Chapter 7: Ten Years

My father opened the passenger door of his car and waited for me to get in.

I sat down with my skates still on and my wet hair stuck to my face.

He got in on his side and shut the door and did not start the engine.

For a long time he held the steering wheel with both hands.

His knuckles were scarred white, and I had always thought it was from hockey.

"How long?" he said.

"Ten years."

"Since you were fourteen."

"Yes."

He nodded once at the windshield.

"Where was your mother?"

"At work. Then at the hospital. Then she wasn't anywhere."

He closed his eyes.

"Why?" he said. "You have a house. You have a card. Why were you in a warehouse hitting grown men?"

"Rent," I said. "Tuition. A deposit on the apartment when I was seventeen. Mom's last year of treatment, the part the insurance wouldn't pay."

He did not move.

"Forty kids pay to watch me every Friday," I said. "The purses were good. I never told anyone my name."

"You wore a mask."

"A visor."

"Mara."

"I didn't tell you because I didn't know you."

It came out harder than I meant.

He turned his head slowly.

"You found me last year," I said. "You were kind. You bought me boots. You bought me a coat. You bought me three bags."

"I wanted you to have everything."

"Dad, you never asked me one thing."

His mouth opened and closed.

"You never asked where I lived. What I ate. Whether I liked hockey. Not once."

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