Casualties of Forgiveness. Part IV
His letter rushed through her like a sudden flood. Washing away the debris of convoluted and misfortunate months. Now Maria focused on the necessity of going home, a place she didn’t know.
My precious Maria,
Your mother’s ill. She has loving family around her and she’s not alone. My better judgement tells me not to return after all this time. I was never one for better judgement.
I’ve booked tickets to Rabat to visit family. Then to Warsaw to see her. Please, come with me.
With all a father’s love,
Adil
Maria lingered in New York, still not fully sure which past to confront. She read and re-read her father’s letter, waited for Rafter to call or come home. Made final preparations. In the bleeding sun glimpses of a shared history that’d slipped away.
She held her father’s arm on the plane, rested her head on his shoulder. His body was still powerful. Only the lines in his face betrayed his years. Accumulation of doubt seeping through the hardness in his eyes.
“I’m sorry about your husband. He’s a jackass. And an idiot.”
Maria chuckled, felt like a child in her father’s adoration.
“It doesn’t matter right now.”
“Fucking artists. Next time you marry a man with blisters on his hands.”
How much had he sacrificed for her? How much more difficult was it to return to places you’d abandoned than ones you’d never seen? She noticed parts of him in Rafter, in every man she’d ever been drawn to. Men strong enough to leave, cruel enough to leave behind. She wanted to be like them.
“Dad,” she said.
She meant to say something. She wanted to speak to a man about the lines that bind anger and desire. She wanted to speak to a father about a child. He looked weary as they listened together to the howling wind. Surrendered American emotions to the ocean below. Anticipated the sweeping gesture of burning sands.
“Does she still resent you?” Maria asked.
“I’m not sure. Wouldn’t any woman?”
“It depends on the context,” she said. “You’ve told too many conflicting stories. I don’t know what’s true.”
“Your mother’s name was Margaret and I left her,” he said. “That part’s always been true. The rest I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Stepped out of the airport in Rabat in the dead of day. Time of afternoon siestas to escape the feverish sun. The plane had felt fragile balancing between midnight bodies. On the ground, triumphant, it towered impossingly above them. Stood strong, almost condescending.
Taxi into town, western hotel. Her father’s French and Arabic were still perfect, never forgotten. Hers were lost like baby teeth, placed under pillows and bartered for other forms of knowledge. She knew nothing of this place. A city vaguely European, vaguely everything. Elements of all the world mixed in a crucible to form life out of clay.
My precious Maria,
Your mother’s ill. She has loving family around her and she’s not alone. My better judgement tells me not to return after all this time. I was never one for better judgement.
I’ve booked tickets to Rabat to visit family. Then to Warsaw to see her. Please, come with me.
With all a father’s love,
Adil
Maria lingered in New York, still not fully sure which past to confront. She read and re-read her father’s letter, waited for Rafter to call or come home. Made final preparations. In the bleeding sun glimpses of a shared history that’d slipped away.
She held her father’s arm on the plane, rested her head on his shoulder. His body was still powerful. Only the lines in his face betrayed his years. Accumulation of doubt seeping through the hardness in his eyes.
“I’m sorry about your husband. He’s a jackass. And an idiot.”
Maria chuckled, felt like a child in her father’s adoration.
“It doesn’t matter right now.”
“Fucking artists. Next time you marry a man with blisters on his hands.”
How much had he sacrificed for her? How much more difficult was it to return to places you’d abandoned than ones you’d never seen? She noticed parts of him in Rafter, in every man she’d ever been drawn to. Men strong enough to leave, cruel enough to leave behind. She wanted to be like them.
“Dad,” she said.
She meant to say something. She wanted to speak to a man about the lines that bind anger and desire. She wanted to speak to a father about a child. He looked weary as they listened together to the howling wind. Surrendered American emotions to the ocean below. Anticipated the sweeping gesture of burning sands.
“Does she still resent you?” Maria asked.
“I’m not sure. Wouldn’t any woman?”
“It depends on the context,” she said. “You’ve told too many conflicting stories. I don’t know what’s true.”
“Your mother’s name was Margaret and I left her,” he said. “That part’s always been true. The rest I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Stepped out of the airport in Rabat in the dead of day. Time of afternoon siestas to escape the feverish sun. The plane had felt fragile balancing between midnight bodies. On the ground, triumphant, it towered impossingly above them. Stood strong, almost condescending.
Taxi into town, western hotel. Her father’s French and Arabic were still perfect, never forgotten. Hers were lost like baby teeth, placed under pillows and bartered for other forms of knowledge. She knew nothing of this place. A city vaguely European, vaguely everything. Elements of all the world mixed in a crucible to form life out of clay.
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