I stare dumbly at him, trying to connect the dots. “They were in the car with you?” He never told me that's how they died …
The dress bag crunches as he crosses his ankles. “Well, no. It’s because of the wreck that I don’t remember them. If it wasn’t for your mom, I wouldn’t remember anything about my childhood. She put a photo journal together for me so I would know my parents’ faces, since they had passed away before I met her. I couldn’t remember that I have no sisters or brothers, or cousins or relatives who were interested in knowing me. I didn’t even remember meeting your mom. That’s how bad the damage was. Is. My life before I crashed that car, before your mom … it’s just gone. As if I never lived it.”
There’s a prick in my heart, like a thorn piercing me from the inside out. “Dad, I’m sorry.” The apology feels inadequate. Memories are such precious and priceless things. It’s always made me sad to think about Jeb losing his from Wonderland. But this is so much worse. “You never told me.”
“You already had a messed-up childhood. I wasn’t going to add anything to that. You needed at least one parent who had a semi-normal past. Right?”
I shrug, though I don’t know if I agree. Maybe if we’d both been honest all along, we could’ve helped each other.
“So, do you see now?” he asks. “Why she doesn’t want you driving that car? It’s too easy, when you have unharnessed power at your fingertips, to forget you’re not invincible. To make rash decisions that can affect your whole future.”
His words are so perfectly cut for me, they could be the missing pieces of my own thoughts and fears.
“I want you to work things out with her before you go to school,” he says, in a final tone. “And I want you to make a better effort to get along with her. She’s been trying so hard with you.” His jaw clenches. “Make me proud, Alyssa.”
Alyssa. He hasn’t called me by my first name alone since the time I came home in ninth grade with a C in geometry. It’s worse than if he’d yelled at me.
“All right,” I mumble.
“You better get ready for school,” he says. He stands and drops his keys on my bed. “You can drive my truck. I’ll call someone to take me to Micah’s Tire Repair. They’re supposed to be done with Gizmo this morning. Oh, and I parked the Mercedes in the garage last night to keep it safe. Bring your friend home after school to pick it up. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, though I have no idea how I’ll accomplish that.
Dad looks like he’s about to leave. Instead, he stops to lift the dress bag from my bed. “Is this what I think it is?”
At first I have no idea what he means—I’m not even sure I remember what’s in the bag. Then I nod.
He opens the zipper, tugging out the mask and a corner of the dress.
“So you were serious about going to prom tonight?” He looks suspiciously close to happy again. He’s wanted me to go to a school dance since I was a freshman. He signed himself and Mom up to be chaperones the minute he heard I’d told Jeb yes, but it’s obvious he never believed I’d follow through until now.
He lays the bag back on the bed and glances at the flowery tiara pinned on the hanger. His famous Elvis smirk appears. “You’re going to wear a crown? Aw, Allie, you’ll look just like a princess. Just like when you used to play dress-up.” His goofy grin is pure nostalgia, and it makes me want to cry. He strokes the mildew-tinted lines of the mask. “Well … a princess who’s been through a bit of a rough patch. I like it.”
“Thanks.” I attempt a smile as I wrestle the dress back into the bag and zip it closed, hating that I’ll disappoint him yet again when I don’t show up for the dance tonight.
A worried wrinkle appears between his eyebrows. He catches my hand and drags me close for a hug, tucked safe under his chin. I snuggle into him, my daddy … my champion. And the love of Mom’s life. It’s amazing what she did for him, putting that photo journal together, giving him his past back. That doesn’t sound like a woman who resents her marriage. Maybe she really did choose Dad over the crown. Maybe there really was more to the story. I need to give her the benefit of the doubt and hear her out—if we ever get the chance to discuss it again.
“Listen, Butterfly,” Dad whispers against my head. “You haven’t seemed yourself, but I get it. It’s the end of school. You have tests, prom, graduation, and on top of all that, you almost drowned. It’s understandable that you feel a little unhinged. Maybe you need to talk to someone other than me or Mom.”
A burning sensation rises in my esophagus. I push back enough to glare up at him. “What, like a psychiatrist? No, Dad. I’m not going crazy.”
“That’s not what I meant. You could go to your school counselor. You just seem to be teetering a little. We can put you right again. Let us know what you need.”
My 6:45 alarm buzzes and we jump.