Chapter 7: Depositions of a Son
I sat for a deposition in a room with bottled water and a view of a parking deck.
Teresa’s counsel asked whether I had “always been distant.” I said I had been present enough to send three thousand dollars a month and absent enough to miss a basin of dishwater and a burning child. Honesty is an ugly exhibit. Rachel had prepared me not to perform purity. I performed accuracy.
They asked about Amy’s “attitude.” I described bread between her teeth. They objected to phrasing. The transcript kept the bread.
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Mason’s deposition, which Rachel summarized, painted him as a helper who “didn’t read good.” The notary’s gap and the quitclaim draft read better than he did. Charges did not vanish because a cousin shrugged.
Afterward I drove to a site meeting and stared at a blueprint until the lines meant steel again. Work was a country where rules were written down and inspections happened. I had inspected bridges and missed my own home. The shame sat beside me in the truck like a passenger. I did not let it drive.
