Her Story Read Free

awkward silence with forced conversations about how her classes were going and how the Red Sox had performed that week. She spent those first years choking on dozens of questions: Where had he been? Why had he abandoned her? Why on Earth did he want to start a relationship now? How did he find her? She had never asked him and had gotten various answers from her mother, depending on her level of alcohol consumption at the given time.
     
    But what was he getting at here? While her mind was racing with a million different responses, to this sudden attempt at parenting that was about two decades too late, she kept her mouth shut. She knew her voice would shake and that was something she definitely wanted to avoid. Once she started to get upset, her emotions just started to spiral, and it was nearly impossible to get them quickly under control. This personality trait was unfortunately one of the few qualities she had inherited from her mother. She just sat there like a scolded puppy, waiting for him to continue.
     
    Clearing his throat, yet again, he pulled something out of his jacket pocket. “Here,” he said, handing her an overstuffed, crumpled envelope. She shot him a sideways glance as she flipped it over, unfolded the flap on the pack. She pulled out a wad of folded papers. She scanned them briefly and just looked up at him, confused.
     
    “What the fuck is this?” she asked.
     
    “My will. And my life insurance policy.”
     
    “Yeah no, I can see that. Why are you giving this to me?”
     
    “Why wouldn’t I?” he replied, nonchalantly, dismissing her question with a shrug of his shoulders. He turned back to his coffee. She just stared at him, mouth open. She knew he could feel her staring at him. He squirmed a bit, shifting his weight and doing his best to ignore her.
     
    “Seriously? You’re just going to hand this to me and not… say… anything?” There was that quiver she had been trying to avoid. “What – are you dying or something?” He just dropped his head.
     
    “Do you gotta go and get all emotional about it? Of course I’m dying! We’re all dying. The docs just said I sped up the process by chain smoking for the last 50 years. Not much they can do about it now.” Another shrug.
     
    “So this is what? Your way of making amends for abandoning me to be raised by some random drunk you knocked up? This is your way of being a parent – showing up after I’m already fucked beyond repair and throwing some snide comments and money at me? I’m a bartender. I’m a train wreck. I’m the product of an alcoholic and a…a… a whatever the hell you are!” She could feel the eyes of the few other patrons turn toward them and she could feel the volume of her voice rising. “Let me tell you something – keep it. Keep all of it. Keep your will. Keep your Sundays. Keep yourself out of my life.” She stood to leave.
     
    “Will you quit being so fucking dramatic already? Jesus. Sit down.” She begrudgingly obeyed. But she wouldn’t look at him. She refused to look at him. “What did you want me to do, huh? Just wait and not say anything, have you show up here to wait for me, having no idea they already buried me? Huh? Or what, you wanted a phone call from my lawyer?”
     
    She knew he was right. But that didn’t change how upset she was, how unexplainably betrayed she felt. These Sundays had been the most consistent thing in her life, the only routine she had, and soon they were going to end. From the way John had made it sound, he could drop dead any day. Where would he be when it happened? Where would she be? Would he be alone? Would anyone even think to let her know? She realized now how little she knew about him, or, well, about his current life. He had shared select stories from his past with her, and she had discerned some information from comments and facts he had casually dropped into conversation. But did he live alone? Did he have a wife that was taking care of him, that would be