Shatter Read online

  From my pre-teen years up to adulthood, I’ve always responded the same way when anyone asked about my dad, “He’s away.” I guess I thought that telling the truth about him being a convict made me feel like trash. It’s hard to remember a time that I wasn’t embarrassed by him, even before he went to jail. Though there were times of joy, (usually after my parents got their welfare cheques,) most of my days and nights were spent looking after my sister while my parents got high. Because I was exposed to druggies passing out in our home, shady characters showing up in the middle of the night, and my parents’ impromptu boxing sessions, I was street smart at the age of twelve. No wonder I’ve always felt less than everyone else.

  * * *

  When I get everything done, I’m back in False Creek with my bike parked safely in the secure underground parking lot. Upstairs, I wash my face and look in the bathroom mirror. “Be brave. You can do this.” I take a deep breath and head out for my long drive to Abbotsford where the prison is located.

  After an hour and a half of driving in rush hour traffic, the scenery changes from urban to suburban. Farm fields blanket both sides of the road and lead to the base of the snow covered and majestic Mount Baker. The sports cars I was following just minutes ago, disappear and are replaced with tractor trailers and pick-ups. Following the GPS, I turn off the highway onto a two-lane country road. I pass small farmers markets and fields of bright orange pumpkins. Then, as if transported from a futuristic sci-fi movie, the massive stone structure appears. Rows of razor-wire coils sit atop tall chain-link fences that surround the cement building. There are narrow slats in every wall. I’m guessing they are cell windows. A grey and white sign stands at the entrance to a one-way road that reads, Matsqui Institution. I turn in and head toward a guard booth that sits in front of a large locked gate. The guard is overweight and is wearing a grey uniform with prison patches on each arm. “What’s your business here?” He asks.

  I pull out my driver license and hand it to him.

  “Well, it’s not sightseeing. I’m here to pick up a prisoner,” I say.

  “Oh yeah? Who?” he asks, in an all-business tone.

  Oh God. I really don’t want to admit to being related to a convict.

  “John Patrick Jordan. He’s being released today.”

  “How do you know him?” he asks.

  Shit. So much for anonymity.

  “He’s my umm father, and don’t worry, I won’t pick more than the one I’m supposed to.” I say, jokingly.

  Unimpressed, he opens the gate and instructs me to pull up at to a red bricked building. Relieved to be done with Mr. Personality, I pass through the gate and park where I’m supposed to. I grab my wallet and head into the building. The office is cold and sterile looking. There’s a long counter with a woman guard wearing the same battleship grey uniform as Mr. Personality. Her dark hair is pulled back into the tightest bun I’ve ever seen. The walls are white and the floor is concrete. This place feels lifeless and void of everything positive.

  “What can I do for you?” she asks.

  I tell her I’m to pick up my father, then I give her his name. She taps on a computer keyboard and picks up the grey phone beside her. When she’s done speaking, she puts the receiver down and points to a bench against the wall. “Have a seat. It’ll only be a few minutes.”

  While I’m waiting, I pull out my cell and access my email. Katie wrote again. Seeing as I’m stuck waiting here, I may as well write her back. In her note, she says a quick hello and then adds her phone number. I keep my response short and cordial, including my number at the end. I look up when I hear the sound of metal latches. A door opens on my side of the counter and a guard enters followed by an older looking frail man with a straggly grey beard. He’s wearing a worn looking faded checkered shirt plus blue jeans and is carrying a plastic bag with the name John Gordon written on it. I lean forward and stare harder, trying to make a connection between the old man in front of me and the father I knew fifteen years ago.

  “Julia, is that you?” he says.

  My first instinct is to jump up and hug my dad, but years of harbouring a grudge stops me.

  “Call me Jules,” I say, standing up.

  “This is my daughter. Isn’t she beautiful?” my father says to the stoic looking guard.

  I smile with embarrassment. “Are we ready to go then?”

  We walk out of the building and to the truck. Once inside, my dad leans over and pats my leg, “How are you?”

