Chapter 22 Neil

IT'S POSSIBLE I'VEjust made the single worst mistake of my life.

The next week is absolute hell.

The regret is an immediate, visceral thing—from what I said to the way I crept out of the hotel room. I justify it by telling myself it would have hurt too much to see her in the morning. I would have tried to take it all back. I would have let her remain my crutch, the way I have this entire year.

Maybe I should have, I wonder on the subway, though I quash the thought as quickly as it arrives as I slouch next to bleary-eyed partygoers and drunken night owls, all of us looking miserable in our own unique ways. The MTA: the great equalizer.

The ache in my chest doesn't go away. It only gets worse as I mumble excuses to Skyler and crawl into bed. As I cycle through what I could have said if I stayed.

My heart is breaking. There isn't an easy answer here, no matterhow much I wish there would be. I already miss you more than I thought possible.

But I can't keep saying goodbye to her and feeling like she's taking a huge and vital piece of me with her when she leaves. It is too much expectation, too much pressure to heap onto the person I love so dearly. When I spell it out logically, I understand it completely. I made a rational decision, one that I thought was best for both of us.

This heart, I've realized, doesn't care much for logic.

NYU marches on without me, with one week left until spring break. I manage to email one professor that I'm sick but don't have the energy for the others. My bones pin me to the mattress, my body heavy with an unbearable weight. I get flashes of my dad doing the same thing, remembering those days he couldn't get up. If anything, that should motivate me to bolt to my feet and face the world, plaster a smile on my face.

All I can do is roll over and go back to sleep.

"Adhira brought over some psych handouts," Skyler says the next day, a softness in his voice I haven't heard before. A long pause. "If there's anything you need—just let me know, okay?"

I nod into the pillow, vowing to find a better way to express my gratitude once all of this is over.

I only wish I knew what over looked like, because any version of it without Rowan is too painful to contemplate.

I can sense Skyler's pity, our invisible third roommate, and it fills me with such intense shame.

I should be grateful.

I should be humble.

I should be better.

So on Wednesday, I grit my teeth and pull back the covers. Haul myself to the shower. Sleepwalk through my classes, fake my way through tests I can't afford to miss.

"We're all going to go to UCB tonight," Adhira says in psych. "If you want to join? It might help you feel better." Then she places a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I went through a terrible breakup last year—being away from home can make it especially brutal. I'm here if you want to talk."

Even though I haven't said anything, this is what they all assume. We were supposed to get together on Sunday, but I sent a quick cancelation text: Change of plans, can't make it. So sorry. The assumption is only partially true. What happened with Rowan feels more like a breakdown than anything else. Impermanent.

I wish I were capable of spending time with them in my current state.

"Thank you," I tell Adhira, "but I don't know if I'm there yet."

"I get it. Whenever you're ready."

Physically I'm in class, but my mind wanders, reckoning with Rowan's suggestion. Depression sounded sinister when she said it, something sunk so deep that it would take much more than therapy to climb out. But I've researched online and in my psych textbooks, and the more I think about it, the more I come close to diagnosing not just myself but my father, too.

Every time I've navigated to NYU's mental health counseling page, I've wavered. Wondered if I'd be taking a spot from someone with a case less hopeless than mine. If I'd just be wasting everyone's time.

I've never seen you like this,Rowan said.

What if this is simply how I am now? Because that's the other option, isn't it? I've hit adulthood and I'm doomed to life as a servant of the Moods, these unpredictable things that make me push away the people I love. My father had plenty of darkness, listlessness in between the bursts of anger. I haven't experienced that anger yet, not unless I count the time I snapped at Skyler—but what if it's on its way? What if there really is some hidden violent streak in me and I won't know until it's too late?

That night as I'm drifting off, it comes to me: a way I might begin that treacherous uphill climb.

It's terrifying.

And unsettling.

And it might also be my only option.

The flight home is a red-eye, a bumpy, near-constant tremble through the clouds that convinces me I am not used to air travel quite yet. I get precisely zero minutes of sleep.

I hadn't initially planned to go home for spring break because mine doesn't coincide with Rowan's. Fortunately, I was able to snag a cheap last-minute ticket, and my mom was overjoyed when I told her the news.

