but inside them lay a sadness so still that it terrified me more than any scream.
—”I have cancer,” he finally said. “Pancreatic. The doctors aren’t talking about years anymore, Valerie. They’re talking about months.”
The letter slipped from my hands. I didn’t know whether to feel pity, relief, or rage. Perhaps all three at the same time. I had gone up to that room believing a monster was waiting for me behind the door, and instead, I had an old, sick, tired man sitting in front of me, asking for forgiveness with his eyes.
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—”And what do I have to do with that?” I asked, unable to stop my voice from sounding harsh. “Why drag me into your death?”
Mr. Sullivan closed his eyes for a moment. —”Because before I die, I need to right a cowardly act I committed many years ago.”
I felt something shift deep in my chest. —”I don’t understand.”
He reached into the pocket of his sweater and pulled out an old photograph, its corners folded. He stood up slowly, walked over to the bed, and placed it on the quilt, without coming any closer. In the photo was a young man in a denim shirt, holding a yellow hard hat under his arm, with a smile I knew better than my own name.
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My dad.
I ran out of air. I picked up the photograph with trembling hands. —”Where did you get this?”
Mr. Sullivan swallowed hard. —”Your father worked for me.”
The room started to spin. —”My dad was a construction worker.” —”He was the best foreman I ever had in my company,” he replied. “Honest, punctual, stubborn as a mule, and with hands that could build a straight wall even out of crooked stones. His name was Matthew Harrison. And sixteen years ago, he saved my life.”
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The photo blurred in my vision. —”My mom said he died in an accident.” —”Yes,” he whispered. “But it didn’t happen the way they told you.”
I stood up abruptly. —”No.” —”Valerie…” —”Don’t say anything.” —”You have the right to know.” —”No!”
The scream came out so loud it scared me. I covered my mouth, but it was too late. The whole house seemed to stay still, listening.
Mr. Sullivan didn’t move. —”The construction site was in Louisville,” he continued, his voice breaking. “A three-story building. I had gone to inspect it because there were rumors that the site manager was buying cheap materials and pocketing company money. Your dad had already reported him, but no one listened to him. That day, a concrete slab gave way. I was underneath it. Matthew pushed me. He shoved me out of the drop zone… and he got trapped.”
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My legs gave out and I had to sit down again. My dad. My dad, who I remembered smelling of lime, sweat, and cheap soap. My dad, who used to carry me on his shoulders when it rained so my shoes wouldn’t get wet. My dad, who promised me once, looking out at the fog-covered mountains, that when I grew up I could study whatever I wanted.
—”No,” I repeated, but it no longer sounded like a denial. It sounded like a plea.
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Mr. Sullivan brought a hand to his chest. —”I was in a coma for almost two weeks. When I woke up, they told me the company had settled everything, that Matthew’s family had received financial support, that there were no loose ends. I believed them. That was my sin: believing them because it was convenient for me to believe them. Because I was weak. Because I was afraid. Because I didn’t want to look at the truth.”
I wiped away my tears with rage. —”And now you come to fix everything by buying his daughter?” —”No.” —”That’s what you did!” —”I didn’t buy you, Valerie. I paid off a debt. But your mother refused to accept the money as charity.”
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The mention of my mom’s name pierced me like a knife. —”She accepted selling me.” —”Your mother came here a month ago,” he said. “She came with Mrs. Josephine. She brought all the debt papers, the foreclosure notices, the letters from the bank. She was ready to get on her knees if necessary. She asked me for a job. She asked me for a loan. She asked for anything so she wouldn’t lose the house that held your father’s memories.”
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I saw myself judging her in the kitchen, with her red eyes, her tightly clasped hands, with that silence that hurt me so much.
—”Then, why marriage?”
Mr. Sullivan took a deep breath. —”Because I am surrounded by vultures.”
The way he said it made my blood run cold. He walked over to the desk, pulled out a thick folder, and placed it on the bed. Inside were copies of documents, receipts, deeds, pages with notary seals, and names I had never seen before.
