Some Wounds Never Heal

“This is a joke, right?”

“I thought so too, but it’s not. I called dad, and he said all the cousins get it. I’m going to Bora Bora for two weeks. What are you doing with yours?”

My sister’s voice is frantic with excitement. Money has always been her love language.

“So, what? You’re just accepting this like, ‘whatever, all is forgiven’? Just like that.” I don’t attempt to disguise the contempt in my voice. She knows where I stand with him.

“Look, you can be bitter forever or just accept it for what it is. Maybe he’s had a change of heart? Old age can bring that on, you know. And it’s twenty grand! That must be the best, 'I’m sorry' you’ve ever gotten.”

I adjust the phone on my shoulder and simultaneously wipe graham cracker crumbs from my daughter’s face and hands.

“I am not bitter. I just think it’s pretty hilarious that he ignored us our entire lives, then he goes and sells his ranch for three million and wants to divvy out the proceeds to the grandkids he clearly doesn’t give a crap about. I’ve gotten married, had two kids, and he’s literally never even sent a ‘congrats’ card, much less a gift.” The disdain is fully evident in my tone, but I don’t care.

She chuckles, “Well if you want to refuse it on principal you can venmo me. I have to go, they just called me back for my facial. Love you five.” The line cuts off.

There’s no doubt I could use twenty thousand dollars to pay off some debt. Accepting it from my estranged grandfather who always called me, ‘pumpkin’, because he couldn’t remember my name is the part I’m not thrilled about.

“Is writing a check for twenty thousand dollars really easier than saying ‘I’m sorry’ ?” I mumble to myself.

The following morning I drive to my parent’s house. My dad comes out to my car to help unbuckle my kids. It’s a miracle such a caring man is the offspring of a sociopath. I cut to the chase once we escape the chilled air.

“So, I hear grandpa is suddenly interested in his family tree branches. Guess he’s finally going senile after years of the good ol’ silent treatment?” The sarcasm is ripe on my tongue.

He smiles patiently. “I know you’re having a difficult time with this. I don’t expect you to forget a lifetime of being ignored, but he gave me something I wanted to share with you.” He walks into his office and returns with a worn black leather book. “It isn’t an easy thing to get through, but I’m hoping it will help you. His life wasn’t always ranching, women, and neglecting his kids. People cope in a variety of ways. It doesn’t excuse anything, and I want you to understand that I know that.”

I force myself not to roll my eyes.

“Yeah, I heard the lonely years between wife three and four were pretty tough on him. That also happens to be when I had my first baby, your first grandkid. All the living great grandparents met him within a month. Charles never even acknowledged that I was married and reproducing.” Grandpa’s fourth wife is younger than my dad, but he is aware so I don’t bring it up.

I go on, “Sometimes life sucks because terrible things happen, but when you treat everyone in your life like dog poo it’s a lot harder for me to feel sympathetic. Him ignoring me is awful, but what really makes me hate him is how he was never there for you as a kid. Your mom did all she could, and he was off having seven kids with his new flavor. That’s just not something I can ignore, even for twenty thousand dollars. I don’t forgive him.” I finally got it all out, but I actually don’t feel any better now that’s it’s been vocalized.

My dad is holding my one-year-old daughter, and he kisses her on her chubby pink cheek.

“She looks so much like you did at this age.” His eyes are glassy at the memory.

“She’s a turd, but a very cute one.” I smile as I lift my phone and snap the moment into forever.

“You don’t have to read it, sweetie. I will understand if you don’t. He gave it to me with the checks. I think he is aware it’s too late to make amends. This is all he knows to do. For him, giving away that kind of money is a pretty big sacrifice. Greed isn’t something you just get over when you’re sick and closer to death.” He sticks a check inside the worn little book and puts them both inside my diaper bag. “Think about it. Bring it back next time you come over. You might as well cash the check, maybe have a fence built in the back for the kids. Whatever you guys need most.” He squeezes me into a hug at my car. “Love you five.”

When I’m back home and the kids are napping, I pull it out of the bag. The little book is falling apart. The worn edges are crumbling, and a dark mystery stain decorates the backside. After staring at it for several long moments, I begrudgingly open the cover. The faded script looks like it was written in a hurry. Some words in the slanted blocky letters are difficult to make out.

December 25, 1967 Merry Christmas from Vietnam. My little boy, Anthony, is having his first Christmas at home. I wish I could be there to put on a beard and a red suit. He’s too young to notice, but I know Camila would smile. I bet she made that cherry pie I love. Maybe I’ll be able to get the china set home by her birthday.

September 9, 1970 My second oldest is turning one. I miss them more than I can express with words. This place is eating me alive. How many more birthdays will I miss? Knowing I'm fighting this war for them is all that can keep me going.

May 19, 1971 I flew over enemy territory today. There was a man in a small fishing boat floating on a lake. He was hunched over, enjoying the water on a Sunday morning. I soared over him three times before I got the courage up. I knew what I had to do the first round, but I thought I could let him enjoy a catch. On my third loop I saw the fish. He was holding it up like every man does when they get a good one. I smiled for him while I pulled the trigger. I got sick in the cockpit of my A-4 Skyhawk.

February 17, 1972 We lost Richard today. Capture is worse than death. We’ve all seen the aftermath of what they’ve done to our men. What’s left of them is barely enough to send back for burial. I beg God to end his life before it comes to the horrors of being a POW.

September 4, 1972 Picturing Camila’s smile is the only thing getting me through this. I have to write down what I can remember now because each day takes my mind further away from her. She was so beautiful at our wedding. The memory of her under the ceremonial swords in her white suit is helping me sleep on the cold nights. I don’t know why such a beautiful, independent woman would ever wait for a man like me. This war could go on for years. I have no idea when we will get to go home so I can hold her again.

November 27, 1973 It’s difficult to imagine the youngest of the three boys is almost three. They’re better off without me. Camila can’t be a good mother and deal with my demons. I’ll never be the father and husband my family needs. If I leave them alone, maybe someone else will come along who isn’t living in hell.

February 15, 2021 I wasn’t great at journaling during the war. I’ve had this notebook in my desk drawer for nearly fifty years, and I’ve never shared it with anyone until now. I’ve lived a long time with guilt over the choices I made. Camila is gone. I never got to tell her this, but I want you all to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I never came back. I’m so sorry.

The old journal falls into my lap. I know this may not even be the worst of what he saw and had to do. Did he ever go to therapy? Did he try to get help? Would it have made a difference? These questions are pointless to dwell on. What’s done can’t be reversed. The only question left is, does knowing about his trauma allow me to forgive him?

The next day I cash the check.