The Past in Colorado

He waded to shore, as some people came rushing over to see what the commotion was about. I don't know what he told them, but it sounded like adults talking, just like how the adults in all those Charlie Brown cartoons talked. I couldn't make sense of it. Then he picked me up and carried me to the car.

I cried the entire way home.

When we got inside the house, he took me to the bathroom and ran the water in the tub. He was pulling off my muddy shoes and socks, when suddenly I remembered leaving my little fishing pole at the park. I thrust out my hand toward the bathroom door, crying and telling him we had to go back and get it, but he said no. I began kicking my feet and squirming, and Dad grabbed onto my legs to hold them steady. He glared at me, saying sternly, "Jessica, that's enough." Stunned by his tone, I froze, staring back. Then he calmly finished undressing me and had me get in the tub. I remember standing in the water, crying as he picked up my dirty clothes. I began crying, begging him to take me back to get my fishing pole, but he ignored me. Then, with my clothes cradled in his arms, he rose and walked to the door. With his back to me, he paused for a moment, as I stomped my feet in the tub, still sobbing.

"It's broken, Jessie," he said.

My jaw dropped and I stared at him in silence. Then he glanced over his shoulder.

"I'm... I'm sorry. I stepped on it and it broke. I'll get you a new one tomorrow."

And then he stepped out and closed the door. I dropped to the tub with a splash, as tears streamed from my eyes.

"I wish I had another daddy!" I screamed.

A short time later, the bathroom door opened. Dad came in with my little plastic box of bath toys and set it by the side of the tub. I was staring down at the water, but turned my eyes to him, as he stood and turned to walk out. Although I wasn't crying as much, I was still angry with him. He didn't look at me, but in the scant few seconds it took for him to set my toys down and turn away, I could see that he'd been crying. His eyes were red and his lips tight and quivering. But just like a child, it didn't register that my words had hurt him. And as he walked out the bathroom, I said it again.

"I wish you weren't my daddy," I grumbled.

He stopped, one hand on the doorknob, and turned his head slightly toward me. His words trembled, as he softly replied, "I'm the only family you have, Jessie. I'm the only one that wanted to be your daddy."

***

As I stood in his office holding the picture in my hand, I felt my blood drain down to my feet. I picked up the other picture on the floor and carefully placed them atop the cabinet. When all the other frames were righted, I stood staring at them. There was a picture of me with my mom and dad on my third birthday. I was wearing a little green party hat and had cake all over my face, my mouth wide open and laughing. Mom and Dad were on either side of me, leaning down and smiling for the camera. My eyes slowly drifted from her face to mine, comparing our facial features. Then I looked at Dad. My face contorted and I whimpered.

"Jessie?"

Frightened, I screeched and whirled around. Stephen was standing in the doorway behind me, holding a cardboard box in his hands. He glanced down at the box, and then to me; went to speak, but stopped.

"I, uh..." Then he hesitated and sighed, saying, "I'll just... set this by your bedroom door. It's yours." Then he turned and walked away.

I glanced at the pictures on the cabinet and closed my eyes, slowly shaking my head. Something didn't seem right, but I knew I was upset and probably not thinking clearly.

A minute later, I stepped out into the hallway. Stephen was in the living room. He had set the coffee table upright and was kneeling down, returning the items to it that had spilled onto the floor. With his back to me, I quietly made my way from his study and turned to go upstairs. There sitting on the floor by my bedroom door was the cardboard box. I pushed it into my room with my foot and quickly stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

The box was heavy. I leaned down and lifted it, carrying it to my bed. Then I carefully opened the top and peered inside. It was filled with Dr. Seuss books, as well as others from my early childhood. Some were in tatters - covers with hard creases where they had been bent sharply and pages jutting out, as if torn. But most were in good condition.

As I reached in for a book, I saw a white envelope sitting against one side of the box. I slowly pulled it out and brought it to my lap. On the front of it was my name, in my dad's handwriting.

"Jessica"

I turned it over and opened the flap, and pulling out a folded piece of paper. I opened it and started to read. It was dated nearly ten years prior.

"Dear Jessica,

These books were very special to you, and to me, as well. When I first met your mom, she had already been collecting children's books for you, and these were among the first. She would read to you every night, and whenever she asked you to pick out a book, you would find one of these. They seemed to be your favorite.