"It's so good to see you," she says when she picks me up at Sea-Tac at six o'clock in the morning. A hand comes to my cheek as I slide into the passenger seat. "You look exhausted, poor thing."

"Rough flight." I close the door, thank her for picking me up this early. "I hate to admit this, but there might be a slight ulterior motive for this visit." Then I let out a long breath, steeling myself for the confession. "I'm going to see Dad."

Her hands freeze on the steering wheel, her engagement ring catching the light of the early-morning sun. "You're sure?"

When I nod, I hope it comes across as confident instead of timid.

Though I know it won't be an instant salve, this is the closure I need, as much as the idea of coming face-to-face with him sends waves of panic through my body. When I was sixteen, I was awkward and uncertain, mumbled my way through our conversations. I didn't want my interests or personality to disappoint him, never mind the fact that he'd already disappointed me.

Three years later, I am more sure of myself than I've ever been, even if lately, I haven't felt very sure of anything.

"That letter he sent me at school… I haven't exactly handled it well. Maybe I'll be able to move on once I tell him to stop contacting me—and that this will be my last visit."

My mom is quiet for a few moments as she pulls onto the freeway.

It's then that I realize something.

Every time my mom has taken Natalie to see our dad, it's always been at Natalie's request. She has never pushed us, never pressured us to have any kind of relationship with him.

"You haven't wanted to see him either."

The sound of her sigh just about rattles my bones. "I go for Natalie, of course, though I know she's feeling similarly to you these days. But it took me a long, long time to be able to make my own peace with the situation. If you think this is what you need, I support you, one hundred percent."

"It is," I say. "And thank you. Thank you so much."

"If you want me to drive you, I could take the time off work. I wouldn't be able to go inside with you, I don't think—I'm not sure I'd be able to see him. But if you want me to be there with you, just say the word."

"I need to do this on my own," I tell her, half because it's true and half because I don't want her to take the time off, and I think she understands both my rationale and my unspoken gratitude.

The rest of the drive home, I assess my own moral compass. I believe in forgiveness, in growth and facing mistakes. But there are some things I don't believe people can ever come back from. Things that are unforgivable. Unforgettable. Has he ever truly put his kids first, or were we only accessories for him to mold? To impart his own views?

I want to have empathy for this person who was so clearly struggling—with his shop, with money, with his own brain. Human beings are too complex for any of us to be one-dimensional villains. But it has been so long since he was a proper father to me, and I cannot repair a relationship that's never been healthy—since long before he went to prison. And I cannot have the life I want with him hovering over me.

Even if he were still living with us… Well, that's a difficult path to go down. Unless something had drastically changed, I don't think I'd want that version of him in my life either. My family was small to begin with, but if I've learned anything in the past few years, it's that we have an interminable strength, too.

This weight I've been carrying around for nearly half my life—I thought I could ignore it, make myself into the poster child overachiever and everyone forgetting about it would help me do the same. I could outsmart it the same way I aced my exams.

As it turns out, and as I've been learning in psychology, that's not quite how the human mind operates.

Before we get out of the car, maybe it's the jet lag or the lack of sleep, but I ask my mom, "Do you think there's a chance of me turning out like him?"

Her gaze is steady. Unwavering. "I've been afraid of a lot of things over the past ten years," she says, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "But I have never been afraid of that."

Four and a half hours on a Greyhound to Pasco, a small city in the southeast pocket of the state. Then two buses taking me deeper southeast, nearly to the Oregon border. I've spent the past couple days curled on the couch with Lucy, her head in my lap while I sketch patterns in her fur, and I'm already missing her comfort. I'm cursed with a sensitive stomach, unable to read in a moving vehicle, so I stocked up on podcasts and listen to a few episodes of one about linguistics. Then, needing something lighter, I switch over to one about Star Wars. I draft and delete a dozen messages to Rowan, unable to come up with the right words.

Hopefully the next time I see her, I'll have a chance to try.

By the time I arrive in Walla Walla, I'm bleary-eyed and unfocused, every nerve in my body twisted in an anxious knot. I haven't eaten anything except a sad sandwich in Pasco. At four o'clock in the afternoon, there's only one hour left for visitation. I doubt I'll need that long.