  I move my leg and he pulls his hand back. He must know this isn’t easy for me. “I’m fine. Just so you know, I’m living at a friend’s apartment while he’s in Europe, so you can’t stay long.”

  “I understand, Julia, and thank you.”

  “It’s Jules, and you’re welcome.”

  “Sorry. I’ll try to remember to call you Jules.”

  I feel so conflicted with him sitting so close to me. I feel overwhelmed by anger, sadness and resentment. My father has always claimed his innocence in the death of my mother, but regardless if he is innocent or not, if he wasn’t a drug addict when I was a child, she would still be here today, - for that matter, so would Abby.

  On the way back to the city, my dad looks out the window. His blue eyes, the same eyes as mine, sparkle when the sun hits them. I look down at his hand. There’s a faded blue tattoo beside his thumb that says, FN99.

  “What does that tattoo mean?” I ask.

  He briefly looks at it and says, “FN99, fucking near 100 in reference to how long my stay felt in prison.” It must be strange for him to be out in open spaces, looking at things for the first time after all these years. I wonder if he’s scared or overwhelmed? If he is, I can’t tell, his expression is hidden by all the scruffy hair on his face.

  * * *

  As soon as we reach the city limits, my father starts fidgeting with his hands. “I feel so overwhelmed.”

  I say nothing.

  We pull up to the tall luxury apartment and I swipe my security card to let us in to the underground parking.

  “Wow. You live here?” he says.

  “For now.”

  In the elevator, I look over at how frail and emaciated he is. He used to stand at about six feet tall, now, he’s hunched over and only a head taller than me.

  Once inside the suite, he stands at the doorway, clutching his bag.

  “It’s okay, Dad. Come in.”

  I put coffee on and then sit on the sofa. He sits on the chair across from me.

  “I guess I’d better get cleaned up, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you, especially in a fancy apartment building like this.”

  “Why do you look so thin and unkept?”

  “I just gave up, I guess.”

  I nod.

  “I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen carefully to what I say. Will you do that?”

  Shit. He’s going to talk about the “incident”. I’ve been dreading this. It’s exactly the reason I never went to see him in prison. Though, I know his character well enough to understand that if I don’t let him say his piece, he’ll just keep bugging me until I do.

  “If you’re going to talk about Mom, make it brief, and I don’t want to talk about, Abby. Got it?”

  He takes a deep breath, “Ok.”

  When he starts talking, he fidgets with his hands again. “That horrible night that your mother was taken, it wasn’t me that did it. All I remember from that night was that we were waiting for a delivery. Our friend, Slinky was coming over to drop off a package. Do you remember him?”

  “No.”

  “Anyways, it was about one am when he showed up. The three of us sat in the kitchen and loaded our rigs.”

  “Loaded your rigs?” I ask, confused.

  “Fixed our needles, Julia, I mean, Jules.” He continues, “When the three of us had finished fixing, Slinky said goodbye and left. I don’t recall much after that. I learned later that I was brought to the hospital for an overdose. Apparently, the drugs we had
done had been laced. But I don’t know how that could’ve happened? If your mom, me and Slinky did the same stuff, why was Slinky able to get up and walk out? After that, I remember lying on the floor and hearing your mother screaming. I tried to turn my head to see her, but I couldn’t. I thought I heard other people in the room, but I can’t be sure. The only other thing I remember was you and your sister standing by the table, and me yelling for you to get help. Did that part really happen or was I just hallucinating?”

  “No. It happened.”

  “I could never have killed your mom, Jules. I loved her more than anything. We had been together since we were kids. She was my heartbeat. I know we had fights; we were both hot tempered and our arguments did get physical, but I would never take her away from you girls, or myself. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t see her pretty face. I tried to kill myself in prison, just so I could be with her again, but the guards walked in and cut me down. After that, I was on suicide watch and didn’t have the chance to try it again.”

