Chapter 6

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. I set all the other pictures upright and stood there for a moment 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. I looked at her face, then to mine. My eyes darted back and forth between us, comparing our facial features. Then I looked at dad's face in the picture. I closed my eyes and started crying.

"Jessie?"

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. He went to speak, but stopped.

"I..."

He looked down at the box and mumbled, "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 box he had been carrying. 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, taking it to my bed and sat staring at it for a few seconds. Then I carefully opened the top and peered inside. It was filled with Dr. Seuss books. Some of them were in tatters; covers with hard creases where they had been bent sharply; pages jutting out, as if torn. Some of them were still in good condition. There was a white envelope sitting against one side of the box. I slowly pulled it out and held it in my lap. My name was on the front of it. It was my dad's handwriting.

"Jessica"

I turned it over and opened the flap, and then reached inside and pulled out a folded piece of paper. I opened it and started to read. It was dated nearly ten years back.

"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 mom 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 the books 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. 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; a few places where I had drawn in it with a crayon. I closed it and pulled out another book. One after another, I flipped through them. 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, fighting back my tears, 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, and then carefully returned the others to the box. I set the box on the floor and lay back on my bed staring at the ceiling. Then I closed my eyes. I tried 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. I opened my eyes and looked up at her with a smile.

My dad looked down at me and smiled in reply.

"You look tired," he said softly.

I nodded and crawled up to my pillow. I remember watching him reach down for something on the floor next to my bed. A second later he was handing 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 and saw me standing there in his doorway holding a newspaper clipping. He quickly stepped over to me and I handed it to him. He glanced at it, and then asked me where I'd found it. I told him I was going through some boxes in the attic and found it in my mom's old scrapbook. He glanced at me and I tried to smile. He seemed distressed.

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

"He was a friend of your mom."

Dad walked back to his desk and opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet.

"How'd he know her?" I asked, as dropped the clipping into a folder. Then he closed the drawer and locked it.

"They went to high school together," he replied, and sat down at his desk.

I stood there thinking for a moment. I didn't remember much of my mom and was always eager to learn more about her.

"Did she know him well?"

Dad was sitting with his back to me, holding a pen in his hand as he looked over some papers for school.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

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

He set his pen down and slowly turned to me. I could tell by the expression on his face, he didn't want to talk about it any further. I shrugged.

"Just curious," I said meekly.

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

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

Then he closed his eyes and slowly 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 Vietnam. That's all there is to it."

"Ok," I mumbled.

Then dad 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.

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 a dog barking. It was our neighbor's dog. Then I heard kids talking and laughing and the sharp panging sound of a basketball being bounced.

I slowly swung my legs off the bed and sat up, wiping the palms of my hands under my eyes. Then I saw the box of books sitting next to the bed. My memories were coming back; all of them. I looked at the box and sighed. Then I slowly pushed myself off the bed and walked over to the door. I peeked out into the hallway. Stephen's bedroom door was wide open and dark inside. I looked over to the stairs and could hear the television on downstairs in the living room. Then I stepped out into the hall and walked to the top step. I couldn't see his face, but I saw his legs 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? God, what a horrible word, I thought. It sickened me as much as anyone else, yet here I am 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, 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 suddenly shot through my heart, as I recalled his words.

"... he got your mom..."

My heart started throbbing in my chest.

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

I stood there motionless, staring down into the living room at his legs. 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?

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

Why did he want to get away from her?

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

"Happy Birthday Jessie!

Love, Mommy"

I laid it open on the floor and frantically 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"

I slumped back onto the floor with a soft thump.

"Jessie? You ok?"

I gasped and whipped my head around. Stephen was standing in the doorway smiling down at me.

"You ok?" he asked.

I slowly turned back to the book and read the words again, and then closed my eyes.

"Dad... ?" I asked nervously.

"Yeah?"

I took a deep breath.

"Who's Thomas McGowen?"

Stephen didn't speak for a moment, but at last said, "Just... someone your mom knew from high school."

My fingers gripped the book tightly, and I took a few deep breaths, slowly opening my eyes. I set the book down on the floor, and then put my hands on my knees, pushing myself upright. Stephen came up from behind and put his hands on my arms.

"Jessie," he whispered.

I slowly turned to him, tears rolling down my face.

"... what aren't you telling me?" I whispered softly.

He squeezed his fingers against my skin and dropped his chin, looking down between us.

"... why is this so much easier for you?" I asked.

"It's not," he mumbled.

"I know you," I whispered. "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, fighting back the tears. I coughed, my face pulling into a deep frown, replying "I know you too well... you're taking this too easy, if I were... if you were really... my..."

Then he dropped his chin and a tear rolled down his face.

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

He coughed and looked away, wiping his mouth. "I can't..." he mumbled 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 eyes, and then took his hand in mine. He looked up and his face was red and wet.

"I promised her, Jessie," he said softly, his eyes pleading with me.

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

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

Stephen closed his eyes hard and slowly shook his head.

"... Jessie... please..."

"Show it to me," I whispered. Then I led him out of the room and guided him to his office downstairs. We stopped in front of his filing cabinet.

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

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

"Show me," I said softly.

He paused for a moment, and then fished his keys from his pocket. On one ring was a small silver key. He held it between his thumb and forefinger and slowly pushed it into the lock, giving it a quick turn. There was a muffled metallic clank from inside the cabinet. Then I stepped back and he slowly opened the drawer. His hand was trembling slightly, as he reached in and pulled out a large manila envelope. Then he timidly held it out to me. When I took it from him, I could see my name typed on the front.

"Jessica Anne -"

But where my last name would have been, there was a small piece of white masking tape with it scribbled across. The tape was obviously covering something; hiding something underneath.

