image with absolute clarity in my head, but was it possible that I was wrong? The picture was more vivid than any other childhood memory I could think of. Was it too vivid? Could it have been more an emotion than an actual recollection? A summing up of how I felt rather than a specific event that had actually occurred?
“But actually, that was more or less how it happened,” my father said quietly. “To my eternal shame, that was what I did. I didn’t throw the glass at her, because the stupid thing is, it was the glass I was angry with. But it was close enough.”
“I remember seeing it.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Sally told you.”
“She never spoke badly about you.” I shook my head. “You know that, right? Even after everything.”
He smiled sadly. It was clear that, yes, he could believe that, and that it had reminded him of how much he’d lost.
“Then I don’t know,” he said. “But I wanted to tell you something else too, for whatever it’s worth now. Not much, but still. You said it was the last time I ever saw you. That’s not true either.”
I gestured around. “Obviously.”
“I mean back then. Your mother threw me out, and that was for the best. I respected that. I was almost relieved by it, to be honest, or at least it felt like what I deserved. But there were times afterward, before the two of you moved away, when if I was sober Sally would let me back in. She didn’t want to disrupt you or cause any confusion, and I didn’t either. So it was always after you’d gone to bed. I’d come into your room when you were asleep and give you a cuddle. You never woke up. You never knew. But I did do that.”
I stood there silently.
Because, once again, I didn’t believe that my father was lying, and his words had shaken me. I remembered Mister Night, my imaginary friend from childhood. The invisible man who would come into my bedroom at night and hug me while I was sleeping. Even worse, I remembered how comforting it had been. How it wasn’t something I had been frightened of. And how, when Mister Night had disappeared from my life, I’d been bereft for a time, as though I’d lost an important part of myself.
“I’m not making excuses,” my father said. “I just wanted you to know that things were complicated. That I was. I’m sorry.”
“Okay.”
And then there really was nothing else to say. He started off down the stairs, and I was still too shaken to do anything but let him go.
Forty-one
The next morning, I made sure Jake was ready earlier than usual, so that we had time to check back home before I took him to school. My father was already outside on the street below, waiting for us in his car. He rolled down the window as we walked over to him.
“Hello,” my father said.
“Good morning, Pete,” Jake said gravely. “How are you today?”
My father’s face lit up slightly at that, amused by the overly formal tone my son could sometimes adopt. He matched it in return.
“Very well, thank you. How are you, Jake?”
“I’m fine. It was interesting staying here, but I’m looking forward to going home now.”
“I can imagine.”
“But not to going to school afterward.”
“I can imagine that too. But school is very important.”
“Yes,” Jake said. “Apparently so.”
My father started to laugh at that, but then glanced at me and stopped. Perhaps he thought interacting with Jake like this might annoy me. The strange thing was that, while it had annoyed me on that first afternoon in the police station, it didn’t so much now. I liked it when people were impressed with my son; it made me feel proud of him. Stupid to think that way, of course—he was a person in his own right, not some accomplishment of mine—but the feeling was always there, and, if anything, with my father it was stronger than usual. I wasn’t sure why. Did I want to rub his face in fatherhood, or was it some subconscious desire to impress him? I didn’t like what either option said about me.
“We’ll see you there.” I turned away. “Come on, Jake.”
The journey wasn’t a long one, but it took time in the morning traffic. Jake spent most of it in the back of the car, kicking the passenger seat aimlessly and whistling a tune to himself. Every now and then I’d glance in the