The Truths We Make (House of Poe #1)

12. Deep Echoes

Deep Echoes

Thursday, Present

M y blood runs cold, my pinky twitching beneath the paper. I’m still stretched against the wall, holding it as if it can hold me up. Instead, it tears under the weight of my arms that drop in shock. Flight mode kicks in the second my feet touch the hard concrete of the floor. I don’t even lift my eyes to confirm who’s standing in front of me. I don’t need to.

“Oliver, I’m leaving,” I say loudly, unsure of where he could be and terrified to look around.

I can only hope he realizes I don’t just mean from this room.

Head still bent down, I shuffle my feet, only to find a scruffy pair of work boots appearing in front of them. The left toe is so dry, the leather is cracking. My heart jumps into my throat as I shift to go around them. They move with me, blocking my path forward. Thin, fragile hands I don’t remember hold out, pumping up and down as if I am a wild thing in need of soothing. I throw my head back with breakneck speed, glaring as hard as I’m able to stare down the man responsible for my failed escape.

Except, he isn’t the same man I remember. His face is sallow and pale. Yellow skin stretches under his eyes and down his neck in between the bright purple of bruises. His hair has been shocked white from root to tip and there’s more missing teeth than one’s left in his head. If it weren’t for his eyes, the same color as mine, I would believe him a stranger.

“Now, Eve , normally, I think I’d let you leave,” my dad says sternly, almost as if he’s been a parent all along. “I know you ain’t got a lot of love for me no more, and while I wish you did, I can’t say I don’t understand why not. But… this may very well be the last time I ever see you. So, I’m hoping you’ll have some pity on an old man and have a chat with me.” His arms are stretched and moving with each other, a maestro trying to lull me into a credenza of his making.

Somehow, it works. I can't move. I'm rooted in this nightmare, paralyzed by his words and the look on his face. Damn my curiosity and every need I have to know why . He takes my stillness as his chance to pull the trap that'll leave me no choice but to stay.

“I'm dying, Puddin'.” His eyes are sorrowful, the look of a man on the edge of being consumed by his regrets. We breathe it in for a second. Two. Before he continues, voice just above a whisper. “Your friend said you would stay. That you would hear me out. So, this is it. What are you gonna do, girl?”

Dying. The word vibrates through my ears into my teeth, tasting of metal. I search for words, for a decision, that I can make. He doesn't have long, is all that greets me. Either way I go, I lose, and I hate that he's put this guilt and regret in my path of retreat.

I step back and sink my weight into the chair, the only consent I can give for him to continue his story. Let him say what he has to say, and then you can go, Eve. That'll assuage your morals and your curiosity. Find what Paxton left, then go. As for him? You owe him nothing. The voice in my head is my mother's and an odd determination returns. I can get through this.

My father moves to the benched side, scooting in, more delicate than I've ever seen him. Gone are the hard plops on the vinyl and banging elbows to the table. It's replaced with ginger knees and shaky hands I can’t believe I was ever afraid of.

He's old. Much older than I realized. And he's sick. If I were to guess, cancer, since I’ve seen it before. But I doubt even now he’d tell me what's wrong. That's not why he's trapped me here.

I hear the scrape of metal on the concrete floor as Oliver pulls up another chair beside me. Dark brows scrunch and meet over weary eyes. He doesn’t want to do this anymore than I do. But he will. For Paxton. For me, a voice in the back of my head whispers. He grabs my hand, twining his fingers with mine under the table.

“You’ve got us here. Now what is it you have to say?” Oliver asks, pointed and sharp.

Dad eyes him. “I never liked you. Or your brother, for that matter. Didn’t care for you taking away my girls. Pretending they were yours when they belonged back home. But as long as Isabel had the Poes behind her, I didn’t stand a chance of changing her mind. Or Eve’s, I’d guess. You all just couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

He looks over at me and sighs. The weight of it brings his head down, hands cupping in front of him, defeated. It wasn’t them that kept us away , I think, but don’t say.

“It don’t matter now though. You won. I hardly recognize the girl anymore,” he waves toward me, still addressing only Oliver. “Hell, I knew that years ago. I knew I messed up, but I did everything I could to bring her back. When nothing worked, I had to admit defeat.”

My heart feels swollen remembering the letters. The pleas. So many times, I had written back, but I could never bring myself to send them. What good could it possibly do to repair our bond? What could possibly be said that would ever make me feel whole again?

His eyes stay focused on Oliver, as his hands continue to rub at the table in fits and starts. “But then, a boy I thought I might recognize came stumbling in here looking for me. Asked around, found out I played cards most days in the backroom. He wanted to know if I remembered him and if I was ready to make amends with my daughter.”

He looks at me, eyes glassy with what I imagine is excitement. Paxton . He has to be the boy my dad is talking about. I squeeze on Oliver’s hand with everything I’ve got, but he’s frozen, his fingers staying solid but unmoving in mine.

“He had no right to offer that to you,” I say, the familiar irritation at Paxton’s meddling rushing to the surface, even if it’s not polite to be angry with a dead man.

“And yet, you’re here. He said you would be. Told me that if I showed up, eventually you would too. I’m just glad you weren’t too late. I started getting worried I wouldn’t make it much longer. Looks like he knows ya better than you give him credit for, Puddin’. ”

I release Oliver and put both my fists on top of the table, wanting to scream that he doesn’t know me at all. That just because I showed, doesn’t mean I’ll forgive. Just because we share blood doesn’t mean we’re family. Not anymore. But Oliver beats me to the punch before I can say anything.

“When? When did Paxton make you this deal?” Oliver asks.

Dad reaches into his pocket, pulling out what looks to be a photo. He stares at it while he answers.

