Chapter 3 - Your Family Is Here
I had never seen my father in a Navy uniform.
Not once.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was no mistaking him.
Howard Whitaker at perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two.
Thinner.
Dark-haired.
Standing beside three other young men near a ship.
A date was printed along the white border.
Mercer watched my face.
"You didn't know?"
"No."
"You recognize him?"
"That's my father."
She took the photograph only after I offered it.
Her expression sharpened.
"This looks legitimate."
"My father told us he went straight into warehouse work after high school."
"Maybe he did eventually."
"Why would he hide this?"
Mercer returned the photograph.
"I don't know."
I looked at the handwritten message.
Ask Howard why he never told you.
"Who gave this to the staff member?"
"We can find out."
The answer took seven minutes.
A retired chief named Thomas Keene had left the envelope.
And he was still in the parking lot.
I found him near a gray sedan.
He was in his late fifties, broad-shouldered, with white hair cropped short.
When he saw me approaching, he didn't look surprised.
"Commander Whitaker."
"Mr. Keene?"
"Tom."
"You left this?"
He looked at the photograph.
"Figured it was time."
"Time for what?"
"For you to know your father didn't always hate the Navy."
The words struck me.
"My father doesn't hate the Navy."
Tom gave me a look.
"Doesn't he?"
I thought about every joke.
Every dismissal.
Every time Dad referred to my work as "government stuff."
"How do you know him?"
"We served together."
"Where?"
"Norfolk, mostly."
The parking lot suddenly seemed too bright.
"Why has he never mentioned you?"
"Howard hasn't mentioned a lot of things."
"Then tell me."
Tom looked toward the hall.
"I came today because Captain Sloan contacted some old networks looking for people connected to your career. Your name caught my attention."
"You recognized my last name?"
"Your full name."
"Nora isn't unusual."
"Your father talked about naming a daughter Nora before you were born."
I stared at him.
"What?"
Tom smiled sadly.
"He wanted a daughter."
That hurt in a completely different way.
"Mr. Keene—"
"Tom."
"Why did he leave?"
His expression changed.
"That's Howard's story."
"He lied to me for thirty-four years."
"People usually hide the things they're ashamed of."
"Was he discharged?"
Tom hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
"Was he?"
"Ask him."
I stepped closer.
"You came nine hours to attend the promotion of a woman you've never met, then gave me evidence my father lied about his life. You don't get to suddenly become respectful of his privacy."
Tom absorbed that.
"Fair."
He opened his car door but didn't get inside.
"Your father was good," he said.
"At what?"
"His job. His evaluations. Everything. He wanted a career."
"What happened?"
"There was an incident."
My pulse accelerated.
"What kind?"
"No one died. Nobody was hurt."
"Then what?"
"Howard made a decision."
"What decision?"
Tom looked directly at me.
"One that ended his Navy career."
My phone rang.
Dad.
Tom saw the screen.
"Looks like your timing problem solved itself."
I answered.
"Dad."
"Nora."
His voice was different.
No humor.
No irritation.
Fear.
"Where did you get that photograph?"
I looked at Tom.
"How do you know I have it?"
Silence.
Then Dad said, "Come home."
"Why?"
"We need to talk."
"Tell me now."
"Not on the phone."
"Why did you never tell me you served?"
Another silence.
Then a sentence I never expected from Howard Whitaker.
"Because I didn't want you becoming me."
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Tom sighed.
"Go."
"You're coming."
"No."
"Yes."
"Nora—"
"You started this."
He considered arguing.
Then nodded.
"I'll follow you."
Nine hours was suddenly not too far.
I changed out of my dress whites before leaving.
Priya wanted to come.
I refused.
"This is family."
She gave me a skeptical look.
"Today should have taught you that word is flexible."
She had a point.
Still, I went alone.
Tom followed in his sedan.
Mom called twice.
I didn't answer.
Daniel texted.
What the hell happened at your ceremony? Mom's losing it.
I replied:
Ask Dad about 1988.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then:
What does that mean?
I didn't respond.
We reached Dayton after dark.
My childhood home looked exactly as it always had.
Porch light.
Dad's truck.
Mom's flowers.
Normality can be insulting when your understanding of your own family has just cracked open.
Tom parked behind me.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Good answer."
I knocked.
Mom opened the door.
Her anger appeared first.
Then she saw Tom.
Her face changed.
"You."
Tom nodded.
"Beverly."
I looked between them.
"You know him too?"
Mom stepped backward.
Dad appeared in the hallway.
He looked twenty years older than he had three days earlier.
"Tom."
"Howard."
Nobody moved.
Finally I walked inside.
The same kitchen.
The same counter.
No apples this time.
I placed the photograph down.
"Start talking."
Mom crossed her arms.
"Nora, you don't come into our house and—"
"Not tonight."
She stopped.
Maybe it was my tone.
Maybe my uniform career had finally taught me something useful about command.
Dad sat at the kitchen table.
"I enlisted at eighteen."
"Why did you lie?"
"I didn't lie."
"You told me you worked at Mason Warehouse after high school."
"I did."
"After the Navy."
He rubbed his face.
"Yes."
"How long did you serve?"
"Three years."
"What happened?"
He looked at Tom.
Tom said nothing.
Dad stared at the photograph.
"I was supposed to have a career."
"Then?"
"I screwed up."
Mom moved toward him.
"Howard, you don't have to—"
"Yes," he said. "I do."
He looked at me.
"There was an inspection. Equipment records. I signed something I shouldn't have signed."
"Why?"
"Because someone above me told me to."
"And?"
"When it was discovered, he denied it."
"Who?"
Dad's jaw tightened.
"Doesn't matter."
"It mattered enough to destroy your career."
"I accepted responsibility."
"Why?"
"Because I was twenty-one and stupid."
Tom finally spoke.
"You weren't stupid."
Dad snapped toward him.
"Stay out of this."
"You were scared."
"I said stay out."
I looked at Tom.
"Scared of what?"
Dad stood.
"This conversation is over."
"No."
His fist struck the table.
"Nora!"
I didn't move.
For the first time in my life, my father's anger didn't make me feel twelve years old.
"You mocked my career because yours ended badly."
His face went pale.
"I tried to keep you from making the same mistake."
"What mistake? Serving?"
"Giving everything to an institution that forgets you the second you're inconvenient."
Tom shook his head.
"That's not what happened."
Dad turned.
"You weren't the one whose name was on the form."
"No. I was the one who watched you take the fall."
The room went silent.
Mom whispered, "Tom."
He ignored her.
"Tell her the rest, Howard."
Dad looked at him.
Then me.
"I can't."
"Why?"
His eyes filled.
It shocked me more than anything else had.
My father almost never cried.
He sat down again.
"Because the person who told me to sign it was someone I trusted."
"Who?"
He looked toward Mom.
Not at her.
Past her.
Toward the hallway.
Then headlights swept across the kitchen window.
A vehicle stopped outside.
Dad's face drained of color.
Tom turned toward the door.
"Are you expecting someone?"
"No."
A car door slammed.
Then another.
Mom moved toward the window.
She pulled the curtain aside.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Howard."
Dad stood.
I stepped beside her.
A man was walking toward the porch.
Older.
Gray-haired.
Carrying a blue folder identical to the one Rear Admiral Mercer had held that morning.
Dad whispered his name.
May you like
"Richard."
Then the doorbell rang.