When your mom died, you took it very hard. I don't think you understood the concept of death, though I tried to explain it as gently as I could. But at four years of age, you couldn't understand that Mommy would not be coming home. I tried to keep things as normal as possible for you and read to you every night before you went to bed. But to your young mind, it wasn't the same as when Mom did it for you. You would take the book from my hand and throw it across your bedroom and start crying. Eventually, I had to take them away.

A few years later, when I gave them back to you, I think the memories of your mom returned and I found you in your bedroom tearing the pages out of the books. So I took them away again and kept them hidden from you.

I hope you can understand my motives. I did it to protect you and your special books. You were my daughter, and I couldn't bear to see you crying.

These aren't simply children's books, but little storehouses of memories. I hid them from myself, as much as from you. Every time I saw them, I was reminded of your mom. And now I hope, as you read this letter, you can look at them and not feel pain and sorrow, but happiness at what you once had and what you still have.

All my love, Dad"

I set the letter to the side and wiped my nose, fighting back the tears. Then I reached inside the box and pulled out the book on top, setting it in my lap. It had a familiar feel, as I opened it and slowly turned the pages. There were a few rips and tears and a few places where I had drawn in it with a crayon. I closed it and took out another book. One after the next, I flipped through them all. Tears and rips, streaks and circles and scribbles made by different colored crayons. Inside the front cover of one was a short note from my mom.

"Happy Birthday Jessie! Love, Mommy"

I sniffed, as my eyes watered, and quickly closed it. Inside another book was a note from both my parents.

"Wow! 4 Years old! Happy Birthday, Sweetheart! All our love, Mommy & Daddy"

I began crying and closed the book, carefully returning the others to the box. Then I set it on the floor and lay back on my bed staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes, I closed my eyes, trying to recall my deepest memories of her, searching as far back as I could, but all I could see were shadows and faded images. I could remember sitting on my bed next to her, my arm around her waist, as she read to me. She seemed so much bigger than me. Then I opened my eyes and looked up at her with a smile. My dad was smiling down at me.

"You look tired," he said, brushing the hair from my face.

I nodded and crawled up to my pillow. It was all blurry, but I recall watching him reach down for something on the floor next to my bed. A second later he handed me a Raggedy Ann doll. Then he draped my blankets over me and smiled.

"'Night, Jessie."

"'Night, Daddy."

***

"Dad, who's Thomas McGowen?"

I was thirteen years old.

Dad was sitting at his desk, and when I said that name, he turned around in his chair. I was standing in his doorway holding a newspaper clipping. He quickly stepped over to me, and I handed it to him. He looked at it and asked where I found it. I told him I was going through some boxes in the attic and found it in my mom's old scrapbook. Dad glanced at me and I tried to smile, but he seemed distressed.

It was an obituary for someone named Thomas McGowen, killed in Vietnam.

"He was a friend of your mom," he said.

Dad walked to his filing cabinet and unlocked it, pulling open the top drawer.

"How'd he know her?" I asked.

He dropped the clipping into a folder, and then closed the drawer and locked it.

"They went to high school together," he replied.

The consternation in his voice was obvious, and it was apparent he knew more than he was saying. But his apprehension only fueled my curiosity. I didn't remember much of my mom and was always eager to learn more about her.

"Did she know him well?" I asked.

Dad was sitting at his desk with his back to me and held a pen, as he graded some papers for school.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"Who was he? Did they date or something?"

He sighed and set his pen down, slowly turning to me. I could tell by the expression on his face, he didn't want to talk about it any further. I swallowed and shrugged, trying to keep my lips closed so he wouldn't see my teeth chatter.

"Just curious," I said meekly.

Dad's eyes drifted down to the floor and he sighed again.

"Why won't you just tell me?" I muttered.

Then he closed his eyes and slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook his head.

"Jess, he got your mom... He broke your mom's heart. They dated and he broke her heart. Then he joined the army to get away from her and was killed in the war. That's all there is to it."

"Ok," I mumbled.

He turned back to his desk and picked up his pen.

To get away from her? That didn't make sense.

***

I awoke with a start.

