The Contradiction of Solitude Page 22

  Now there were reporters and cameramen outside our house all of the time.

  Mom started sneaking us out the back door and through our neighbor’s yard.

  “No he’s not!” I yelled in her face. Tasha curled up her lip and rolled her eyes.

  “He murdered a bunch of girls, Layna. He’s a total nut job. What if you’re a nut job too?”

  I ran away. Far, far away. I tried to hide from the taunts and the sneers.

  But most of all I missed him. I missed my father.

  And I hated the stars.

  The stars named Stella. And Jessica. And Emma. And Elizabeth.

  I hated Amelia. So much!

  I hated them all.

  Those stupid, stupid stars.

  My daddy had lied. Those stars weren’t for me.

  They were his.

  And now he was paying the price for taking them.

  I thought about the house. The one on the outskirts of Norton Hill. The place my dad had taken me when I was eight years old.

  On that cold, cold night when everything changed.

  When I felt the click inside of me and I knew that I was different.

  All because of the man I called Daddy.

  It came to me in flashes. Bits and pieces. Like a movie. Like something that happened to someone else in some other life.

  I could never recall everything from that night all at once. My brain shut down. Refused to function.

  Only flashes.

  Parts.

  Not the entire thing.

  My subconscious knew I couldn’t deal with that.

  Not yet.

  But one day…

  I got dressed and took my time with my hair and makeup. I wanted to look pretty.

  Though I wasn’t sure why.

  “Is Daddy a psycho?” I asked Mom after I got home from school. I had heard it all day. The ridicule.

  My mother didn’t look up from her magazine. Since Daddy had gone away, Mom had been a lot worse. She used to ignore me before, but now it’s as though she wished I were never there.

  I had known for a long time that she had stopped loving me. I could still remember being a young girl, and my mother putting bows in my hair. She had kissed me and hugged me and loved me then.

  But as I got older that stopped.

  And my father’s affection grew.

  I had never felt the loss of my mother’s love because my father made up for it.

  But now that he was gone, I felt the emptiness. The loneliness.

  “Mom, everyone is saying Daddy is a nut job. Is he?”

  Even though I had always been secure in my father’s devotion, I knew, with confidence, that there was something different about my daddy. He wasn’t like Tasha’s dad. He was something else.

  I knew that even before the night at the house in the woods.

  A night I had a hard time remembering. Only in chunks that my brain could handle.

  I most certainly didn’t think of him as a psycho.

  He was my dad.

  “Stop asking me silly questions, Layna. Go to your room,” my mother answered dully. Never looking at me.

  I hated her. So much. She was weak. She didn’t deserve my father.

  We would have been better off without her.

  I saw the pair of scissors lying beside her on the table and I thought about picking them up. About burying them into her neck. About watching the blood spurt out of her artery. Onto the floor.

  We would be better off. Without her.

  There was a noise behind me and I looked over my shoulder. Matty peeked around the doorway, peering into the kitchen.

  “Layna? Is Daddy coming home?” Matty loved Daddy too. But not as much as I did. But enough. Enough to make me love my brother just a little bit. Enough.

  “Come here, Matthew,” my mother called out, holding her arms open for her son.

  Matty ran to Mom. She wrapped her shaking arms around him. I was forgotten.

  Always forgotten.

  When I was finished getting ready, I walked out into the hotel hallway and headed for the elevator. I went out into the bright, bright morning.

  I found Elian sitting on a bench underneath a copse of trees.

  He looked up as I approached but said nothing. His eyes were dead once again.

  “I’m ready,” I said, fiddling nervously with my purse. Nervously?

  “I don’t like this, Layna,” Elian remarked, and I heard him. I really did.

  But there was nothing to be done about it.

  I was going to see my father.

  It had to be done.

  “I want to get there before noon. So we should get going.” Elian shook his head in quiet disbelief. Then he got up, keys in hand, and headed towards his car.

  He stopped after a few steps and held his hand out. Towards me. For me to take.

  Touching me. Finally.

  We went palm to palm. Full of questionable love.

  “I’ll wait out here for you. I’m not going in there,” Elian stated once he pulled into the parking lot.

  “Okay. Thank you, Elian. For coming with me. I know this is just as hard for you.” It was important that I tell him that. He deserved to hear it.

  “Just go and get it over with so we can put this behind us and move on,” Elian said gruffly as I leaned in to kiss him.

  Move on?

  Is that what I was doing?

  Trying to move on?

  Elian gripped my hair at the back of my head and held me still as he claimed my mouth.

  Taking. All of me.

  This time.

  I gave it to him.

  I slipped out of the car before I could hesitate.

  I headed for the front of the prison and went inside. I passed through metal detectors. I had a pat down or two. I handed over my ID and the guard checked it to make sure my paperwork was in order.

  When he realized who I was there to see, I noticed the twist of disgust on his lip. The sweep of his eyes up and down my body, as though trying to match the beautiful woman with the vicious killer.

  He didn’t realize we were one and the same.

  Right?

  Never.

  Absolutely.

  The guard took my hand and stamped the back and waved me through another series of metal detectors.