Washington State Penitentiary looms ahead, tucked behind a white crisscrossed gate. The landscape out here is drier. Rural. Yet on the prison grounds, the grass is green and healthy, trees stretching past the power lines. As though all of it has been properly cared for, while the surrounding areas surrender to nature.

I wonder what he's going to say about my clothes. If he'll think my major, whether it's linguistics or psychology, is a waste of time or somehow not masculine enough. If he'll try to make me feel guilty for not coming sooner, for not responding to the letters.

Three years. Three years I haven't seen him, eight years since I lived with him down the hall, and I'm still wondering what he'll think of me.

I shove all of this out of my mind as best I can, square my shoulders. Head toward the entrance, up the concrete path, heart banging so viciously in my chest that I nearly grow dizzy from it.

The place hasn't changed at all. Stark beige walls, concrete floor, fluorescent lighting. Clean. The last time I was here, Natalie tried to get a bag of Skittles from that vending machine, but it jammed and got stuck. A janitor paused mopping the floor and walked over to give it a shove. "Happens all the time," he said as the candy dropped into the slot.

At the front desk, I present my ID to a security guard, who uses it to confirm that I'm on Lyle McNair's approved visitors' list.

"Backpack, belt, wallet, phone all go in here," she says, gesturing toward a plastic tub to the left of a metal detector, and I quickly comply.

I know there is so much wrong with the prison system in the United States. There are too many people locked up, many of them for crimes they didn't commit, disproportionately impacting people of color. We studied this in my civics class at Westview while I raised my hand far less than in any other unit, worried someone might draw a connection, and I've read plenty on my own. I believe that prisoners can be rehabilitated and reenter society—I support all of that.

At the same time, I also believe that the justice system did its job properly when it came to my father's crime.

I'm informed of the rules: I can only take one piece of ID into the room with me, and my backpack, keys, and wallet must be secured in a locker. A short hug or kiss is permitted at the beginning and end of the visit. Hands must remain on or above the table. The offender can end the visit at any time.

I nod politely. They don't have to worry. I want to spend as little time here as possible. Just enough to make sure I don't have to come back.

Then I am brought to the visitors' room, a similarly concrete-floored, beige-walled space, a pair of prison guards on each side. Two of the dozen tables are occupied—at one, a couple with their hands entwined, the two of them smiling. At the other, an older woman and a middle-aged man who bear a striking resemblance to one another, barely speaking.

And there he is at a table in the corner: the person who ended my childhood much too early.

My heart kicks back into that vicious rhythm, a rhythmic torment that reminds me I could turn around at any moment. Run out the door and never come back.

I don't.

The first thing that registers for me isn't his expression or his neon-orange jumpsuit. It's the way he's sitting.

I have seen that stance a thousand times before, forever imprinted in my memory. Shoulders back but head tipped slightly forward, a tribute to terrible posture. One leg bent, foot balanced on his other knee. Even if it's not something my dad has trademarked, I've never allowed myself to sit this way.

Slowly, like a paint-by-number coming to life, I take in the details of the rest of him. The longer hair, not red like mine or my mom's or Natalie's but deepest brown, now shot through with gray. The depth to the wrinkles on his face. His smaller frame, thinner limbs.

Dark eyes that used to hold so much anger and that now hold an almost pleasant, cloying curiosity.

"Well, hey there," he says, the words casual enough to be uttered while picking me up after school or greeting me at the dinner table. "Neil. It's good to see you."

I'm expecting his voice to register like a record scratch. Instead it's rough gravel, less fluid than it used to be. As though he doesn't use it in here nearly as much as he used to.

I've been in his presence less than thirty seconds and it's already too surreal, to the point where I'm not sure I trust my legs to keep me standing for much longer.

Gingerly, I take the seat across from him. "Hi." I urge myself to remain solid. Firm.

"Haven't heard from you in a while. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

Impossible.

When I can't come up with more words, he keeps going. "It's rough, you know. Never hearing your name called at mail call."

"I got the letters."

"Guess that school of yours keeps you busy," he says. "Everything you hoped it would be?"

I manage to nod. Every second I'm here, a new detail emerges. The gray-white stubble on his jaw. A scar on his left cheek that's either new or something I never noticed. "I love it."