Sitting up on my elbows, I gazed around my bedroom. The door was still closed and the bright light of mid afternoon that had been shining through my window was now replaced by the soft orange hue of late evening. Outside, I heard a car drive by the house and our neighbor's dog barking. Then I heard kids talking and laughing and the sharp panging sound of a basketball being bounced along the sidewalk.

I slowly swung my legs off the bed and sat up, running my palms under my eyes. Then I saw the box of books sitting next to the bed, and my memories returned - all of them. I looked at the box and sighed. Pushing myself off the bed, I crept over to the door and peeked out into the hallway. Stephen's bedroom door was wide open; it was dark inside. I looked to the stairs and could hear the television on downstairs in the living room. Carefully, I stepped into the hall and walked to the top step. I couldn't see his face, but his legs were propped up on the coffee table. I smiled, thinking I should go down and scold him for that. I always had to remind him not to use it as a footrest.

What was I going to say to him? I wanted to tell him how I was feeling, what had been going through my mind lately. I wanted to tell him about the bitter struggle going on between my heart and mind. Did I really want to go on with this? Isn't this incest? I cringed, thinking it was a horrible word. It sickened me, as much as anyone else, yet I was in love with my father; my mind saying one thing and my heart something else. So I was left to rely on my instincts and those were telling me it was ok.

But more than what I wanted to tell him, I wanted to ask of him, as well. He's older and wiser. He's been through traumatic pain once already. I could sense he was having the same troubled thoughts as myself, yet for some reason seemed to be weathering them easier. Or so it seemed.

"...the only one that wanted to be your daddy."

A surge of adrenaline shot through my heart, as I recalled his words.

"He got your mom..."

My heart started thumped in my chest.

"...to get away from her..."

I stood motionless, staring down into the living room. I heard the rustling of a newspaper, and then he crossed one foot over the other.

"Why?" I whispered.

He got her... What? What did he do to her? Why did he want to get away from her?

I quickly turned and dashed back to my room. Kneeling on the floor by the box, I jerked it open, sifting through the books. When I found the one I was looking for, I opened the front cover and running my finger over the words my mom had written inside.

"Happy Birthday Jessie! Love, Mommy"

I laid it open on the floor and searched through the box for the other book. With trembling hands, I slowly opened it and gazed at the inside cover.

"Wow! 4 Years old! Happy Birthday, Sweetheart! All our love, Mommy & Daddy"

The book slipped from my hands, and I slumped back onto the floor.

"Jessie? You ok?"

I gasped and whipped my head around. Stephen was smiling nervously down at me from the door.

"You ok?" he asked.

I slowly picked up the book and read the words again.

"Dad?" I asked nervously, closing my eyes.

"Yeah?"

I took a deep breath. "Who's Thomas McGowen?"

Stephen was quiet for a moment, but at last said, "Just... someone your mom knew from high school."

My fingers gripped the book tightly, and I breathed in deeply through my nose. I slowly opened my eyes and set the book on the floor, and then pushed myself upright. Stephen stepped from behind and put his hands on my arms.

"Jessie," he whispered.

I slowly turned to him, as tears rolled down my face. "What aren't you telling me?" I whispered. He squeezed my arms and dropped his chin, looking down between us. "Why is this so much easier for you?" I asked.

"It's not," he mumbled.

Shaking my head, I replied, "No... I know you. You would have stopped me, if you were..."

Then he raised his face and looked directly at me, his eyes red and watering. "It's been hard for me, too," he said.

I wiped my nose, forcing back my tears. I coughed, as my mouth pulled into a deep frown, replying "I know you too well. You're taking this way too easy, if I were... if you were really... my..."

Then he closed his eyes and a tear rolled down his face.

"What's in your file cabinet?" I stammered. "What're you hiding from me?"

He coughed and looked away, wiping his mouth. "I can't," he replied softly.

I wanted to break down and cry, but I couldn't. Not now. Not at this point. I didn't care how this ended, but I wanted it to end tonight and forever. I quickly wiped my face and took his hand in mine.

Stephen opened his eyes and pleaded with me. "I promised her," he said.

I tried to retain my composure and pulled his hand to my chest.

"Where were you on my third birthday?" I whispered.

