Choice

I sit here on the subway absorbed in the afternoon commuters, so many people crammed into such a small place. Everyone focused on their own agenda and thoughts. I started wondering about the faces I see, curious about the stories they have. My eyes turned to look at a penny by my foot and I started thinking about my stories. A penny; it was the last remaining gift from my father. Arriving home I went to the small pill container in my jewelry box that kept my memories safe. The circular tin looked unaged, even with decades passed. I slowly opened the container unsure as to all the items I’d put in over the years and the memories contained within. 
It all started with that penny. My father gave me a 1919 penny when I lost my last baby tooth, a molar, back in grade 7, 1988. It was a good long lasting gift. I often held that penny to remember him... so many memories tied up in a coin, the over-powering one is his death. I kept so many journals over the years. I pulled them all out, sprawled on my bed, I found the one from 1992. My writings sucked me into a time warp, to the moment in time that I wrote my thoughts feeling and experiences. Now with the penny once again in my hand, stories before my eyes, everything returned with intense clarity. 
It was December 1992. I was 16. My parents had been separated for quite a few years. I had just gone to my dad’s to pick up my mittens for a skating party. His car was in the driveway... there was food on the counter, maybe from today, maybe from last night… thoughts of that warning dream I had last week were present in my mind. I called out to see if he was here. No answer. I went to check the hand towel in the bathroom, it was dry. Instantly, I knew he was dead. I got my mittens and left. My mom was waiting for me in the car. I told her what I saw and my conclusion. We got a call from Uncle Jim and Bob (my dad’s best friend), they were concerned. Emily and I were the only ones with keys, so we let them in. Emily is my younger sister. We always seemed to connect, we understood each other. We searched the house then called the police to report a missing person. Intuitively I knew where the body was. I told my mom, she went back with Bob and they found him. 
It all came too soon for most people to handle. The warning dream and the intuition wasn’t enough to prepare me for the truth. This must be hysteria. I can’t believe it. My father is dead. Why am I laughing? I don’t understand. I can’t take this seriously. Someone is playing a stupid joke. Now my mother is in on it. I know he is no longer with us, just not sure I believe it. The hardest part was telling Billy. I loved my brother. I knew how he’d take it. I doubt I’ll ever forget. 
He came to our house. He was almost six foot, with a large frame and straggly hair. He’s one of these guys who looks tough. He filled the doorway and had this crazed look on his face. He knew something was going on. “What happened?” He asked in a stern yet frightened voice. “Billy sit down.” My mom tried to calm the situation. “What happened?” he persisted. “It’s dad…” Her words came out in a whisper. The silence had not lasted more than a second when my brother entered an eternal frenzy. We’d all changed, never to return to what we were. 
“What happened?” My brother’s words bellowed through the house. I couldn’t handle it any longer. He was supposed to be strong! If he was falling apart, how could I possibly survive? I walked up to him and gave him a hug. “He’s dead.” 
Now was the silence. No one knew what to say but we all knew what was coming. “How?” The words were spoken in a tiny voice. It was hard to tell they came from my brother. “Billy, no…” My mom pleaded. “TELL ME HOW! I have to know.” At this point mom broke down. “I went back with Bob, that’s when I found him.” The words came out as if they were rehearsed a thousand times in her brain. My brother persisted. “Where was he?” “Billy no...” She held back the tears. “Where was he?” He demanded. “Billy, come on.” You could see her reliving it in her mind. “WHERE WAS HE?” The fear screaming through his words were met with her meek voice. “The freezer.” The words had no sooner come out of her mouth before his screaming began. “NOOOOOOOOO, No, No, please, God, No!” He looked like he was about to punch a window. I couldn’t help being scared. He wouldn’t let us come near him. It took a long time for him to calm down and then he just sat on the front porch and cried. My brother, the strong twenty-four year old that I had come to depend on was in pieces and I couldn’t help him. 
Wednesday December 10th “Man was found dead in his basement freezer on Syndicate Avenue Tuesday afternoon. Foul play is suspected, police have not yet released this man’s name.” This is what I got to wake up to. I entered an internal dilemma. Should I throw my radio at the wall? Or should I go to school? grade 11 math was 1st period. Mr. Dubick. Crap. I should go to school. The police said we couldn’t talk about it. So I simply told my best friend, Delia, that my dad died. 
As more information became available to the public, I was sure all my friends knew it was my dad. I just didn’t know what they would think. I learned many things this week, including who my real friends are. I guess I kind of expected the taunting, being in high school and all, but I hoped that someone would be able to still treat me like I was their friend, or at least treat me as if I were still human. 
I learned many things as all the gruesome information about my dad was portrayed over the radio and papers. I learned about the hatchet that my father was killed with, his body tossed in the freezer, likely awaiting disposal. But most of all, I learned how heartless teenagers can be. People actually came up to me and said “Hey, was that really your dad who was found in the freezer?” 
Friday, December 12th the questioning began. My brother was a suspect and sole beneficiary of the $100,000 life insurance policy. Our house was worth less than that. It was to be expected he’d be investigated. My parents had been separated for years. Billy is the oldest, 24 years old and the only one of us that was around when my dad started working and evidently he never bothered updating it. 
Two detectives showed up to ask each of us some questions. They started with my mom and Emily. We had to stay out of the room until it was our turn. Sergeant Detective Terry caught my eyes first. He was a fresh FBI graduate; likely in his late twenties, he was built, clean cut and more handsome than any TV detective I’ve seen. My first thought was “If he was the one asking questions I might just take my time.” He was so nice to look at. Detective Mills however was exactly what I thought a detective would be like. He was old, stern, cold and to the point. I wouldn’t have survived the session if it weren’t for Terry. Not only was he beautiful, he was calming and had these eyes that showed he cared. He used first names; he was so warm compared to Detective Mills who even in introductions was cold and formal using his last name. 
The questions began simply. Terry made me a tad more comfortable. Mills got the facts down asking most of the questions… “How old are you Angela?...