“Oh, probably a little over three months back. Him and some friends. We sat, and they drank. I’ve been sober now going on three years. We chatted. I told him all the things I wanted to say to you. Told him about my diagnosis and that it ain’t looking good or long for me. He paid. Left me a few extra bills too, to help with the medical stuff, he’d said. Then he asked me to take this picture with the promise that I’d give it to you when you showed, along with a message.”

He holds out the photo between us, eyes only for me. I gingerly place my fingertips on it and try to draw it towards me. It doesn’t budge.

“Now, wait just a minute. I want to tell you somethin’ before I give you this. Puddin’.”

I feel the anger of his ultimatum deep in my toes. He may have changed, but no one can splice every part of themselves. And my dad was nothing if not an opportunist. I let the irritation show in my eyes, but he doesn’t waver.

“Evangeline Owen Pierce. I love ya more than anything else in the world. I messed up. A lot. And there is enough I’ve got to atone for in the end. I know that. I’ve never been any good for ya, but it wasn’t because I didn’t love you. No.” He is on the edge of tears, voice drowning in the wet, snotty suck of them. I feel my rage dissipate, a dam breaking in the face of remorse and empathy that’s trying to overwhelm me.

“I didn’t know how to be a dad or a husband or even a good man. And I hated that. Hate that. It’s made me miss so damn much. And now, there’s no more time. But I need you to know that I loved you in all the best ways I knew how. And that these boys, this family, loves you. And I’m grateful for that, I am , but please don’t let it overshadow that I do, too.”

The sound of his voice is like a noose around my neck. It’s tying me to the man he should’ve been, the one he wanted to be, and threatening to pull the floor out from who he was. He’s broken, crumbling, hands fiddling with the air, as if he could manifest a drink where there isn’t one. But his eyes bore into me, driving home the sincerity of his words .

I don’t forgive him. I can’t. My fingers flex as I try to shake out the nerves of it all. My body wants to recoil, to take flight from this mess. But I know that if I don’t do something different, right here, right now, this moment will replay on loop for the rest of my life.

He may not deserve my forgiveness or my friendship or my time, but in this moment, I have to show him my love. All of it. Show him the letters I always wanted to send. The hope I always held that he would come back, be better, and allow me to be his little girl again.

I’ve been carrying the weight of it for so long that I’m not sure how to let it go. It’s as if my soul has frozen, the shape of it molded in. But I need to try.

I let go of the picture. He must not have been holding on tight, because it drifts unbidden to the table. I get up, chair squealing as I shove it back, my hand gripping the top of it for strength and balance. I must look as uncertain as I feel. Both men jump up, too. Oliver’s hands are already waiting as if to snatch me up and carry me away from here.

“Eve, wait, I’m sor—” My dad starts.

But he doesn’t get to finish. I round the booth and slide my arms around him, tears fresh on my skin. They burn with pain and injustice. In ‘what could have been’ and ‘what never was’. They scorch the reminder that the only reason it hurts so much is because I love him. I’ve always loved him, even when I didn’t want to.

“I love you, Daddy,” I whisper to him, angry but true.

The rest doesn’t matter. Right here, in the dark recesses of a dingy old bar room, I let it all go. Just for this moment, I’m not searching for peace. I’ve found it. One memory in the vault of a few worth keeping. And somehow, I know it’s enough.

His body feels thin in my arms, the bones jutting in places they shouldn’t be. I hold him, careful not to squeeze. He doesn’t have the same worries I do. He envelopes me. The tobacco I remember, even if I’m unsure how, swirls into my lungs as his clothing releases any last wisps of air between us. I know I’m crying. I’m pretty sure he might be too. It doesn’t matter. The entire bar could be staring at us, the sky falling down around our feet, and I’m not sure we would notice. Who cares enough about an old man’s tears?

A throat clears. Music turns on. Someone comes through the door hollering for the bartender to pour him something cold. My dad steps back and just like that, it’s over. He’s wiping the sweat and snot and salt away, looking for all the world as if life didn’t just shift on its axis. He laughs. Thick and phlegmy, a cough sticking to his lungs at the end.

“I am so glad you came, Puddin’. You have no idea how much this means to an ol’ dog like me.”

And he’s right, I don’t. But I know what it means to me. My chest is already feeling lighter, even if my head is throbbing and my nose is plugged. I needed this too, and I don’t think I could tell anyone how grateful I feel to be given the chance before he was gone. The only person who knew has already left us.

My eyes drift over to the table, but the photo is gone. I can only guess Oliver pocketed it while we were busy saying goodbye. I step back, letting the last of my dad’s hold on me drop. Oliver stands there, waiting for my cue.

“Well, Dad. We’ve got to be heading out. We have a plane to catch and the rest of a funeral to attend…” I say.

This will probably be the last time we ever see each other and I’m not sure how to say that kind of goodbye to a man I both hardly know and have known my whole life. He must feel it, too, with the way his hand cups the back of his head, scratching out the scruff. But he doesn’t let it sour his mood.

“Always jetting off. That’s the life these boys’ll give ya. No judgments. We were just always destined for different things, I guess.” He takes another step away from me and toward the bar. “We’ll be seeing you around, Puddin’. You tell your momma I love her, too. And not to blame herself for none of it. And Oliver… take care of her, will ya?”

The stillness stretches. Oliver gives in and nods.

“Bye, Daddy,” I manage to get out around the knot in my throat.

He turns away and waves behind him. He doesn’t glance back. His steps don’t falter. He knocks twice on a door behind the bar and then disappears through its hazy brown wood. I’m stuck in time, staring into an ever-fraying space. My eyes blur from the strain of trying to hold on. Thankfully, Oliver pulls me out of it with his palms on my cheeks. He tilts my face toward him. We share three breaths before either of us can speak.

“You ready to get out of here?” he asks.

He doesn’t need to say it twice. I’m already gone.