I nod. “A good one. He used to own a custom shop, did restorations, hot rod upgrades, those kinds of things. I was in the shop with him almost every day. I could practically rebuild a transmission before I could walk.” I don’t want to think about my father, but my brain is happy to supply me with memories. I remember getting into a heated argument with one of the shop guys over the correct ignition timing on a Chevy Impala, and Dad could barely stop laughing long enough to tell the guy I was right. I was eight years old. “He taught me to drive as soon as I was tall enough to work a clutch and see over the steering wheel at the same time. I would move cars in and out of the shop without a thought.”
Darker memories slide in there, too. The times I had to drive a lot farther than the distance from the back lot to the front of the garage. The times I would put on a ball cap and stretch to make myself as tall as possible because I was worried the cops would spot me and figure out a kid was driving.
In retrospect, I wish a cop had caught us. Maybe Kerry would still be here.
“Where’s your dad now?” Melonhead asks.
His voice is just a little careful, and normally I’d dodge the question because there’s too much pain and guilt wrapped around these memories. But Melonhead doesn’t judge me—if he did, he wouldn’t have asked me to help out his neighbor. He wouldn’t let me be around his daughter. This feeling of sanctuary is almost foreign, and it’s something I usually only feel at Rev’s.
“He’s in prison,” I say quietly, my eyes on my glass. “He was drunk and he wrecked his car. My sister died.”
Melonhead puts a hand over mine. “Ah, Murph. I’m sorry.”
The touch takes me by surprise, and it’s so unfamiliar that it’s almost uncomfortable. I pull my hand away and rub the back of my neck. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
“Do you ever see him?”
I shake my head. “Mom never goes, so I never do, either.”
“Your mom’s remarried, yes?”
“Yes.”
“How’s that going?”
I look at him and give him a half smile. “What, are you my court-appointed therapist now?”
“No, I’m just trying to figure you out.”
I take a drink of lemonade. “There’s not much to figure out.”
“You work hard. You don’t give me much grief. You’re smart. I don’t get kids like you through the program much.”
“I just don’t want to be hassled.”
“I don’t think that’s it.” He pauses. “You have a drinking problem, Murph?”
“Obviously.” I snort and drain more lemonade. “I mean, you know my record, right?”
“Yes. I do. Do you have a drinking problem?”
I shrug, then shake my head. I can remember the burn of the whiskey as if it happened yesterday. I don’t remember much after that, but I still clearly remember the burn. “No.”
“Did you?”
I shake my head again. “It was just one day. One stupid day.” The second-worst day of my life, in more ways than one.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
The room shrinks incrementally, and sweat has begun collecting between my shoulder blades. He’s going to push, and I’m going to explode out of here, leaving a Declan-sized hole in the drywall. “Not really, no.”
“Hey.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a gentle shake. “Take it easy. I didn’t mean to ramp you up.”
I take a breath and let go of the glass. I didn’t realize how tightly I was gripping it until I let go. “Sorry.”
Marisol bursts into the kitchen with papers in her hands. “Declan! I draw you!”
She thrusts it in front of me. It’s a colorful stick man with brown hair.
“This is amazing,” I tell her. Somehow my voice is steady. “Can you draw me another one?”
“Yes!” She runs out.
The kitchen falls silent again. My eyes fix on my glass.
“Can I tell you one thing?” Melonhead says.
I swallow. “Sure.”
“One day isn’t your whole life, Murph.” He waits until I look at him. “A day is just a day.”
I scoff and slouch in the chair. “So what are you saying? That people shouldn’t judge me on one mistake? Tell that to Judge Ororos.”
He leans in against the table. “No, kid. I’m saying you shouldn’t judge yourself for it.” He pauses. “Do you have a court-appointed therapist?”
I give him a look. They’d have to drag me in handcuffs. “No.”
His eyebrows go up. “You think there’s something wrong with having someone to talk to?”
“I don’t need someone to talk to. I’m fine.”
“Everyone needs someone to talk to, kid.” He hesitates. “Do you have anyone at all?”
I trace another finger through the condensation on my glass, then lift my eyes to meet his. “Yeah. I do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
From: The Dark <[email protected]>
To: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]>
Date: Sunday, October 6 11:58:35 PM
Subject: The whole story
With your mom, does it ever feel like you’ve buried all kinds of memories in a box, but when someone tugs at one, they all break free? That happened today. Someone started asking about my father, and now I can’t stop thinking about him.
My mom used to think my dad hung the stars. She wasn’t alone. He could do no wrong in my eyes—in a lot of people’s eyes. He was a friendly guy, always had a smile. Got along with everyone. He could talk about sports, he could talk about politics, he could make my sister laugh at the dinner table, even when she was in a mood. He would gallop around the backyard with my sister or me on his back, chasing whoever was still on the ground. He owned his own business and made good money. Everyone thought we were the perfect family.
They didn’t know he drank alcohol like it was water.
A lot of people put drinking on a shelf beside anger and violence. They don’t realize that happy drunks can be just as dangerous as the crazy, violent ones. More dangerous, really, now that I think about it. People ask Mom why she didn’t leave him sooner, like he was beating the hell out of her on weekends or something. He never laid a hand on her. He wasn’t that kind of drunk. He loved my mother. He loved us kids. That was never a problem.