longer accountable to his sinister and impossible standards. My personal demon is dead.
I can live my life for me, in complete freedom.
Relatively speaking.
An hour later I’m at my father’s house, which is now mine, and I’m pouring myself a large glass of JD’s apple over ice from a bottle I bought on my way there. I sit in what was once my father’s chair and stare out over the backyard.
I’ll be tossing the chair as soon as I can. I don’t want it. In fact, out of the entire house, I only want three pieces of furniture that were Mom’s, and some personal mementoes. I never told Dad I wanted them in hopes he wouldn’t get rid of them or destroy them.
Now, they’re finally mine.
Everything else I’ll sell or donate, and then sell the house.
I don’t even have Mom’s ashes, because he scattered them out there in the yard. Claimed to everyone that it was her favorite place in the world.
They all said how sweet it was.
I know it was a deliberate dig at me on his part, because I’d asked to keep her ashes.
Meaning of course he wasted no time scattering them.
Thoroughly burying his secrets and crimes.
She hated the backyard. He was the one who directed the landscaping. The only thing she liked about it was going outside and sitting in the shade to read so she could escape his wrath for a little while. He hated being outside, especially in summer. Meaning she found a little peace when out of his field of vision.
He did give me the empty urn. The smile on his face as he handed it over that day, with his back turned so no one else could see but me, told me everything I needed to know about my father.
He was a cruel, heartless man who even then I suspected killed my mother. I didn’t have what could be counted as confirmation until he made the veiled threat to me when I hesitated to run for office the first time.
I know in my heart Mom would have wanted me to move on and be happy, to not be weighed down by my father’s particularly dark soul, but it’s so damned difficult not to feel like that. I’ll never know exactly how he killed her, or who helped him. He wouldn’t have done it all on his own. He would have needed help with the actual mechanics of the crime, as well as assistance covering it up.
He had so many county officials wrapped up in his fists back then that even had I asked for an investigation when she died, no one would have listened to me. He would have painted me as out of my mind with grief.
This many years later?
Impossible. I’ll never have…vengeance for her.
Closure.
How ironic and sadly poetic is that?
I stand and walk over to the French doors looking out on the backyard, where I lift my glass. “For you, Mom. Living well is the best revenge, right? I guess this is my revenge on him, such as it was.”
I take a gulp of the liquor, which burns going down less than the regular flavor, and has a light, crisp taste to it. “I hope you can see me, and see that I’m not miserable anymore. I mean, not as miserable.”
I take another long swallow. “Please watch over me, Mom. I miss you like hell and wish you were here to meet them. I didn’t know a lot growing up. Looking back, I see the shit you put up with to keep me safe, because you loved me. And I love you.”
Already, I’m thinking about starting some sort of scholarship fund or charity organization in her name. I haven’t decided what yet. I want her good works to be what lives on, her name, her memory.
Not his.
All I want from him is his money.
The rest can burn in Hell with him, for all I give a shit.
Chapter Eight
In the immediate wake of my father’s death, I feel like more of a faker than usual. Because even with him gone, I still have roles to play.
Since I’m still in office, I need to uphold my oath to represent my constituents. I don’t want to look like a doucheball and tap-dance all over my father’s reputation, so I have to pretend to be a grieving, dutiful son and I hold off changing parties. Every message of condolence I receive makes me want to hurl but I keep in mind they don’t know what a