  “Are we finished talking about it now? So, you wanted to tell me that you’re innocent?” I say, biting my bottom lip and holding back tears.

  “I’m not innocent, Jules. I know that now. I’m as guilty as the person who did this to us. I should’ve been a better husband and father. If I would’ve had the strength to get off dope, I know for sure that your mother would’ve done the same. I was weak and selfish. For that, I’m guilty and deserved to serve the time I did.”

  Taking a deep breath to hold back tears, I bolt to the bathroom. Once inside, I grab a hand towel and then drop to the floor. I press the towel over my mouth and sob uncontrollably. I can’t handle the overwhelming pain I feel. Over the years, I’ve hidden away the memory of what I saw that night. And now, I see it as clear as day. My mom, my beautiful mom…lying lifeless in a pool of blood with stab wounds on the palms of her hands and a knife in her chest while my baby sister sobbed on top of her.

  I’ve got to get out of here and do something to take my mind off how I’m feeling. My first thought is to call Jason, but he’s away. Then, I remember that Katie included her number in her e-mail. I slide my phone out of my pocket, access my e-mail and scroll until I find her letter. I text her and ask if she’s free to go for a coffee? I’m not at all comfortable meeting with her after not seeing her for so many years, but right now I need a distraction. She replies almost instantly. “Sure, that would be great. Whereabouts should we meet?” I quickly answer her. The Starbucks on the corner of Robson and Thurlow. She texts back a happy face.

  Suddenly, there’s a soft rap on the door, “Jules, are you ok?”

  I sniff and wipe my tears, “Fine. I’ll be right out.”

  After splashing cold water on my face, I compose myself and walk out, only to find my dad leaning on the door frame with a sullen look on his face, “I’m sorry if what I said hurt you. I just wanted you to hear the truth.”

  “You couldn’t hurt me if you tried,” I say defensively.

  “What if we sat and talk about normal stuff?”

  “I can’t. I have to be somewhere. While I’m gone, you can do what you like. There’s food in the cupboards and fresh coffee made. I’ll be back later,” I say, walking passed him.

  Chapter Seven

  When I get to Starbucks, I walk in, order a cappuccino and sit at a small table at the back of the room. I can’t believe I’m meeting Katie. If she starts talking about Abby, I’ll freak. Please, God, let this not turn out to be a disaster. I don’t think I can handle anymore drama today.

  Just then, the front doors open. A slim girl with long blonde hair walks in and takes off her mirrored aviator sunglasses. She lets her eyes adjust and looks around the coffee house. She has on skinny blue jeans and a puffy short black jacket. What a hottie. I sure hope this is Katie. Walking up to the counter, she orders a drink and waits. Maybe it’s not her. It could be just a girl meeting her boyfriend or something. I watch as she picks up her drink and then searches for a table. Her eyes scan the back of the room where I am sitting. She stops, hesitates and then walks in my direction. The closer she gets, the hotter she looks. Her face has the most beautiful bone structure. Her hair looks soft, as it bounces off her shoulders, and her body is tight and fit. “Are you Jules?” she asks, revealing a beautiful while smile.

  I don’t believe it. This is Katie? “Umm, yeah, I’m her…I mean…yes, I’m her.” I say, sounding like a fucking idiot.

  She laughs and then reaches out her hand to shake mine, “It’s me, Katie.”

  Our eyes meet. Hers are a striking olive green.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to be all grown up and, umm…looking like you do.”

  She laughs and sits down.

  “You’re not what I expected either,” she says.

  “What were you expecting?”

  “I guess someone less pretty. I don’t mean any insult by that, it’s just that when we were emailing a few years ago, you mentioned that you were working outdoors as an adventure guide in the summer. You also said that you were working as a mechanic. I guess I just thought you’d be a bit - butchy.”

  “Do you always stereo-type people?” I joke.

  “No. That’s just it, I don’t. But you’ve got to admit, you don’t see hot girls pulling wrenches or working as wilderness guides.”

  She thinks I’m hot? I’m shocked.

