Torn Apart by Neil O'Neil - Continued 



I thought NOS was the latest designer fashion and not an explosive fuel that could propel a car as fast as a missile…or my son into a wall at 200 miles per hour.

I thought I had managed to cope with that, but I will never recover from losing him. I didn't know him as I wanted to, but had hoped later, as men, we could explore the world together. Now he is dead and so is my ancestry, he was the last chance to carry on the Heffler name. Maybe that's when I should have noticed the drinking.

  Frank took a short break; it was going better than he'd thought. He could feel the pressure evaporating and was beginning to be confident he was making the right decision, for once in his life. He made a phone call; one he had planned for a while. The call had the desired results, even if it had taken over twenty minutes and some "fancy footwork". Taking the pen in a slightly trembling hand, he continues.

Adrian's death hit me hard but obviously not hard enough. Within two weeks I was traveling the globe again in search for that monster deal. Now, I know I should have taken a break and made sure everybody was coping, not just me. I should have noticed how the empty bottles of wine were increasing on a weekly basis, but maybe I just didn't want to face the facts. If you had told me then maybe, just maybe, I could forgive you now.

I seem to remember that it was your idea to take Jenny to your mother's last Christmas? If you'd told me how bad things were I could have cancelled the London trip, but I guess by then you were the one who needed more help than any of us. I can now see why Jenny ran away on New Year's Day; she had nothing to stay for, a drunk for a mother, an absent father and a dead brother. I should have noticed how distant she was when I called that morning to wish her Happy New Year, but I put that down to your damned mother being her usual pompous self.

I will never forgive you for not telling me, until I got back, that she was missing. Alcohol or no alcohol. No I don't regret having committed you to the Ford clinic, I guess it saved your life, but now I don't really give a shit. You see, now I know the truth..

His eyes smarted just at the thought of what he was about to write. It was going to be hard for the reader, but even harder for the writer. He sipped some water and breathed deeply to compose himself. His hand ached from writing and itching from where the bandages had been, but this was something he must finish before two o'clock.

While you were all trussed up in your pampering Betty Ford hideaway thinking you had it tough, I went looking for Jenny. Instinct told me that her suicide note was a front. No body, money withdrawn from her account, half-empty wardrobe, Jenny just wanted a new life. Away from you, away from me, in fact away from everything we stood for.

It took ten days for me to find her; OK I used some help, the best private detective money can buy, but we found her. She was camped out under the turnpike that joins Route 77 East with Route119 North, outside New Stanton. Could you believe she was living rough with some hobos, smelt more like deadbeats to me? When I approached she screamed me down shouting I was a good for nothing shit that had no idea who she was, what she needed and some other ranting I can't bring myself to repeat. She said that if I ever came within ten yards of her again she would stab me. Her life was now with people who owned nothing yet was rich in character and honesty. She, for the first time in her life, felt wanted and had a reason to live. I was devastated and locked myself in a motel for two long days.

Janet had managed to put a plate of chicken salad and a glass of chilled milk on his table without him noticing. She must have seen him face in hands silently weeping as grown men sometimes do. He drank the milk. It bit into his dry-wired throat and refreshed him enough to pick up the pen to continue. He left the salad.

I thought of calling you, but realized you were as far away emotionally from me as Jenny. Also I needed to sort this one out myself so I switched into my 'creative mode', that mode you used to admire. Instead of calling you I called Gerry Hitcham, my own private 'Mr. Fixit' in L.A. He introduced me to Felice and all her paraphernalia. The night before I had been watching a Lon Chaney movie when I got the idea; Felice was the best makeup artist money could buy and even at $20k per week she delivered far beyond my expectations. Within 3 hours I was the roughest, most twisted hobo you could imagine. Even now I can still feel the aches caused by the prosthesis she used to make me limp and the contraption she attached to my back to make me hunched. As for that smelly rancid wig and what she did to my teeth! I was all set up to get close to Jenny.

Even though my disguise was foolproof I was uncertain how to act, what to say or do, so to start off I tested my new identity in New Stanton…ouch! Boy does the public hate a begging tramp! All I got was $7.32, plenty of abuse and a night in the cells. Each night after that Felice would coach and test me. Then she would help me off with the disguise, cook us a meal, run a bath and massage my twisted back. We had some late nights talking strategy and I just poured everything out to her. Whether it was the money or whether she genuinely cared, she was great support and once again my success was due to somebody else. Within a week I had managed to stray into Jenny's circles, taking it easy at first so that I wasn't rumbled.

Fortunately I had struck up a good rapport with some drunk downtown and she had already heard about me before we exchanged our first words. She said little more than 'Hello…how's it going?' but those few words were so warm and genuine my heart broke inside. Tears rolled down Frank's face and he needed a break. It was just past noon, so he changed into his clothes and prepared for later. He paced the room for a short while and then sat down fairly sure he was doing the right thing. It seems unreal now that Ten days ago I was a tramp, sharing a dirty cup of coffee with my daughter under a wet and noisy turnpike. She, thinking she'd found a new lost soul to help and tend to, and me having a real conversation with my daughter. We talked until the until dawn in front of our campfire, I genuinely believe we got on and I am sure she liked me.

She even began to tell me her problems. I listened intently and at an appropriate moment managed to ask if she had ever loved her father. "I really wanted to hate him, he was selfish and only cared about his own little world. I had a chance to really hurt him and, you know, maybe if I had then I wouldn't be here today" she told me. "Go on." I unfairly coaxed her. "When Adrian, my brother, died father was back at work really quickly. I traveled to his office to tell him that Adrian wasn't really his son and that Mom had an affair just after they got married. Even Adrian didn't know. As usual he wasn't there. I know in his heart he was hurting for Adrian but couldn't show it. What right did I have to make him feel real pain?" I will never know if she saw the tears in my eyes because a few seconds later a drunken driver drove his car off the turnpike into our camp fire killing her instantly. I screamed her name, I screamed 'I am your dad', I screamed that I loved her, but I knew from her limp body in my arms she couldn't hear me. Then I woke up here in this hospital with burns and cuts from the accident. I could have told you on the phone yesterday and stopped you from coming to pick me up, but I wasn't sure if we had a future then.

It was 12:45 before he finished packing his bag and his hands had stopped shaking. He peeled a $100 bill from his wallet and left it under the pillow for Janet and, seeing Felice's car coming up the drive, he quickly penned the last paragraph to his letter.

I can forgive you for being a bad mother, I can forgive you for being a bad wife, I might even have forgiven you for getting fucked by somebody else but I can never forgive you for letting Adrian die without knowing the truth about his father. My father left me when I was ten, but at least I knew his name. Feel free to rot in hell and you will never know where Jenny's buried!

He sealed the envelope, addressed it to Alice and hesitantly placed it on the bedside cabinet. Frank Heffler, feeling bitter and disillusioned, slipped out of the ground floor window clutching a plastic bag of his few belongings, and strode towards Felice's waiting car…ready for his second chance at life.