After a moment of sitting on my bedroom floor, I pull myself towards my dresser, forcing open the sock drawer. I begin to grab handfuls of socks, throwing them behind me. Hot tears run down my cheeks and my eyes begin to sting. I keep searching until I've found the note. The one Mitch originally handed me on the bus months before. I crumple it into the pocket of my jeans, storming over to my closet and throwing open the sliding door. Just then Papa knocks on the door frame as he enters my bedroom. He's talking, but I choose to not listen to the words until he tries to hug me. "Papa, please, stop." I realize I think I've hurt his feelings when he actually listens and pulls away. There's tears welling in his eyes, but not enough to wash away the anger I hold for all the secrets that have been kept from me. "What part of this is fair?" I ask, "Tell me that. I've been made your responsibility, yet you keep sticking up for him. Do you even know that I met her?" I bite down on the inside of my lip to keep from crying. I'd hate to admit it's more from seeing him weep than the fact that half my immediate family is dead.
"Well, of course Janine, your mother was in your life up until-"
"No. Mary. I met her on the bus one day. Do you have any idea what it's like to grieve the death of a stranger and then find out later through a pathetic birthday note, and a late one at that," I point at him, "that it's actually your baby sister. Your own sister." I shake my head and turn to face my closet again. I come to the floor, pushing my sneakers and boots aside to reach for a shoe box. It's black, and worn from years of sitting in here. Papa doesn't stay in the doorway, instead he moves when I head for the hall. He follows me to the dining room where I pick up the rose I just threw on the ground. I throw it once more, this time into the shoe box. I race to the front door before turning around to face Papa, who's saying my name. "Janine," he tells me, "he loves you." I grab my keys off the entryway table and throw my hands in the air. "Jani-"
"But nobody ever told me any of it." I leave and slam the door behind me, running to my car. I first open the passenger door, throwing the box down on the seat. When I get behind the wheel and finally start the car, I pull the wrinkled note from my pocket, punching the address into my phone. It's only fifteen minutes away. I look at the house while pulling out of the driveway and see Papa talking on the phone. We make eye contact, both of us frowning instead of exchanging our usual friendly waves. I would never tell him how badly it hurts to see him frown, at least not in this moment, and I realize my own anger even makes me feel bad.
---
A large house, much bigger than the one I was born in. Dark green, with an oak door and a long driveway I hurry up. Once I've reached the top, I throw the door open, grateful it wasn't locked. I suppose even more grateful he would give his address to a stranger. The first thing I notice is a picture of my mother and Mary hanging on the wall. Gleaming smiles reach each side of their faces, their eyes squinted in the candid shot. It looks a lot like a picture I have of me and Mom. It appears as though it was taken by Mitch. Just then he stands up from the couch, wiping his eyes. I can't tell if he's been sleeping or crying. Maybe both. "Hello Janine, could you not have knocked?" His voice sounds defensive, like I've caught him in a lie. I have to catch myself on my own thoughts to recognize the fact that I have. I can't help but fume at the absence of a simple 'hello'.
"So now I have to knock to come home, Dad?"
I hold the black shoe box under my left arm. "What's that?" he points.
I sniffle and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. "Just a few birthday gifts," I open the box. It's been a long time since I've sat to look at my collection. I used to look at them often, sometimes sitting alone to allow myself to be sad and mourn the loss of what I'd ever known of my father. That was years ago, when I was more sad than I was angry. I was younger then, more understanding and hopeful of the people I believed my parents were. "One," the first rose drops, "two," the second drops, "three," I step backwards with each one. "Four, five, six, seven, eight."
"Janine, stop." Mitch bends down to pick up the dried flowers, but I begin throwing them at him, each one a year more fresh than the last.
"Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen." I throw them faster. Tears stream down my face. I'm almost too choked up to count them. "Fifteen... sixteen." I'm standing back at the door now, turning the knob with my unoccupied hand. I take the last rose, still so new from today. "Seventeen." I drop the box, the last rose still in my hand. I point to the flowers spread along the floor. Mitch stands before me, looking at them with tears in his eyes. "Dad?" he looks up at me. "Maybe put this one on Mom's grave." Before walking out the door I throw him the last flower. He catches this one with both hands, looking at the floor. I lift my chin, raising an eyebrow. "And for Hell's sake, stop and smell the roses."
