Retirement

It's been five days since you've checked your mail. The fault lies with the work you've been doing in cleaning out your mother's house after her funeral. You did volunteer, but you ended up wasting some of your holidays to do it. You had grown apart from your mother after your father's disappearance, so even though it was a bit hard, you aren't overwhelmed with grief. The loss of your father, however, still affects you. As expected, most of her things are thrown out or donated to charity. But the few items that you find make it worth taking on the job. You did suspect that these items were always in the house and are surprised that no one else in the family was interested in volunteering. These few items might provide you with early retirement. Especially the journal that used to belong to your father. It was the only thing that they could find after the plane crashed in the mountains.

Well, no one has asked you about your findings, and you won't tell them anyway. The journal is yours and is neatly tucked away in your coat pocket, patting it with your hand to make sure. Standing in front of your mailbox, you quickly glance around as you pull out the key. You open the box and notice there is not as much mail piled up as you expected during your absence. Grabbing the smaller than anticipated stack, you close and lock the mailbox and head to your apartment.

With keys still in hand, you unlock and open the apartment door. It's not as musty as it would typically be after five days, but remember that you left the bedroom window open a small bit to allow fresh air to enter the apartment.

Placing your bag on the floor, you toss the mail on the table and grab the journal out of your coat pocket. Opening it to a random page, you see the handwriting you grew up seeing and feel the loss again. You close the journal and place it gently on the table beside the mail. Your hand remains on the cover, caressing in a moment thinking of the past.

Sighing, you grab the mail and start to sort through it, probably mostly bills and flyers. As you check your mail, you notice a letter that makes you stop in your tracks. Holding the letter in your right hand, you absent-mindedly let the rest drop back to the table, not noticing the few that slip off the edge of the table to the floor.

The handwriting, you notice it. Still staring at the letter addressed to you in your right hand, you pat the table with your left hand searching for the journal. Feeling the journal under your fingertips, you grasp it and carry both to the end of the table and seat yourself on the chair you've dragged over with your foot. You lay the two down and open the journal to another random page. The writing on the letter is the same. You have butterflies in your stomach. You look at the letter and concentrate on the postmark. It seems that it was processed the day after your mother died. You also see that it was mailed somewhere in British Columbia in an unfamiliar location.

You carefully open the letter and slide the single folded sheet of paper out. You unfold it and lay it atop the envelope; you see the same handwriting again. Your awareness of the room fades as well as the sound of the street through the open window. You read the short message written down:

My Dear precious Son,

I am still alive. I'm sorry I hadn't contacted you before your mother died, but I couldn't let her know I was still alive. I had to protect her, especially since she had my journal. I'm sure she would have suspected that I had never died after reading the journal, but she was a smart person and kept my secret even though it would have been hard on her.

Could you bring me the journal? I'll explain when you arrive. I hope you can forgive me. Your mother knew how close you and I had become. My disappearance probably drove a wedge in your relationship with her as a result, especially if she read my journal.

The address is below.

Love always,

Your Father

The address is in the same town as the postmark on the envelope indicates. With shaking hands, you place the letter on the table and reach for the journal. Opening it to the first page, you start to read. You want to find out what your mother might have learned and what was going on with your father.

You reach the last entry in the journal and realize that many hours have passed. It is now the early morning of the next day. You discover that your father's name is nowhere in the journal, which is not that surprising since he was writing in it. Most entries are very cryptic. There is only one name in the journal written after the last entry the day before he disappeared. You were still young when he went away. The night before his flight, you played a game with him. He had asked you at the end of the game that if he were to leave and enter into a witness protection program, what name would you want him to adopt. Still playing the game, you suggested the name you see written after the last entry.

Although you haven't slept, you pack a bag and purchase a plane ticket online for the earliest flight possible to British Columbia. Inserting the letter within the journal, you keep it on your body in a pocket on the leg of your cargo pants.

When you arrive in Vancouver, you rent a vehicle at the airport and enter the address in the SUV's GPS; you start your road trip. After about three hours, you pull into the town where your father has found refuge.

The GPS informs you to continue through the town and pull off onto a small side road up into the hills. As you continue to drive, you become aware that he is well isolated with the closest neighbours kilometres away. You find the driveway for the address you've been searching for and enter. As you approach the house, you see him walk out of the house and down the steps. He sees you behind the wheel as you stop and turn off the vehicle. His face, noticeably older since you saw him last, has a massive smile on his face. 

As you exit the SUV, you pull the journal out of your pocket. Walking to your father, you hand it to him before you embrace him in a hug. You step back as he starts flipping through the pages of the journal, and you reach into the right pocket of your pants; you pull out the handgun and earn that early retirement.