The grin on his face looks so foreign. "I'm honored you made time to see your old man. A little surprised, though."

The small talk is too painful. I can't let him steer the conversation, make me forget why I'm here. If this is the last time I see him, I need answers. "Look…" I trail off because I realize I don't know how to address him. "Dad" reminds me of how he scrawled it on the letter, the too-familiar reverence that he doesn't deserve from me anymore. "I wanted to see you because—I have some questions."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Fire away. If this is about girls, then I'm glad you came to me. We should have had that conversation before, but you were too young—"

"It's not about girls." My jaw is set. He doesn't deserve to know about Rowan. "It's about… well, it's about you, I guess."

This piques his interest. "Really."

"It's for school," I lie, although maybe it's not a lie after all. "A genetics project. We're trying to put together a—a family tree." As though I'm twelve years old and crafting a literal family tree from poster board and puffy paint.

"You already know where my family's from," he says, and then attempts the worst British accent I have ever heard, clearly hoping for a laugh: "Jolly old England."

I don't give it to him. "Right. And I guess I was also wondering about our family's history… mentally. I know there were the anger issues. Obviously."

"I've been working on that. Never thought I'd end up in therapy, but here I am. Won't be in here forever, after all."

His voice is eerily calm, fingers linked together on the table. A portrait of stillness. In contrast, I'm a trembling mess—leg bouncing up and down, a hand alternating between darting through my hair and attacking my cuticles. I've always fidgeted when I'm nervous, and I have not been this nervous in a long, long time.

"That wasn't everything, though. There were other moods." This man is the only person who's ever made me unsure of myself. Even locked up, even allowed this brief time to talk to his son, he still intimidates me. I wish it weren't true, but there it is. "Did you ever feel… depressed?"

He just blinks at me. For a moment I'm convinced he's going to tell me his whole history of mental health, all the ways his brain has worked against him.

"I gotta be honest with you," he says instead. "This sounds a little too personal for a school project."

My face flames, stupid stupid skin giving me away as the bouncing of my leg reaches a breakneck tempo. My father may be cruel, but he's not an idiot. And I am completely transparent.

Then, slowly, a strange kind of smile takes over his face. "Ohhhh. I get it. You want to know… because you're going through it. What, you're worried you're going to turn out like me?"

At that, he lets out a full-belly laugh, so loud that a few other people turn their heads and a guard comes over to check on us.

"Everything okay here?" he asks.

"Fine, fine," my dad says, practically wiping away tears as he smacks at the table. But the guard is looking at me, and when I nod my head, he retreats, giving us space again.

When my dad finally collects himself, I speak again.

"I didn't realize it was such a hilarious question," I say quietly.

"You've got to understand," he says. "I tried so hard to see some of myself in you growing up. A natural bond between a father and son, right? I was proud of that hardware store. I wanted to work on the deck with you, show you how to safely use a power drill. But you were never interested. You wanted to read, or you took those silly dance classes, or whatever it was that your mother encouraged. And now you come to me, here in prison"—another break to chuckle—"because you're worried we might be too alike?" He dissolves into laughter again. "You're a smart kid. You can't not see the humor there."

Now I'm entirely too warm, something not unlike rage boiling inside me, and I shove my hands between my knees to keep from jumping out of my skin. And yet I keep my voice level. Maybe that's the difference between the two of us: I can control it. "Just answer the question. Please."

"Shit. Okay. He's serious now." He straightens in his seat, although years of bad posture won't let him keep his head from drooping. The whole performance is so patronizing. "Was I depressed? Sure. Hard not to be when you can barely keep your store afloat. When you can't take your family to the movies without calculating what meal you might need to skip the next week." He lets out a long sigh. "But I'm sure you don't have to worry about that, now that you're rubbing elbows with the who's who of society. Because you're better than the rest of us, right? You always were. You didn't care about anything I wanted to do with you, but if your mom suggested it, you were all ears."

That defensiveness, that ability to double down. Of course his concept of NYU is nothing like the reality. Of course he doesn't know about the multiple jobs I took in high school so I could save up for college, the loans and grants that made NYU a possibility. The constant worry that if I'm not careful, I might lose this life that I worked so hard to get.

