back against the truck and closed his eyes, his heart racing. His hands crumpling the letter into a wad.

“Dad?” It was his own voice, from years ago, high-pitched and childish. He was nine years old and shaking. “Dad? Where are you going?”

Dad didn’t look up from shoving his things into the suitcase. “Ask your mom.” His voice was bitter and filled with barely contained rage.

Marc’s hands were shaking as he grabbed at his father’s coat. “Dad, what’s going on?” He shook him off roughly. Marcus looked to his mother, but she was just looking on with sad, silent eyes.

Desperation took over. Marcus took hold of the suitcase and jerked with all his might, sending it to the floor. The contents scattered across the floor. Quickly he grabbed them and threw them across the room. “Don’t leave, Dad, don’t –“

There was a sudden blow to his mouth and he sat down hard, his lip bleeding. “Leave my stuff be, brat!” Dad roared, furious.

Marcus saw the booted foot lift and tried to dodge, but it hit him in ribs and sent him spinning. He lay there crying and gasping for air and he clutched at his side as his father grabbed his stuff and walked out.

Seven years. Seven years of silence, anger, pain. Seven years of hatred. Marcus was sixteen now, with a criminal record full of drug-related offenses. Sixteen with his wrists scarred from cutting. Suddenly Marcus whirled and jumped back into the truck. The engine gunned on the third try and he backed quickly out of the driveway.

The town was three hours away, but he seemed to arrive in no time at all. He pulled up in front of a row of duplexes. Jumping out, he ran, stumbling, to the door marked 2561. He knocked and waited, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, resting his chin on his chest. His blonde hair curtained his face. The door opened slowly, “Marc?”

Marcus didn’t move.

“Marc, does your mother know you’re here?”

“What do you think?” His tone was sarcastic. He shifted his weight to the other foot. “Dad? Why didn’t you care?”

His Dad looked a little taken aback. He had been prepared for questions on why he left, but not this. “Marc –“

“Was I not important to you at all? I’ve struggled with drugs, cutting, even suicide. Now I’m asking, Dad, did you care?” As he finished, he finally looked up to see tears flowing down his father’s face.

His father reached out and wrapped his arms around him. “I’ve not done right by you, but now I’ve found a Father in heaven that you need more than you need me.”