We all loved him back. Maybe that was the problem.
When I was really little, I thought that because Dad was happy, everyone was happy. It took awhile for me to understand the strained expression on my mother’s face when he’d come home lit. Around the time I turned nine, I began to figure it out. His voice would turn different. He was too permissive, too forgetful. I lost track of how many times he forgot to pick me up from school, and I started walking home just so the teachers would stop asking questions. I used to go to work with him on the weekends, and sometimes he’d forget to take me home with him. Mom would come and fetch me later, shaking her head to the other guys about her “scatterbrained” husband.
They all knew, I’m sure of it, but they never did anything. She didn’t, either.
Like I said, happy drunk. Everyone loved him. Harmless, right?
I’m sure you know what’s at the end of this road. I told you he killed my sister.
When I was thirteen, I started driving him home on the weekends. I know that sounds crazy, but he’d taught me to drive young. It’s kind of like how kids on a farm can plow a field when they’re seven or kids who grow up hunting can fire a rifle as soon as they’re strong enough to carry one. We were always the last to leave the shop, to lock up, so it was easy.
I was always so scared someone would catch me—but I didn’t have any alternative. I’d learned that dad’s swerving on the road wasn’t a game. It was a threat. One time, he hit something and kept going. I still have no idea what it might have been, but sometimes I have nightmares that we hit a person. I remember asking him over and over again if we should go back and check, but he wasn’t even aware we’d struck anything. I told Mom about it, and she shook her head and told me that I was overreacting.
So one Saturday afternoon, I made a decision. I hid his keys.
He stumbled around his office, slamming doors and checking pockets, getting agitated. I hung in the corner, the keys trapped in my pocket, almost shaking with the tension of what could happen.
“Maybe we should call Mom?” I said.
He grunted. “Your mother’s working.”
“What are you going to do if you can’t find your keys?”
I hoped he’d say that we’d call a cab, or he’d call one of the guys back to drive us.
No, he swept everything off his desk—everything, making a mess—and yelled, “Damn you people. I’ll tear someone a new one for stealing my keys.”
It was the first time I’d ever seen him turn the corner to mean drunk.
I started “helping.” I “found” his keys real quick. I was shaking, and I didn’t want him to drive, especially now. I kept my voice light, like I was joking, “Maybe I could drive home. See if anyone catches us.”
For half a second, I thought he was going to snatch the keys out of my hand. He didn’t. He laughed and patted me on the back and said “Good boy.”
That was the beginning.
I never told anyone then, not even my best friend. I loved my father, and I knew this was the only way to keep him out of trouble. I was tall for my age, and I’d wear a baseball cap, so no one ever glanced twice. It’s amazing how many people will look the other way when they don’t think something is a big deal.
My sister was clueless, and we kept it that way. She wouldn’t have figured it out anyway. Dad had long since given up trying to teach anything mechanical to Kerry—she was a girly-girl in every sense of the word. She was a kid, a baby in my eyes. I was in eighth grade, and I stupidly thought I was special. I wasn’t breaking the law! I was a man, taking care of my family. I was helping.
I think Mom started to count on my driving.
I know she did.
She asked me to take care of my father on the day my sister died. That was our code. Take care of him meant, “Drive him wherever he needs to go.”
I was supposed to be on an overnight trip for Scouts that weekend. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks, but then Mom got called into work. Dad had gone through half a six-pack by 9 a.m. Mom didn’t want anyone to see Dad show up with me at camp smelling like a brewery. So my trip was canceled.
I sulked around the house for hours, slamming doors and heaving big breaths of disappointment. I’m sure you can imagine. When Dad asked me to drive him to his shop, I slammed my door in his face and told him to get there himself if he wanted to go so badly.
I thought he’d stay home. In such a short amount of time, I’d grown used to being his chauffeur, and I assumed that if I weren’t driving, he would stay home.
I was wrong. He went out.
He took Kerry with him.
Only one of them came home.
The stormy weather from Friday night has returned, forcing everyone to hang out in the cafeteria before classes start. Today’s breakfast special is pancakes and hash browns, so the place is packed. Rowan skipped the pancakes in favor of a fruit cup. I can’t remember the last time we had an opportunity to sit down and actually eat before school started. Breakfast isn’t a quick affair when hundreds of other people have the same idea.
The rain kept me out of the cemetery this morning, though, and I’m feeling the need for some comfort food. A stack of pancakes sits on my tray, untouched.
Now that they’re in front of me, I haven’t been able to take a bite.
“What’s up with you this morning?” says Rowan, popping a blueberry into her mouth.
I can’t stop thinking of The Dark’s letter. I can’t repeat a word of it to Rowan. He didn’t say I needed to keep his words a secret, but he didn’t need to.
I poke at the pancakes, but they look like a big, sticky mess. “Just thinking.”
“About your mystery guy?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t mock it.”
She shrugs equably. “I’m not mocking it. Why don’t you try to find out who he is?”