Page 67 of Something to Prove
If Ketchum was curious about the stranger at his sister’s house, he didn’t show it. I got the feeling he was used to being taken off guard now. He had no defenses. Where he’d once been cunning and controlled, he was guileless and unmoored. Like a frayed rope stretched to its limit. Eventually he’d snap and float away or fade to nothing. I supposed we all did, but fuck me…it was unbearably sad.
Eventually, we said our good-byes, piled our bags into the trunk of the rental, and drove a solid mile in silence along a solitary country road.
I wore sunglasses to shield my eyes from snow glare and kept my gaze forward. I wasn’t good with tough emotional situations, but Walker was vibrating in the passenger seat, his fingers scratching at the seam of his winter coat. I had to try.
Say something, Ty. Say anything.
“What happened to him?”Shit. Maybe not that. I winced and tried again. “Obviously, you don’t have to answer. I’m justcurious. Ketchum…I wouldn’t have recognized him and—sorry. Never mind. Want to listen to music? I didn’t bother hooking my cell to the audio, but feel free to use yours if you?—”
“It’s okay, Ty.” Walker shifted to face me, piercing his bottom lip with his teeth. “Addiction, depression, and brain damage from multiple concussions.”
“CTE.”
“Yes. I’ve done some research, and every case is different. It can’t be properly diagnosed until the person is…gone. According to my aunt, my father exhibits classic symptoms like memory loss, severe mood changes, loss of cognitive retention, and depression.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” He sighed. “You probably noticed that he doesn’t acknowledge me as his son. Or anyone special.”
“I…yeah, I noticed.”
“Hmm. I used to think it was a cruel remnant from his feud with my mom, but Aunt Kay thinks it’s a defense mechanism and that guilt and brain fatigue created a new file in his system where I might be anything from his nephew to a family friend or someone who works at the orchard named Sunny. He called me that when I was little. I used to think it was special, but…it’s not.”
I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”
He went quiet till we neared the highway. “The reason I don’t advertise who he is to me is—well, I have major anger issues with him. He was a terrible father…absent, unreliable, and selfish. The thing that makes me so mad is that I didn’t need much. I just wanted him to show up.”
I reached for Walker’s hand and squeezed it as I navigated Toronto traffic. “It’s okay.”
He swiped at tears with his free hand and sniffled. “I know my mom was difficult, but he never fought for me. Never. He gave up custody and only came to visit once in a while. I usedto sit at the window waiting for him…like an idiot. If he’d shown up, maybe we’d have some sort of relationship instead of…whatever this is.” More sniffling. “I feel bad. I do. But he was a real jerk…out there having lots of fun. He hated her and she hated him. Maybe they had good reasons, and I was collateral. An inconvenient mistake…waiting for one of them to notice me. Pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
“Don’t be so sure. You know, I used to scour news about him. There were always photos of my father with a beautiful woman on his arm and a drink in his hand, living his best life. And I still thought, that’s okay. Maybe he’ll come tomorrow. Fucking asshole.” More sniffling. “I saw him that holiday that Aunt Kay came for me when Mom was in the Middle East. Four years had gone by with no contact. That’s a lifetime for a kid. He didn’t have much to say and I was too young to understand that he was already declining, on the brink of retirement and dealing with debilitating depression. Now…here we are. It’s never going to get better.”
I saw his shoulders shake in my periphery and panicked.
“Um…” I dug into my pocket and pulled out a tissue. “Here you go, baby. It’s okay.”
Walker blew his nose. “Sorry. This happens every time. Every. Time. I would have warned you if I’d known he was coming by. That was probably very disappointing. He’s not the Ketchum Clomsky you rooted for as a kid.”
“No, he’s not,” I admitted.
“He’s not well.” Walker dabbed at the corner of his eyes, adding, “And I might not be his biggest fan, but he can’t defend himself now, and I have to figure out how to stop wishing he was someone he never was.”
I veered toward the airport exit and stole a peek at Walker.
There was a queue of cars in the rental return line. I idled behind a gray Explorer, aware that I’d officially run out of time. I couldn’t in good conscience get on a plane without telling him what I knew.
“They know about him, Walker,” I said, my voice too low and a little wobbly to my own ears.
He didn’t react at first.
“What do you mean? Who?”
“Some PR person with the Jackals dug up info on you and found the connection with Ketchum Clomsky.” I swiveled to face him. “I swear to you, I didn’t say a word. I wouldn’t do that.”
“I…” His licked his lips, squinting across the console as if trying to fit puzzle pieces together. “When?”