The Long, Broken Road

I gave Melanie a comforting squeeze as I responded back, "Abby, your mother came down to Nashville because she was worried about you."

She scoffed, "To drag me back to Chicago. Papa, I don't want to go back. I'm 18 now. I'm an adult. I want to be down here with you."

The thought of my daughter staying with me and Brette made me clear my throat. I can only imagine how awkward that would be. Not to mention, my ex-wife didn't recognize me when she first saw me after all those years. How will Abby deal with my ex-con look? I tried to sound patriarchal and said, "Well, we can discuss that when we see you. Where are you? Do we need to come pick you up?"

"Will she be there?" She didn't mask her attitude towards her mother.

"Who?"

Again, in a sing-song voice that just reeked of mockery, "Doug's little princess."

It was clear that Melanie heard this as my ex-wife let go of me and wandered over towards the window of her hotel room. She stared vacantly out at the city as she wrapped her arms around herself. The rift between Abby and Doug had clearly put Melanie in the middle, putting her on an island in no man's land. She made her bed. She didn't take into consideration what her actions would have done to me, or done to the girls. She was selfish. She thought only of herself. So now, she's on that proverbial island all by herself.

"No. It'll just be me," I gave pause as I considered the next move after picking her up. And again, in that patriarchal tone, "But she's still your mother. She came down here because she was worried sick about you."

In a defeated tone, Abby relented, "Ok."

In a light hearted tone, I inquired once again, "Ok, so where are you? I'll come get you and then we'll go out for lunch. I'm starving." I did have to look away from Melanie. I did not want to gloat over her misery, but I was not going to stop what I was doing to make her feel better about herself.

The sound of air whooshing muffled her words. I was about to ask her what she said when she answered, "We're on Murfreesboro Pike, heading to the Southern. He says that they have the best oysters ever. I've never tried them before, so it sounded like fun."

I shifted my attention back to Melanie as I said out loud for Melanie's benefit, "Who is 'we'? Who is this guy that you're with?"

That question piqued Melanie's interest and concerned. She muttered softly, "She's with someone?"

"Oh, yea, Papa. As I was leaving Officer Veers' office, I ran into this guy. I think he's like a lawyer or something." She paused, causing another blast of air whooshing past the mouth piece of her phone. "Yea, he's a lawyer." She giggles as she continues speaking with me, "Yea, he thought I was a juvie. He thought I needed help or something. When I told him that I was trying to find you, he offered to take me out to lunch and was going to help me find you."

The United States military armed forces have five levels of defense readiness. You may remember them from War Games as Joshua started to hack into W.O.P.R. in order to launch nuclear missiles. My father's defense readiness was at DEFCON 5 until she mentioned that she was with a lawyer that she met at the Tennessee Parole and Probation office. Don't get me wrong. There are many professional probation lawyers serving the Nashville greater community. However, there are very few that would approach an eighteen year old girl coming out of a probation officer's office and inquire about their status as a juvenile criminal. I think Ambulance Chasers are one rung above these guys on that proverbial ladder. This fact dropped me down to DEFCON 4. The fact that this weasel offered to take my baby girl to an oyster bar for lunch immediately put me on high alert, shifting my father's defense readiness to DEFCON 3.

In that patriarchal and concerned voice, I asked, "What is this lawyer's name?"

"Phillipe."

Phillipe Jensen, or in some circles he's simply known as "Phil 'er Up". The man is a known womanizer, and several women who have used him as their defense attorney have mentioned that they'll get more favorable results if they agreed to have sex with him. How the fucker doesn't get disbarred is beyond me. He probably has family that is in the know, or can pull strings. This man is nothing but a predator in the guise of a white knight, coming to save the day as a defense lawyer. I'm sure he's charming and can easily show off his wealth by driving his fancy car around town. And for this sleaze bag to be driving my daughter to an oyster bar, and proclaiming that he'd help her track me down immediately put me at DEFCON 2.

"All right, Baby Girl. I will meet you at the Southern in about fifteen minutes or so." I paused, and then offered, "Do not let him handle any of your drinks. If you have to go to the bathroom, get a fresh glass of whatever you're drinking."

"Papa?"

