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Walker shakes his head. “Drummer.”
“That’s great,” Christopher says and lets the conversation drop, not sure what to say next.
“How’s work going?” I ask my father, trying to pull them into the mix. I don’t actually want to know how his work as the leader of the church is going, but I’m making an effort to be polite.
“Fine,” he answers.
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t, blue eyes cold as they stare at me. His hair is much thinner since the last time I saw him. Almost no traces of blonde exist anymore, gray taking over the remaining closely cropped strands.
As I open my mouth to ask my mother how her work with the childcare at the church is going, my father pipes up, “Although, there was a bit of commotion about a month ago, when some information was publicized, alongside our family name.”
My stomach drops, knowing exactly what he’s referring to.
“Imagine my surprise when I was leading the men’s bible study one evening, and during our final prayers, one of the men asked if I would like them to all pray for my daughter. And I was confused when he asked, because Beth and Christopher have already been in everyone’s prayers at church while his mother has been going through treatment.”
He straightens in his chair and carefully folds his hands on the table in front of him, voice steady but I can sense every bit of disgust he holds for me in his words.
“One of them had to pull up the article for me to read. Do you know how embarrassing it was for me to learn that your unsavory history is made public knowledge in front of the men of my church and not from my own daughter?”
I keep silent, knowing he doesn’t actually want me to answer the question. He just wants to continue to hear himself speak.
“Do you know how that made me look? How that made your mother look and our entire congregation?”
Because it’s all about how everything looks, isn’t it? Can’t have anything distort the perfect image of a godly man and his little family.
I guess niceties are out the window. I look at my watch, pleasantly surprised it took this long in the meal for one of them to bring it up actually.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was coming out,” I say, hating the way my voice sounds small as I speak to him.
He doesn’t acknowledge my apology. “As if you didn’t give us enough grief in your adolescence.” My father reaches forward for his glass, taking a sip.
My mother lays a hand in his lap under the table, trying to diffuse his rising anger. But by the look on her face, I know she feels the same way as him. She just doesn’t want to create a scene and would prefer to leave the elephant in the room alone.
“And to not even tell us when it happened. Instead, you selfishly put that burden on your sister, letting her inform your mother and I of your arrest, while you went into hiding at that rehabilitation center,” he says as if the words rehabilitation center are dripping in sin.
Like hell I was going to call them from jail and let them know I needed to be bailed out. Neither of them would’ve even taken the call. And I don’t point out to him that neither of them ever tried to get in touch with me once I was out.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself and not let anger get the best of me.
“I would’ve warned you ahead of time if I knew.”
He scoffs. “What good would that have done? And really, what was the point in changing your name for your work if all of your skeletons would come out anyway? I’ve always told you, you can’t run from your sins.”
I trap the groan that so desperately wants to escape at him trying to preach at me right now. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything.”
Subconsciously, yes, maybe I was, but it’s not like I never planned on talking about my sobriety one day.
“But that wasn’t the reason I changed my name for my work,” I mutter, taking a sip of my own drink and wishing it was something stronger.
“You’ve always been ashamed of us, is that it?”
I can’t help the laugh that comes out. Is that a joke?
“Are you serious? Me being ashamed of you? Are you sure it isn’t the other way around? Because the only reason I never put our last name on my work was because I knew you wouldn’t want any association with me or my career.”
My father waves his hands dismissively and that grinds against me like sandpaper, the way he always has been so dismissive of me and anyone else who does not fit into the mold he likes to see for a person.
“You’ve been off in California for so many years, it just seems odd that it took so long for it to all come to light is what I think your father is trying to say,” my mother pipes in and while my father’s shoulder stiffen, surely not what he was trying to say, he doesn’t dare contradict her in front of others.
