He wants it in writing. Not a lawsuit — he was clear about that, and he’d already checked, and the statute is long gone on all of it. He wants a letter, signed, that says what happened on that road in April 1998, because his daughter is twenty-six and grew up being told her father had a record from a night he’s never been able to explain properly, and he wants one document in the world that isn’t his word against a police report. He said he’d never show it to anyone but her. He said it four times, which is how I know how much it costs him to ask.
I’ve written it eleven times. What stops me isn’t my sister’s job or her marriage — it’s her son, who’s twenty-two, and who I’ve watched grow up believing his mother is the most upright person he knows, and who would find out from a piece of paper I signed. Twenty-seven years ago I made a choice at twenty-three that wasn’t mine to make and I’ve called it loyalty ever since. Now the letter would be another choice made about her without her, and I’d be doing it for the same reason I did the first one: because a person in front of me was in pain and I wanted to be the one who fixed it.
So I called her. Last Tuesday, after ninety-one days, and I told her he’d found me and that I’d confirmed it and that he’d asked for a letter. She was quiet for a long time and then she said, “Give me his number.” I don’t know what that means yet. She hasn’t called me back and it’s been nine days. What I do know is that I’m done being the middle of it — I’ve spent twenty-seven years as the only person who could talk to both sides, and I mistook that for being useful. He deserves the letter. If she won’t write it, I will, and I’ve told her that, and it’s the first thing I’ve said to my sister since 1998 that I didn’t soften first.