"Just do it. I'll see you in a bit, Baby Girl." I paused and then said something that I haven't said in a long while, "I love you, Abby."

"I love you, too, Papa!"

Before I could even hang up the phone, Melanie had her hands upon my chest. She looked up at me with doe eyes. Worried, she asked, "What's wrong? Is she ok?"

"Abby is with a slime ball, heading to the Southern for oysters. Fortunately, the Southern is only a hop, skip, and a jump from here."

"I'm coming wi-"

I interrupted her before she could even complete that thought. Firmly, I said, "Stay here."

I walked out the door with a purpose. If I hurried, I may get there as they're pulling up to valet parking. Fortunately, there is a lot of construction going on in that part of town, which means more traffic and would slow them down some.

Despite my need to hurry and concern for my daughter, the five minute walk gave me some time to reflect on this situation. The only reason why my daughter ran into this slime ball was because she went to the parole and probation office. If I had not been an ex-con, she wouldn't have interacted with this unsavory creature. I probably should not blame myself, but it's my world now. If Abby did indeed come down here to live with me, what would I be introducing her to? Would it be in her best interest? Before now, I never felt ashamed of who I was. But now, I question what kind of father figure I'd be for her.

Ducking through buildings and cutting through construction zones, I managed to get to the Southern just in time to see Abby get out of a BMW Roadster. The slime treated her as if she was just another trophy, a display of wealth and status. The way he paraded her past the valet, and then fist bump the parking attendant when Abby wasn't looking boiled my blood. Fortunately, I had to wait for traffic before crossing the street. It allowed me to count to ten to calm the beast. Ok, so I had to count to ten several times.

Once inside, I could see that Abby and the slime ball had already been seated and were given menus. He was suave, I'll give him that. He took the seat that faced the interior of the restaurant, so that she could get a view of the tree lined streets. Not overly romantic, but it was a better view than the brunch-goers. I suspect he also wanted his back to the wall, so that he could see trouble before it happened. Fortunately for Phillipe, he was in a public place. I was not about to rearrange his face in public, especially not a lawyer that could finagle the court system to his favor. Though, I would probably earn more street cred if I did. Tempting as that sounded, I went the simple route. I explained to the hostess that I was late and would go join my party.

I had just put my hand upon Abby's shoulder when Phillipe spoke up in a very stand offish manner, "Can I help you, friend?"

Abby looked up with curiosity. It was clear that she had no idea who this old bald man was putting his hand upon her shoulder. She then looked to Phillipe, deferring to his lead.

"I'm just here to get my baby girl," I explained.

Abby's reaction was priceless. Her eyes widen as she squealed with joy. She quickly got up from her chair, bumping the table in her haste. One of the glasses of water toppled over, putting a damper on Phillipe's plans. Abby threw her arms around me, and exclaimed, "Papa!"

"Hey, Abby," I returned the greeting with a warm smile. I couldn't hide my happiness as that smile was from ear to ear. I slipped my arm around her waist and looked back to the slime. "I should thank you for delivering my baby girl to me safe and sound. I think I can take it from here."

Phillipe sounded rather frustrated as he dabbed at his Joseph A Banks suit while shuffling off to the bathroom, "Yea, whatever man."

"Oh my God! Papa? Is that really you? You look..." She searched for the right word, "... Breaking Bad-ish. Grow a goatee and I'll start calling you Walter."

Unsure of the reference, I tilted my head to one side, "I am guessing that's like being the Marlboro Man? This is a good thing, yes?"

Here we are, two different generations, making cultural references that go outside the scope of the other person's knowledge. Still, if I ever needed proof that Abigail Brooks was my daughter, this was living proof. Otherwise, the blossoming woman-child before me was a spitting image of her mother. Abby carried herself with a little more confidence than Melanie did back in the day, or perhaps that's moxie or attitude. Abby also had fashion awareness, whereas Melanie simply avoided wearing the Pat Benatar look and the leg warmers. Looking back, I'm grateful that Melanie didn't succumb to social pressures. Unfortunately, Melanie was like most teen-aged girls and owned a small supply of Aquanet.

Abby nodded her head, though her eyes were looking down towards my hands. "Stay down?"

