Chapter Eleven
Jackson
It was really good getting to see dad after so long. I don’t know why I was expecting time to have changed him more, maybe because I feel like I am a completely different person compared to who I was four years ago, but other than being a bit grayer at the temples, he’s still the same man that raised me for eighteen years.
We leave his office, heading I assume somewhere for lunch but when he glances over at me from the drivers’ seat and then tightens his hold on the steering wheel, I know somethings up.
“Just say whatever it is that you have to say,” I tell him, not liking this awkward, beat-around-the-bush bullshit that he’s doing.
“It’s not what I have to say, so much as what I have to do,” he says cryptically. He sighs, then slams his palm against the wheel, cursing, “Fuck.”
“Dad,” I chide, completely taken aback by his outburst. “What the hell is going on?”
He shakes his head as he moves the car onto the onramp, heading back toward Hawthorne.
*Why are we going home?* I wonder, glancing over at him, wondering if he’s going to give me anything.
Finally, after what seems like forever, he begins talking. “I didn’t want to be the one to have this conversation with you. It isn’t my place,” he says but then continues. “ You know that by the time that the four of you boys graduated or shortly thereafter, all of you had moved out of the house.” I nod in confirmation, because, yes, I do know this.
“What you don’t know is that one of you had to move back.”
“Okay…” I say, not understanding why he’s sounding all ominous and shit. “So, what’s the big deal? What happened?”
“Your brother…” that’s all he says for a full minute, and I think that’s all he’s going to give me but just as I open my mouth to say something, he goes on. “He was at a college party.” Again he stops, this time, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.
I can tell this is hard for him, so even though I’m overly eager to know what he’s talking about, I wait patiently.
“He… now, I don’t exactly know the whole story, he says that he can’t remember but, he got into some drugs, and it wasn’t just some weed, unfortunately.”
“He got hooked,” I say, understanding dawning on me and now getting all the preamble, and *why* this is so damn hard for him.
“Who?” I ask, realizing that he never gave a name.
I just saw Bos, so it couldn’t be him. He seemed fine.
And last I’d heard, things were going good for Linc, Raleigh and the twins.
Which leaves…
“Dal.”
“Dal.”
We both say his name at the same time and both hearing it and saying it fucking guts me.
“Fuck, no. Really?” I ask, unable to believe it. It would be hard to believe of any of the guys but, Dal? Shit.
Dad just nods sadly, then says, “He was caught with some stuff on him. He plead guilty and served two and a half years. He was paroled three months ago for good behavior. He received treatment while he was in but it’s not been easy. He’s not…” he begins, but is unable to finish his sentence, but he doesn’t have to.
I already know what he’s going to say.
*He’s not the same.*
“How did I not know about any of this?” I ask, more to myself than to dad but he answers all the same.
“You weren’t talking to anyone, Jax. Why would you know?” He says it like the answer is obvious.
“Because I’m fucking police, Dad. This is literally what I do!” I shout, feeling both hurt and betrayed. “Does Morris know?”
“You aren’t part of the Narcotic unit, Jax. Unless you changed divisions?” He says it like a question, but we both know that I haven’t just like we both know that Morris knew. His non-answer was answer enough. “You work Intelligence. If you want to work Narcotics, then move but damn it, you can’t get pissed off that you aren’t looped in on something that you aren’t even a part of.”
“But he’s my brother,” I mutter, suddenly feeling defeated.
“Then start fucking acting like it,” Dad growls, casting a glare at me and effectively cutting off any other arguments that I might have because he’s right. What right do I have to be upset when I’ve not even been around?
The rest of the drive is made in relative silence, save for the quiet hum of the car engine and the low sound of the jazz music coming through the speakers.
Dad’s always been a fan of Jazz, with Miles Davis being his all-time favorite. If Miles has played with a band, then Dad is going to listen to them.
He’s always said it’s his New Orleans roots showing.
We pull into the drive and Dad shuts off the ignition but doesn’t make an attempt to move just yet.
Instead, he places both hands back on the wheel and just sits there, staring straight ahead but I can see more than he thinks he’s letting on and unfortunately, in my line of work, I know this look well.
Reaching out, I place my hand over his forearm, gently giving the strained muscle a squeeze and say, “It’s okay to be angry, disappointed, frustrated, even pissed off. Hell, maybe you hate him in this moment and time, but none of those mean that you don’t also still love him.” He releases a breath but doesn’t react otherwise. So, I continue, “It’s okay to feel all of those things toward me as well.” After saying this, with my heart beating rapidly in my chest, I watch as his bottom lip begins to tremble, and his eyes become red and shiny.
When first one tear falls, followed by two, then three, then four it seems as though whatever had taken over him falls away and he manages to slowly pull himself back together.
I wait, watching as he unbuckles his seatbelt, opens the driver’s side door and moves to face away from me. As he lifts his arms, I don’t miss as he uses his hands and wipes away the evidence of his moment of weakness.
I don’t mention it when we meet on the sidewalk, we just give one another a nod of understanding that what happened in the car stays in the car and then begin walking side by side up to the house, stopping in front of the door that I haven’t stepped foot through in four long years, only to face a brother that from the sounds of it, I may no longer even recognize.
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