His eyes clamped shut and he slowly shook his head.

"Jessie," he whimpered. "Please, don't."

"Show it to me," I said.

Leading him from my room, I guided him to his office downstairs and stopped in front of his filing cabinet.

"Just show it to me," I whispered, gently stroking his hand. "Is it about me?"

He had stopped crying and nodded, but still had a somber expression on his face.

"Show me," I said.

Stephen paused for a moment, and then fished the keys from his pocket. On one ring was a small silver key. He slowly pushed it into the lock, giving it a quick turn. There was a muffled metallic clank from inside the cabinet. Then we stepped back, as he slowly opened the drawer. Reaching inside, his hand trembled, as he withdrew a large manila envelope and timidly held it out to me. When I took it from him, I saw my name typed on the front.

"Jessica Anne -"

But where my last name should have been typed was a small piece of white masking tape with it hand-written across. The tape was obviously covering something, hiding something underneath.

As I held the envelope, I worked my fingernail under one corner of the tape. I carefully peeled it back until I saw the first three letters: "McG-". I gasped quickly, sucking my stomach in, and stopped pulling on the tape. I raised my eyes and looked at Stephen. He grimaced, whispering, "I'm so sorry, sweetheart." My chin quivered, as I lowered my eyes to the envelope and slowly handed it back to him with trembling hands. Then I glanced up at him. My knees were shaking and my teeth chattered.

"It's... It's ok," I squeaked.

I turned and slowly walked out of his office and went back to my bedroom.

After I shut the door, I walked over to my bed and collapsed onto it. Reaching for my pillow, I buried my face in it and cried for a very long time.

***

It all made sense now. I should have seen it sooner. Maybe I did and just didn't want to think about it. But my subconscious knew. That explained my instincts. That explained why all of this felt right.

At first I was angry with him for not telling me sooner. The pain it would have saved me - the sheer mental turmoil and emotional anguish I put myself through. For nearly two years, I had agonized over these conflicting feelings I was developing for him, the man I always assumed to be my natural father. For two long years, a bitter war had waged in my heart, and I come to find it was all for naught. I was mad. I was more than mad - I was livid. But in my heart, I couldn't bear to be angry with him. It just couldn't. Stephen had made a promise to my mom and kept it until I figured it out on my own. By that point, he had to be honest with me about the true nature of our relationship. And perhaps that was something else gnawing at his conscience. Not only was he in love with me, but he also carried this secret he was forbidden to reveal. But if only he could - if only he could tell me who I really was to him, it would have made it so much easer for me to fall in love with him. But he was also my dad, the only parent I ever truly knew. How do you tell your only child that you're not really their biological parent?

"Could you pass the meatloaf and, oh by the way, I'm not your real dad."

There's no easy, painless way to do it, which is why he never told me. And that was yet one more combatant adding to the melee in his own heart.

In the middle of the night, I awoke. The house was pitch black and all was quiet. I tiptoed to my bedroom door, and slowly opened it, the hinges creaking softly. I looked over to Stephen's bedroom, and the door was slightly open. I quietly walked to the bathroom and, a few minutes later, stopped by his door once more, peering inside. He was facing away from me, the blankets pulled tightly around his shoulders. I quietly crept into his room and slipped to his bed – our bed now. Easing myself under the covers, I pulled my legs up and rested my head onto the pillow, curling close to him.

***

When I awoke the next morning, I reached a hand for Stephen's side of the bed, but he was gone. I opened my eyes and sat up, looking at the clock. It was almost nine-thirty. I forced myself up and went to the bathroom, undressed, and took a long hot shower. I felt like I was hung over. I felt empty inside, emotionally drained and mentally vacant. The flames that had raged through me for so long were now fully extinguished, and the pain I'd been nursing was but a heap of ashes now. I'd grown so accustomed to hosting them that it seemed awkward, even unnatural, awake and not immediately start going in circles with them, sparring and jousting right off the bat. A weight had been lifted and my heart and soul were unchained. I felt like a prisoner freed after many years of confinement, but now that I was standing outside the walls, now that I had the freedom I had yearned for, I didn't know quite what to do. And though the pain was vanquished, the guilt fully eradicated and the tension released, what remained was a melancholy echo.