Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
God, I loved her.
Tears well in the bottoms of my eyes, but I sniff them back.
I got over crying about Griffin long ago.
And I only cried about my parents once.
I give Jacob a pat on the head, and then I leave the backyard, making sure to latch the gate so he can’t get out.
I stand in front of the house for a few moments, letting myself remember. The wreath on the front door, welcoming people. My mother always had a wreath on the door, no matter the season. A wreath of pink blossoms for springtime, another with dandelions for the summer. Wreaths of autumn leaves and harvest vegetables for fall, and then of course the traditional Christmas wreath.
After Christmas, it became a winter wreath, decorated with winter berries and white flowers. She had hearts for Valentine’s Day, shamrocks for St. Patrick’s Day, and then she started again with the springtime blossom wreath.
There was a time when my parents meant the world to me. A time when I could never imagine life without them, never imagine them turning on me.
Part of my therapy has always been to put myself in their shoes, try to understand what they were feeling the day they walked into Griffin’s bedroom, found her cut up, and found me holding the bloody knife from our own kitchen.
Since I’m not a parent myself, I’ve been told I can’t imagine the horror they must have felt seeing their baby sliced open.
Griffin lived, though I imagine she probably had a scar on her cheek from the deep cut.
How?
How could you turn your back on one child for another? I remember being frantic. Screaming, crying that I hadn’t done it.
That I would never hurt Griffin.
Didn’t they notice the open window?
I don’t know what they were thinking.
And I didn’t look back.
Not until now.
This is the first time I’ve set my sights on this house since the day I left it when I was eight years old.
I never looked at anything else, either. My therapist has advised me to pull the police report from the night Griffin was attacked as well as the night she was abducted.
But I haven’t.
I wasn’t even sure my parents filed one the night she was attacked. After all, they thought I had done it.
But then my therapist told me what I hadn’t allowed myself to consider. They most likely did file a police report. They would’ve had to in order to give up their parental rights.
The police department is closed now, but maybe tomorrow I’ll drive back up here and pay a visit to the Thornton Police Department to see the records.
Or perhaps they’re accessible online. That would certainly be easier.
But I can’t think about any of that now.
I close my eyes and try to remember the good times at this house.
Like the Christmas before Griffin was born, when I got Hot Wheels that went upside down.
I had seen them on TV, and I wanted them, and they were there under the Christmas tree from Santa. I spent the entire day staring at my new toy, mystified by the physical forces that allowed the small cars to stay on their tracks, seemingly defying gravity.
And of course I revisit the warm memory of my father giving me my first drum after Griffin was born.
It wasn’t all bad.
I walk up the block, looking at my neighbors’ houses for the first time in many years. The Osbornes lived two doors down, and I used to play with their little boy, Ricky. He had an older brother, Malcolm, who was a teenager. He used to help my mom with odd jobs when Dad was working overtime. He loved Griffin and always sneaked candy to her, but he couldn’t stand Ricky and me. Thought we were a pain in his ass, which we kind of were. He especially hated my drum. He always said he wanted to take a hatchet to it. Whatever happened to them?
An older couple lived a few doors down from the Osbornes. Mrs. Ortiz baked the best cookies. When we were out playing and got hungry, we’d run to her house, where she’d invite us in for the very best warm oatmeal cookies and a glass of milk. She often brought my mother homemade breads and cakes. Those were good days.
I walk out of our neighborhood and up toward the strip mall where Ricky and I used to ride our bikes and get sweets at the old-fashioned candy store.
That store is long gone, and in its place is a plasma donation center.
It’s open, so I walk in.
“Hello,” a receptionist greets me. “How can I help you?”
I look around. “Just wondering a little about this place.”
The receptionist grabs a pamphlet. “Are you interested in donating?”
“I don’t know.”
“We pay fifty dollars per donation, if that spurs your interest.” She hands me the pamphlet.