  My heart started to flutter madly in my chest. Thump. Thump. Pitter. Patter.

  It cracked. It split open. It was vulnerable. To him.

  I was led into a room with a row of five chairs and a wall of plexiglass. I was told to sit down and pick up the phone.

  I did as I was instructed and then I waited.

  And waited.

  My hand shook as it gripped the grimy phone to my ear.

  “Hold my hands, Lay, don’t let go.” Daddy swung me around. And around. I soared. Up. Up. And away.

  He laughed. His coal black eyes sparkling.

  “More, Daddy!” I cried.

  The door on the other side of the glass opened. I couldn’t look up. I stared at the counter. At the pencil scratches, meaningless vandalism.

  I heard the chair squeal across the floor as it was pulled out and he sat down.

  And I still couldn’t look.

  “Why do you always leave, Daddy?” I was sad. He was going fishing again. Why couldn’t he ever take me with him?

  I hated it in when he was gone.

  “I wish I could take you with me. Maybe one day…”

  “Lay.” His voice filled my ears and the tears started to fall.

  Fall.

  Fall.

  As I fell.

  Fell.

  A.

  Part.

  Memories came in sudden bursts. Like flashes of light that blinded and obstructed my view of the present.

  Because as I looked up into coal, black eyes, so much like my own, I didn’t see my father as he was now.

  I saw him as he was then.

  I had been sent home from school for fighting. It was stupid as
far as fights go. Riley wouldn’t let me play with her. I only wanted her to be my friend. But she said I was weird.

  I didn’t get sad.

  I didn’t really feel anything.

  I just wanted to hurt her.

  I took ahold of her hair and yanked on it as hard as I could. I liked the way chunks of it gave way in my hand. I smiled when she screamed and started to cry.

  The teacher pulled me off her, but I still had her hair wrapped around my hand. I wouldn’t let go.

  Mommy had to come to pick me up. The principal said he was concerned about such violent behavior in a Kindergartner. Mommy had yelled at me. I didn’t really hear her. I just remembered how much Riley had cried. I could still hear it in my head.

  But I felt guilty because I didn’t feel bad about it. Because I knew, deep down, I should feel ashamed.

  When Daddy got home from his store, Mommy told him about what had happened. I expected him to get angry like Mommy.

  I didn’t see Daddy much. He was always at his store in town. Or away on fishing trips. He didn’t spend a lot of time playing with me like other daddies did. Mommy said he was just really busy. And that he needed time away so he could distress. I didn’t know what that meant. But I didn’t like it.

  Mommy thought her cuddles were enough. That I was happy as long as she told me that she loved me.

  I was only five but I knew I didn’t care about that.

  Not at all.

  But that night Daddy came up to my room and sat down on my bed. I covered my face with my pillow, worried he would be angry.

  “Layna,” he said softly, pulling the pillow away.

  I was crying. I didn’t want to get into trouble. Riley deserved it!

  “Do you want to tell me what happened today?” he asked. I loved looking at my daddy. He was handsome. Like a prince in a movie. Mommy said I looked like him. I liked when she said that.

  “I had to come home early,” I mumbled, kicking my feet back and forth over the edge of the bed.

  “Why?” he prompted.

  “Because I pulled Riley’s hair.” I wouldn’t tell him all of it. Then I’d really get into trouble.

  “That’s not all, is it, Lay?” How did he know? Mommy didn’t even know. Riley was crying too much to say anything.

  I shook my head.

  “What else did you do?” His voice was so quiet. He smiled. Encouraging. I scooted closer to him and he pulled me onto his lap. His strong arms hugging me.

  I snuggled down into his chest and felt good. Daddy wasn’t mad at all. But he might be when I told him the rest.

  “Tell me, Layna,” he ordered, his voice hard.

  “I cut her,” I whispered.

  “You did?” he whispered back, his eyes bright. Brighter than the sun.

  “I took a pair of scissors and I cut her arm. She bled a lot. Then I pulled her hair.”

  Daddy hugged me even tighter and he kissed the top of my head.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked.

  “Because I wanted to,” I admitted to Daddy the real reason.

  “And how did that make you feel, Layna?”

  I looked up at my big, strong daddy and I smiled. “I felt good, Daddy. Really good.” My face fell. “That’s wrong though. I shouldn’t feel good because I made Riley cry. Even though she’s mean and won’t let me play with her.”

  I started to cry because I felt bad. So, so bad. I wanted to throw up.

  “Shh, Lay, stop crying. She’s not worth your tears,” he scolded and I stopped, hiccupping and struggling to calm down.

  “Mommy says—”

  “Mommy doesn’t know everything, Lay. And sometimes people can do things because they feel good. And you shouldn’t be made to feel bad because of that. There’s nothing wrong with being who you are.” He sounded angry.

  I was confused. I was always told hurting others and putting your hands on people in a mean way was wrong.

  “But it’s not nice to make someone cry.”

  Daddy pulled back slightly and wiped the tears from my face with his thumbs. “Did she make you cry?” he asked, and I nodded.

  “Then you make them cry, Lay. You cut them. You make them bleed. And smile when it feels good. Don’t ever feel like who you are is wrong,” he told me. And I believed him.

