1.13 There's a paper with your name on it.

As I sit on the chair in front of him, I realize I still do not know what to say to my Dad. It's been like this since I was a kid. Walking on eggshells around him, making sure he doesn't stop being proud of me. Even when I was already old enough to realize the kind of person he was, the same kind of person he was molding me to be, I cherished my time with him. I still do. I have no excuse for it. I guess he succeeded, and now I'm just as horrible as him, especially at breaking my mother's heart.

I study Dad as he gets led to a chair on the other side of the mirror, his hands cuffed in front of him. He looks older, gaunt, and tired. His dreadlocks are a mess, and his skin is so pale that it's hard for me, his own daughter, to tell that he's only half Caucasian. He waggles his eyebrows at me, though, just like he always did, and I smile as I pick up the receiver in front of me.

"Hello, Papa." I greet him, trying to hide the nervousness brewing underneath me.

"Dina Marie. You look well. How's my little girl?" he responds, enthusiastic. It is probably hell on him, trying to grasp his receiver with his bound hands, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Not little anymore." I correct him fondly.

"Nah." he tells me, "You'll always be little to me."

I beamed at that. Gathering my thoughts, I first ask the safest question that I can think of, "I haven't seen you in months, Pa. Have you been getting my letters?"

"Oh." Dad pauses as if trying to remember something. "Must have got lost in the mail, sweets. They're strict around here." he pronounces, making sure that the officer standing behind him is within earshot. His guard rolled his eyes.

"By the way, Dad--" I start, leaning towards the mirror separating us, but he interrupts me with a wave of his hand.

"How's your stepfather?" he suddenly asks, and I pull back in surprise. From what I remember, Dad and Arnold never had the best relationship. My parents were long divorced when Mom started dating Arnold, but Dad still gets hostile around him. Because of this, Mom always made sure to keep Arnold away from seeing Dad. So, I don't know why he's asking about Arnold now.

"He's good," I answer cautiously.

"Hmm....that guy's loaded, huh? Suits your Mama. Always has eyes for money and pretty things, that one." he comments, and I try to keep my gaze neutral. If there is one thing that you learn growing up in a dysfunctional home, it is never to pick a side between two warring parents. It not only lets you avoid the line of fire, but it also helps you keep them both, no matter how far away they stray from each other. It's true that Mom and I don't always agree with things, and I'd rather spend more time with Dad than her. But she's still my mother.

"Tell you what, Sweets. How about you invite Arnold for a visit with me here next time? I felt bad the last time I saw him. Was in a bad mood, you know. Almost took a swing on the guy." Dad blathers on. I remember the scene that he was talking about. He didn't almost take a swing at Arnold, though. That blow landed. Mom couldn't stop crying about it for days.

"Okay, I'll talk to him about it," I tell Dad just to appease him. I'll prod him about this later. Right now, I have more pressing matters at hand. "Listen, Dad--"

"I hear you're looking for a certain plant these days. You still in that hobby, huh?" he interrupts me, eyes twinkling in mischief. I gape at him. It doesn't take me long to figure out what he means. Uncle Fern. He knows I'm looking for Uncle Fern. My heart picks up its rhythm and glancing surreptitiously at his guard, I scoot to the edge of my seat, bringing my face closer to the glass.

"Yes, Papa. Do you know where I can find one?" I ask him.

I don't have to worry about what I'm conveying. My Dad and I have always been good at talking in code. It's what saves our lives every single time we have it rough doing errands on the streets. "Nah, you don't have to look for that one, sugar. I'll be your plant, right here." he cackles, lifting the receiver over his head in his attempt to act out a tree. His guard looks over at his sudden movement, but thankfully, there isn't any trace of suspicion in his eyes.

"Okay," I reply hesitantly. My giggle is a bit nervous, but the officer doesn't seem to notice. "So, can you tell me then where paper comes from?" I ask him, maintaining the teasing lilt to my voice.

Dad looks confused for a second. This is a tricky one. Since it's tough to sneak in letters to him, we don't have that much basis on which we can continue talking in code. My Dad's face shows something else, though. There's a challenging angle to his chin. He's telling me to find a way around it.

I grin at him, confident. Of course, I can get the message through. I'm his daughter, after all. "Where does paper come from, Dad?"

"Trees," he answers simply.

Jumping excitedly from my seat, I point at him playfully, "Haha. Gotcha! And you're a tree! So, there's a paper with your name on it." I exclaim, giving a goofy laugh. "You know what? I'm using it to write a letter. I'm sending it to my friend in...Korea." I keep my eyes focused on my Dad's face, hoping they can tell him what my words cannot. My father looks back at me thoughtfully. Behind him, the guard clears his throat, restless. There isn't a hint of suspicion in his face, though. He just looks like someone who's weirded out by a non-sensical conversation between father and child, which means that we're both safe.

Dad inclines his head back enough to address the guard. "Guess I passed my crazy to my little girl, huh? Haha. Not really. Her jokes are just corny."

"Hey!" I protest, offended.

"Nah. Just kidding, sweets. You know I love you. What I'm saying is, I do remember that you have a friend in Korea." he says slowly, and I hang on to his every word. "Are you still in touch with him? I heard his parents died. Car accident. Some drunk fucked them up from the side. Two drunks. They never did catch those guys." Dad narrates, his eyes staring into a spot in space in which he can only see. His tone is reminiscing, nostalgic. I know he's thinking of those times when he would run around this city with Uncle Fern-- killing innocent people in cold blood, staging it to look like suicide, car accidents-- all for money.

I let out the breath that I didn't know I'd been holding all this time. My hands shake as I put down the receiver, weighed down by this revelation. I don't cry about the deaths that my Dad caused anymore. I'm desensitized to it by now. But this one hit differently. I think of little David and his parents, beaming in that photo. I think of the David I know now, desperately reaching out to take back something I took. I have taken more than that from him. There's no way that I can ever face him now.

-LETTERS START HERE-

September 26, 2015

Dear Koko,

I just came home from meeting Dad. Don't worry one bit. Your son is still in one piece. He's just super busy with work as usual. He has to leave again in a few weeks to work on another oil rig somewhere, so he says he wants to spend more time with me these days while he's home. I bet he gets his clinginess from you, Koko. Heh.

Anyways, that would mean that I have to delay my visit there. I'm sorry! I promise I will make it up to you. Please take care of yourself, okay?

Love, Dina Marie