  “How long have you been living in the city?” I ask.

  “Not too long. I moved here because a friend of mine is a cop with the VPD downtown. He put in a good word for me and now I work dispatch.”

  “He? So, he’s your boyfriend?”

  She laughs, “No. I really don’t think that would work.”

  “Why? Is there something wrong with him?”

  “No. He’s a great guy, it’s just that I’m not really into him that way.”

  “If he’s so great, why not?”

  Her expression changes from playful to one of hesitation, and she starts biting on her bottom lip.

  “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong? I shouldn’t have asked you such personal questions,” I say, apologetically.

  “No. It’s not that. You’re fine. It’s just that I don’t want to scare you away by telling you that umm…I’m not into guys because I’m gay.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  Katie puts her head down and her face gets flushed. “Yes, I’m serious, and you shouldn’t make fun of me for it. That wouldn’t be cool, Jules.”

  “Katie, I’m not making fun of you. It’s just that, I’m gay too.”

  “Stop it. Now I know you’re making fun of me.”

  “I’m not. I promise you. I swear it, I’m gay too. I’d show you I.D but I forgot my lesbian license in my other jeans.”

  “You’re not playing with me?”

  “I’m not.”

  She starts to laugh and then shakes her head. “I’m sorry I was defensive. Not everyone is okay with it.”

  “Fuck’em,” I say, holding up my cup.

  Katie holds her drink up and knocks it into mine, “Yeah, fuck’em.”

  For the next two hours the time breezes past. We talk about everything…everything except Abby.

  Katie is beautiful, smart and funny. I think she’s absolutely great, which at times during our conversation makes me feel a little guilty. She was after all, Abby’s foster sister.

  I tell her about Jason and how he flew off to Europe to join his new love interest. I talk to her about quitting my old job after years of working there, and how I’ll be starting my new job as a P.I. tomorrow.

  She’s so supportive and encouraging. I even talk to her about my dad, prison and how he’s going to be staying with me. She assures me that if I ever need a friend, she’ll be there for me. Who is this amazing creature, and why didn’t I respond to her sooner?

  After talking for hours and night fast approaching, she tells me that she has to go because she gets up at the crack of dawn for work. I stand up and we simul
taneously hug. With her body pressed firmly against mine, I feel all of her curves and smell her soft hair. I feel my insides tingle and my palms start to sweat.

  Driving up Robson Street, all I can think about is her.

  Regardless of how fucked up and resentful I felt when I left the apartment, my head is now full of warm thoughts, making it hard to put up a wall and be cold toward my father.

  When I open the door, I see him sitting on the sofa with a glass of water in his hands. He turns and looks at me, his eyes are red from crying. He puts down the glass, stands up and walks slowly towards me. I stand still as he walks closer. His eyes are apologetic and sincere. “Can I hug you, Jules? Would that be ok?”

  The cautious adult in me wants to stop him, but the part of me that misses my dad, reaches out. When his arms are around me, I feel just how frail he is. I can feel the bones on his back.

  We walk back to the sofa, and I tell him to sit down while I make him something to eat. He definitely needs to gain some weight. I haven’t forgiven or forgotten anything. I just don’t want the burden of carrying all that resentment right now.

  After rummaging through the cupboards and the fridge, I make fettuccini alfredo with garlic bread. Carbs, exactly what he needs.

  While we eat, we watch re-runs of Robot Chicken. We used to sit on the sofa and watch this together, years ago. I can’t deny that I’m feeling confused about my father staying with me, but for now, I just want to go through the motions and try not to analyze too much.

  * * *

  In the morning, I stagger out of bed, put on my housecoat and head to the kitchen. As soon as I step into the hallway, I smell freshly brewed coffee. My father is standing in the living room, looking out of the window.

  “Wow, you’re up early,” I say, rubbing my eyes.

  “This isn’t early. In the pen, you’re up before the birds.”

  I nod.

  “I hope you slept well,” I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee.