A Different Place, A Different Time

TW - sexual violence and substance abuse

I let the liquor sing— slow and steady it burns as it blooms. I look across the kitchen table at my father, sitting there in his faded flannel, then take another swig. It goes down all too easy.

“I think you need to cool it there a little, Jessica,” he says. Like he’s one to talk. This place, this cramped, craphole of a place, reeks of cigarettes and spilt beer. I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree with this one. But I can’t help what I am, right? I can’t help what I do, or what I say, not when I still haven’t heard him admit it. If he could just—

“Jess, ya hear me? I said slower down there.” My father gives me a wink and then stands up. He walks over to the fridge, pops open a beer, then raises his can in my direction. “Guess I better join ya.” 

He finishes the drink in one go, then belts one out. My father reaches into the fridge and then places another beer right in front of me. It lands with a clunk, hitting the table hard. I don’t even flinch.  

He knows I don’t want to take it. He knows I’d give anything to walk away from this table, this moment. And in spite of this, he slides the can closer to me. Then he grins. 

Even though my stomach is bloated and hurting like hell, I watch my hand reach forward. I watch myself pick up the can, crack it open, and raise it to my lips. 

And then I drink. 

And I drink. 

And I drink. 

“That’s a good girl. So Jess, why you here, huh? Why you seeing your old man?”

“You know why I’m here.” 

I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and take a good look at him. And I search for, I don’t know what. Any remembrance of the man I used to know, the man I used to call Dad. It’s been years since I’ve really seen my father. And I know I might never again. Not after today. 

But some things must be said.   

“Are we really going to unpack all this right now, with you like,” he gestures to all of me, “like this?” 

“So, you don’t regret any of it?” I blurt out. I slide my hands up in my hair, already feeling a migraine coming on. “How about cheating on Mom, or, leaving me alone with, with…” I take another gulp, needing all the liquid courage I can get. 

I didn’t come here for blank spaces. My father was diagnosed with stage four throat cancer just last week (those camels will catch up to you, trust me) and I need answers before he taps out. 

And damn it, I don’t think he’s going to give them to me. I watch his face, clean-shaven of course, remain neutral, as if carved from stone and ice. But underneath all the calm, cool, and collected bullshit is the truth. 

I hate him all the more for it.  

But I need to know about Jason. I deserve to know about Jason. I need to hear him say it, that my father knew what Jason did to me, night after night. So, I push a little harder. 

“When you would leave me with Jason, for poker night—”

“Don’t go there Jess. I didn’t—” 

“But the bruises! And the burns! I tried to tell you, for years, for—

“Are you sure you’re remembering yourself correctly, what with all those beers you been drinking?”

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that? I’m so happy Mom left your sorry ass for Rich. You know, sometimes—”

“Little girl, don’t you come into my house and talk about him—”

“Your house? Mom pays for ‘your house’ because you fucked her over in the settlement—”

“We’re done here! I don’t need this shit right now. Get the fuck out of my—”

“We’re not done, not even close!” I slam my hands down on the table and finally, finally, have his attention. There’s a pause, a long one, and I drop my head into my hands.

I take a breath. 

“It matters to me. It’s always mattered to me.” I’m not sure if I can say what needs to be said. But then, I remember Jason’s hands, and Jason's mouth. I remember crying under the covers. And I remember the way my father walked right out the front door, even after I told him. My father never looked back. Not once. 

I remember a different place. A different time. 

“I don’t blame Jason for what he did to me. He was hurting, too.” I lift my head, look my father right in the eyes, and say the words that have been echoing in my head since the summer of ‘99, the words I know he’ll be thinking of when he’s fighting for his last breath.

“I blame you, Dad.” 

I wait a moment, then a moment more, and all the while my father sits there, motionless, not a shadow of guilt on his face. I don’t know what I expected from him, or why I thought maybe this time it would be different. 

I look into his eyes, pleading for an answer, any answer, but he just stares right through me, like I’m made of paper. 

It’s a heavy hurt, an all too familiar ache. Betrayal first. Then rage. I want to scream and cry and hurt him so he can feel how I’ve been hurting my whole life. 

These feelings I have, they burn bright, then they burn out, until I’m left with shadows of gray. 

Until I’m left wanting another drink. 

But I can’t sit here a moment more. So, I push up from the table, my chair scraping against the wooden floor. And I’m almost at the front door when a whisper of words stops me in my tracks. 

“What was I supposed to do, Jess? He was my brother.” 

There it is. So. He did know. That’s all I ever wanted from him. There’s nothing left to say. Except—

“And I was your daughter.” 

I can feel it then, the weight of what we once were, gone.

I wait a few moments, then a few moments more. I steady myself. I ground myself. And only when I’m ready do I pull my coat tight around me and open the front door. 

Then, I step out into the autumn twilight, finally leaving this place, this time, behind. 

And I never look back. 

Not once.