Once again, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin around my precious daughter. I immediately moved my hands to rest beneath the table, so that they were out of sight. I stammered for a moment before telling her, "It's a prison thing."

"It's ok, Papa. I've watched Prison Break. I understand," she said in a reassuring fashion while making another cultural reference that zoomed right over my head.

Hesitantly, I brought my hands back up for her to inspect the tats. She held my hands with fascination and wonder, as if the prison life had been romanticized via Hollywood. She ran her thumb over the 'D' and then looked up with an expectant look.

Softly, I said, "It's a request. Once I knock you down, stay down so I don't hurt you further because I will show no mercy if you get back up."

"Do people get back up?" She asked with reverence and wonder.

I sighed, "Only the stupid ones, who follow the advice of Hollywood."

She then shifted her attention to the five dots on my right hand. Again, she ran a thumb over the tattoo as if she were expecting it to have texture.

Before she could even ask, I explained, "One dot for each year inside."

She turned my hands over to see that I no longer had the soft hands of a computer programmer, but the calloused fingers of a guitar player, and the coarse hands of a blue collar machinist. With my hands outstretched to be in hers, she could see the outline of my tattoo sleeves. She pushed the sleeves of my leather riding jacket up to see more of what was hidden. On my left wrist, the word 'Abigail' was printed in flowing script. On my right, the word 'Alison' was printed in the same flowing script. Seeing her and her sister's names tattooed on my body brought a smile to her lips.

"I never stopped thinking about you, Baby Girl."

"I know, Papa. I figured Doug and ..." again, with the mocking sing-song tone, "... Doug's Little Princess..." She resumed her natural tone of voice, "... were afraid of you."

It was my turn to pry, "So tell me about that. What's going on?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she explained, "Doug is such an asshole, Papa. You should have swung harder!"

As much as I felt that Doug deserved a beating, I have regretted that decision. He still ended up with the girl. I still lost my girls. I lost my career. I lost years behind bars. I'm not even sure what the future holds for me. My words carried that regret as I said, "It didn't solve anything. Any harder, and I might be on death row instead of talking to you now."

"But Papa, he destroyed everything! He weaseled his way into our family, and made us leave our home. He made us leave all of our friends, so that we could go live with him in Skokie. Mom didn't even put up a fight. She left everything behind so she could be with Doug. Well, she may have stopped wanting to be a Brooks, but not me. I was not going to be some fake rich Yankee girl. They can take the girl out of the country, but they ain't gonna take the rebel out of the girl.

"Papa, you should have seen it. Mom turned into some fake Barbie doll princess for him. She dyed her hair. She said blondes have more fun. She got a boob job, Papa! A boob job! All she had to do was get an operation to get her mouth stuck in an O position, and she'd be a living sex doll for him. I swear, she'd probably let him shove his hand up her ass, so that she could be his fucking puppet."

I have to admit that the visual on that one just made me laugh. She definitely has the fire and spunk of a Southern girl. I did my best to cover my laughter with a bit of coughing, though we both knew that she got through to me on that. Still, I wasn't sure if my home was the right home for Abby.

"So what are your plans? You're eighteen. You're an adult. It's time to make some adult decisions."

Abby shrugged, looking more like the child rather than the woman. She said sheepishly, "I don't know. I thought that you would know what I should do."

I clucked my tongue, and offered, "Well, let's look at your options." I exhaled, though she did seem to perk up at the conversation.

I grabbed the Texas Ketchup bottle and set it to one side, "Option A. You're out of high school. You really should go on to college, but you don't like it up north. There are a ton of colleges here in Nashville, or maybe you could go to UT." Abby's lips curled downwards into a frown. She didn't have to say it. Based on what I've heard, I suspect that her grades suffered from the heart aches at home.

I quickly grabbed the salt shaker, and set that beside the Texas Ketchup bottle. "Option B. You could come down to Nashville, and live with me." This made her nod vehemently. "But if you're going to live with me, you will need to pay your share of the rent. You're an adult now. Rent and bills are no longer free of charge."

"I can get a job."

"Doing what? What skills do you have that will make someone want to hire you?"