I held it for a few seconds, and then worked my fingernail under one corner of the tape. I carefully peeled it back until I saw the first two letters: "Mc". 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..." I lowered my eyes to the envelope and slowly handed it back to him with trembling hands.

"It's..."

Then I glanced up at him. My knees were shaking and my teeth chattered.

"It's ok," I said.

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

After I shut the door, I walked over to my bed and collapsed face-first onto it. I reached over for my pillow, burying my face, and cried for a very long time.

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

At first I was angry with him for not telling me sooner. Oh God, the pain it would have saved me! The sheer mental turmoil and emotional anguish! For nearly two years, I had agonized over these conflicting feelings I was developing for him. For two long years, a bitter war had waged in my heart. And now I come to find it was all for naught. I was mad. I was more than mad: I was pissed as hell. But my heart... my heart couldn't be angry with him. It just couldn't. He'd made a promise to my mom and kept it until I figured it out on my own and it was fruitless to deny it any longer. If he didn't come clean with me by that point, I think he knew he'd only become a liar in my eyes. And maybe that was something else eating at his conscience. Not only was he in love with me, but he also had this secret he was forbidden to reveal. But only if he could... If only he could tell me who I really was to him, it would have made things so much simpler. But he was also my dad; the only one I ever knew. How do you tell your only child 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 tip toed 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 wrapped tightly around his shoulders. I stepped inside and quietly crept to the bed and very carefully pulled back the covers. Then I gently eased myself down and pulled my legs up, lying back onto my 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 9:30am. 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 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, it seemed awkward, even unnatural, not to wake up and 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 quite know what to do next. And though the pain was vanquished, the guilt fully eradicated and the tension released, what remained was a melancholy echo.

Now what?

Stephen wasn't my biological father and we were free to be in love, but I was at a loss for what to do.

One of my favorite movies is The Graduate. I felt like Benjamin and Elaine, sitting at the back of the bus at the end of the movie, happy that they had overcome their fears, the hardships, what they thought was expected of them; elated they had finally found what they were looking for, but at what cost? So they sat staring straight ahead, straight into an abyss, not knowing what would happen next. And like I had done so many times up to this point with Stephen, I had acted on instinct without much forethought into the aftermath, and now wondered what lay ahead.

That evening I met Stephen at the door and gave him a hug; just a warm, friendly greeting. Then we went to the dining room and had supper. Our talk was small, but friendly and cordial. As we washed dishes, standing side by side, he said very softly that he was sorry. I took the plate from him, drying it with a towel, and smiled, saying it was ok, I wasn't mad. I told him I was sorry, too, and he welcomed my apology with a grin. And when I crawled into bed with him that night, he gave me a light kiss on the cheek.

Day after day, I waited for the gray cloud hovering over us to disperse. I was ready. I was ready to move forward with him; to continue our life together, but I could only wait until he was sure this is what he wanted; until he was ready to go on with me. I told myself I'd wait an eternity, if that were what it would take.

We went to lunch and held hands. We sat next to each other on the couch and watched television, as I leaned against his shoulder. And though our kisses were brief, we reminded each other of the love we still felt. He'd tell me he loved me and I'd smile and say I loved him, too.

All I could do was wait for him. I wanted him to come to me, but only if he wanted to do so.

Days and weeks passed. There were times when I wanted to throttle him; to grab him by the collar and beg him to take me back to Colorado. More than ever I wanted what we had found back there to reinvent itself in the here and now. I wanted to throw my arms around him and kiss him and hold him and tell him how wonderful he made me feel; how glad I was that he was a part of my life and how complete he made me feel.

Shortly before the start of the fall semester, Stephen was working late in his office, putting the finishing touches on his class syllabus. I walked in to see him, stepping up from behind and placing my hand on his back, giving him a gentle rub. He turned and smiled up at me, his reading glasses sitting on the tip of his nose.

"Goin' to bed?"

I nodded, and then leaned down and kissed his cheek. And as I started to pull away, I hesitated. With my face still hovering next to his, he turned to me and smiled. Our faces were mere inches apart.

"I'm still in love with you," I whispered. "With all my heart, I am, and nothing's ever gonna change that."

Then I leaned forward and gently pressed my lips to his, very cautiously opening my mouth and sliding my tongue between his soft lips. And for the first time, I didn't feel a guilty sting on my conscience.

When I felt my fingers and toes tingling, I knew it was time to stop. I slowly broke our kiss and stood up, not wanting to make him feel as though I expected him to react in a certain manner to my kiss. It was only a kiss and nothing more.

"Don't stay up too late," I said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Stephen smiled. "I won't," he replied.

Not long after I had crawled into bed, when I felt myself on the verge of drowsiness, I heard Stephen come into the bedroom. I slowly lifted my eyelids and saw him standing by his dresser getting ready for bed. Then I closed my eyes and resumed my journey into soft slumber.

I felt the bed gently rock, as he carefully eased himself onto it. I don't know how much time had passed, but the next thing I felt was my body being rolled onto my back. My eyes slowly opened, and I saw Stephen's face hovering over mine. He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. I gave him a sleepy smile, and then he leaned down and kissed me. His tongue pierced my lips, and I sighed, my hands slowly reaching up to wrap around his body, pulling his face closer to mine. I felt his warm hand slide under my t-shirt, up across my flesh, until it lay flat against my breast. And when he gave it a gentle squeeze, I moaned into his mouth and our kiss erupted into one of deep passion.

Our tongues danced and lips smacked, as I held my hands to either side of his head, not wanting to let go; not wanting to lose the feelings he was rekindling in my heart. I hadn't felt like this since Colorado and I didn't want it to end. Not now. Not ever.