This was a terrible idea. I shouldn't have come here, and all I want is to be back home, my mom and Christopher getting home from work and Natalie skateboarding in front of our house, Lucy lounging in her favorite spot on the couch. Sitting down to dinner together—as a family.

"Okay. Well. That's all extremely helpful."

"Neil. Hey. I'm sorry." He holds out a hand, realizing he's gone too far. I don't touch him. "I'll spend the next month kicking myself if I don't say a few things to you."

I steel myself, preparing for an apology or explanation that will arrive much too late.

There aren't enough words to undo what he did to us or to the other family. The boy who miraculously woke up from his coma but needed extensive rehabilitation. Every so often, I search his name online. Social media posts about his progress, a GoFundMe for his medical care. All of it heartbreaking.

"We've been talking a lot about forgiveness in here," he continues. "And I don't know when I'll have another chance to say this. Obviously I'm hoping I don't have to wait three more years to see you again. But I'm not going to be in here forever. And when I'm out, I hope that we can start over, have a new relationship, even if your mom's moved on. I don't blame her," he says. "Neil. Can you ever forgive me?"

I stare hard into his eyes, which are so similar to mine, dark irises and lighter lashes. The resemblance between us used to make me proud, and then uneasy, and now it just makes me uncertain.

"Yes," I say finally, and the way this impacts him, the grin blooming across his face, doesn't bring me any amount of relief. "For what you did to me, and only that—I can forgive you."

"You have no idea how happy I am to hear that—"

"But I don't want to see you again. I can forgive, but nothing else."

I want to be the kind of person who can fix a relationship with an estranged parent. But deep down, I know that I can't. Not this relationship. Not this parent. He had my entire childhood to prove he was a decent father. The wounds are still too fresh, scarred over but never fully healed. Bruises that never faded.

This man has so many of his own demons, and I do feel a deep sympathy for him—that he didn't get help earlier, that apparently my mom and sister and I weren't enough of a reason. And I have to trust that I know what's best for me. If I have any hope of moving on, living my life without this darkness hanging over me, I need to sever this connection.

Part of me has always felt it would be wrong to remove my dad from my life. But I've been so focused on not being the son my dad wanted that I never considered maybe he is not the father I wanted.

"Now hold on," he says. "That seems a little drastic."

"Does it?" I say, my leg no longer bouncing, hands no longer shaking. "Or is it something I should have done a long time ago? Because that's what it seems like to me. You have never respected me, not when I was a kid and not now."

"Neil, that's just not—"

"No," I say, interrupting him because I have something important to say. He doesn't get to control this conversation. "I came here to tell you that I'm done. Please don't send me any more letters. If you do, I'll recycle them. I won't read them."

His face flashes with frustration. With hurt. "We're blood," he says. "It's not right. Families are supposed to stand by each other."

"That's what I thought, too." I swallow hard, gaining more conviction even as I strain to keep my voice at a level no one can overhear. "And yet my whole childhood, you made me feel like I was never good enough. How I spent my time, how I looked, how I acted. You made it so clear—so clear—that I wasn't the son you wanted." A few rapid blinks, wishing away the tears forming behind my eyes. Then I stop myself from trying. Let him see me cry. It's not a sign of weakness. "I wish you well. I really do. If it's true that you're getting help, then I'm very glad to hear that, and I hope you keep going. But I can't have you in my life anymore."

I'm breathing hard, as though I've just dashed up a flight of stairs. The words feel like they've been wrenched from my chest. There it is—everything I wanted to say to him but never could.

He's just staring at me, slack-jawed. "Well, well, well," he says. "Look who finally grew a spine."

As though, after all this time, he's finally proud of me.

"And don't you dare try to contact Natalie, either."

"Come on. She's only twelve. She was practically a baby when I left."

When I left.

As though he had complete control over the situation.

Maybe, in a way, he did.

"That's plenty old enough to decide that she doesn't want you in her life," I say calmly. "If she changes her mind at some point, she'll let you know. That's up to her—not you."

His lips purse tight enough to hold back all the fury I grew up with. I can tell he wants to say something else, but I'm not going to let him.

Even if whatever's going on in my brain is similar to what went on in his, I know for a fact that I will be an entirely different man.

I get to my feet, no longer making eye contact as I gesture to the guard.

Now I'm the one leaving.