  He rested his chin on top of my head and started to rock me. “Now no more tears for silly, stupid girls. Let me tell you a story.”

  “A story?” I perked up. Daddy had never told me a story before.

  “A story about a star named Stella…”

  “My sweet, sweet Layna.” His voice unfurled, spread out. Taking up all the space in my heart.

  “Daddy,” I choked out. On a sob. On a sigh.

  He looked so much older. Deep lines cut into his forehead. His once straight nose was now crooked and off center and I knew at some point it had been broken. His black hair was streaked with grey.

  But his eyes were the same.

  Bottomless.

  Empty.

  But when they sparkled. It was just for me.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he rasped, lifting his hand and pressing it to the glass wall between us.

  I didn’t lift my hand. I kept it tight. In a fist. Away. Far away.

  “It’s been twelve years, baby girl. Twelve years,” he remarked, partially in wonder. Partially in bitter accusation.

  How could he blame me for staying away? How could he expect anything else?

  I opened and closed my mouth several times. Wanting to say…something.

  Wanting to say…nothing.

  “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Lay. I hardly recognize you.” I flushed under his scrutiny. Embarrassed. Delighted.

  He stared at me. I squirmed. Why was I here?

  Why had I come?

  What did I hope to accomplish?

  “Why?”

  My father sat up straighter and blinked in surprise. The sound of my voice startling him.

  “Excuse me?” he asked, frowning. He scratched at his chin. I recognized the tell. He was uncomfortable.

  Around me.

  “Why?” I said a little bit louder. A little bit stronger.

  Daddy cleared his throat and scratched his chin again.

  “What are you asking me, Layna? Why I’m in here? Why I did what I did?” His voice was hard. Giving nothing away.

  But giving me everything.

  “You told me once that if it made me feel good, I should never apologize. I should never feel bad for being myself. Was that it? Were you just being yourself?” I asked him.

  I had to know.

  I had to know.

  My father leaned in closer to the glass that separated us. He looked at me. He looked in me. He looked through me.

  “What is this about, Lay? You can tell me. You could always tell me anything.” Whisper soft and full of so much love.

  For me.

  His little girl.

  The little girl he created to be just like him.

  Was it intentional? Or was it, just like so many things, a victim of circumstance? Genes and DNA wrapped up in dark hair and black eyes. A soul as wicked as his.

  “I feel it, you know,” I let out. I patted my chest. “In here. I feel it all the time.”

  Daddy smiled.

  “That’s because you’re like me, Lay. You always have been. My little, little girl,” he said softly. Reverently.

  “Tell me why,” I insisted.

  I thought about Elian waiting for me out in the car. His sister Amelia. The way her death shaped the person he had become.

  Broken.

  Because of the man on the other side of the glass.

  I should hate him.

  And I did.

  But there were other things mixed up with all the loathing. All the fear.

  Home.

  “They were my stars,” my father said, scratching at his chin again.

  “What does that even mean?” I deman
ded, feeling myself getting irritated by his evasion.

  Elian. Sweet, unconditional Elian. He loved me no matter how horrible I was. No matter what monsters lurked inside.

  Now was the time I either slayed the beast.

  Or embraced it.

  “You tell me, Lay. I know you have your own stories to tell.” He smiled again. That sick, confident smile. This man had been my entire world for so long. Even when I despised everything that he was, he still existed as the focal point of it all.

  Just by being alive, he dictated the life of his daughter. And his son. And his wife.

  “Aren’t you going to ask about Matt? About Mom?”

  Did he even know that the woman he had married; the woman who had slept ignorantly beside him had died? Finding her oblivion at the bottom of a bottle of pills?

  His expression was perpetually neutral. No smiles. No heartfelt sentiments. Those were reserved for me.

  I thrilled at being special.

  Always.

  Daddy didn’t respond. He didn’t ask any questions.

  Because he didn’t care.

  He bowed his head down, rubbing at his temple before looking at me again. “Tell me your stories, Lay. Just like you used to.”

  Is this what I came here for?

  The emotional games? The mindful manipulation?

  The way he twisted me up into knots? Dangerous knots that I could never break free of?

  So I could tell him my stories? And lay my soul bare for him to pick apart and take the things he liked?

  The things he wanted to keep…for himself?

  I swallowed thickly. My tongue felt numb in my mouth. My lips incapable of creating words. This was the same indirect conversation I had always had with him.

  “I told you to stay in the car, Layna,” my father scolded. He wasn’t angry. Frustrated?

  Flustered?

  No. My daddy didn’t get flustered.

  I looked at the girl in the chair. Her mouth gagged, her hands tied. Her feet bound.

  “Who is she, Daddy?” I asked, my voice small.

  “Who do you think she is, Layna?” he asked, changing in an instant. Bestowing his patient smile on his favorite child. A devoted father. A caring parent. Not a man who had a terrified girl strapped to a chair.

  I felt scared.

  So scared.

  And then I wasn’t.

  Daddy pulled out my fear and threw it away. Reminding me again why he was the best daddy in the world.