Weakly, Abby shrugged her shoulders, "I could get a job as a waitress or something." She frowns, "It sounds like you don't want me here, Papa."

I shook my head. My heart wanted her here. My brain worried that I wouldn't be right for her. "I just want you to think things through. All of us have made choices in our lives. I made a choice, and had to deal with the consequences. You mother made a choice, and she has to deal with the consequences. If you want to live down here with me because you're an adult, then you have to live with the consequences of that choice. I'm not saying you can't get a job. But, are we thinking short term? Or are we thinking long term?"

I then grabbed the pepper shaker and placed it by the salt shaker. "You can't have salt without pepper. If you come down here, then that leaves Allie all alone in Skokie. Is that what you want? You want to leave her behind?"

"Well, I want her to come, too. She hates it as much as I do. She locks herself in her room and buries herself in all those books. Papa, I know she would love to come down here and live with you."

I frowned and shook my head again. "You are an adult. She is not. Your mother got sole custody of her. I can't take her from her mother. It'd be kidnapping, and I'd go back to prison. I don't think we want that, do we?"

"She can file for Proclamation of Emancipation!"

There are some times when a parent is not supposed to laugh at their children, especially when it's a serious moment. I love Abby to death, bless her heart. I didn't have the heart to correct her. Besides, I knew what she meant.

"To do that, she'll need a lawyer. Do you have money for a lawyer?"

"Well, what about the lawyer you had? You know, a public defender."

I couldn't help but laugh, "Right, you do realize that I lost that trial and served time in prison. I'm not certain you want to use that lawyer." She tried to say something, but I held up my hand to stop her, "But yes, there are lawyers that do Pro Bono work. It's possible, though highly improbable. And even if you can get a lawyer to do it for free, she'll still have to stay up in Chicago until the courts grant her emancipation."

Her shoulders slouched, defeated by the circumstances that come with option B. Although, I think I surprised her when I moved the regular ketchup bottle over into the mix and said, "Option C."

She perked up, showing curiosity at what this option could be.

"You convince your mother to grow a backbone and divorce the asshole. Abby, your mother admires you. She truly does. You are so much like her when she was your age. I think she wishes she could go back and be that girl again. But your mother feels all alone and is afraid that a decision she makes will be another bad choice that will blow up in her face. She needs a support circle. And right now? The only person is the asshole, so she caters to his whims. Plus, if she does divorce the asshole, Allie would follow wherever your mother goes."

Abby smiled for a moment and then said, "You have to admit that there's a conflict of interest when you give Mom advice on her love life."

I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. I then looked pointedly at her, "Yes, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong."

Have I said how much I love my daughter? She was definitely a chip off the old block. When she was younger, we used to play a game where I would quote a movie and she would have to guess what movie I was quoting. Now, mind you, she was eight, so my choices of movies that I could quote usually stemmed around Disney and Pixar movies. However, it would seem that she has carried this love for movie quotes into her late teens. And, apparently, starting today, the game had evolved to her quoting a movie, and with me quoting the following line. If you have not guessed already, that's an exchange between Daniel Ocean and Tess about her involvement with Terry Benedict in Ocean's Eleven; the remake with George Clooney and Brad Pitt, not the one with the Rat Pack from 1960. Though to be fair, she did alter the lines just slightly to fit our scene, rather than the one in the movie.

"Papa, are you really giving advice on Mom's love life?" She paused and tilted her head to one side. She narrowed her eyes, "Why do you care about Mom?"

And that, my friends, is the million dollar question. A multitude of emotions run through my mind as I think about Melanie.

Hatred, anger, and betrayal hang over every thought like an ominous dark storm cloud. Obviously, we had a good thing going, despite some rough patches. When we got married, we swore up and down that we were soul mates. She was my Buttercup, and I was her Westley. Unfortunately, Prince Humperdinck was played by the asshole. And unlike in the fairy tale, I lost to the asshole. I was not mostly dead, but completely dead. She didn't spare a conscious thought towards me or towards our family when she opened her legs for him. Though, as I consider my consequences from that one fateful night, perhaps I was Prince Humperdinck, and he was her Westley. After all, he was mostly dead but came back to life and won her heart as I rotted in misery for five years.