She raced down the stairs and into his arms. She was a small girl with a ballerina’s build, delicate as spun glass. Vega hugged her tight, thrilled and humbled that she hadn’t stopped loving him even if right now, he felt supremely unlovable.
“It’s going to be okay, chispita.” Little Spark. His Spanish nickname for her as a child, taken from a Mexican soap opera his mother used to enjoy. Even now, with too much eyeliner, long sparkly earrings, and jangly bangles, she was still his little girl.
“We’ll get through this,” he promised. She shivered beneath his touch. Even though the house was now insulated, it still tended to be cold in winter. Yet here she was, in nothing but a thin, long-sleeved shirt. She always tended to underdress. “Let me get you something warmer to put on.” He broke away and noticed a suitcase and some boxes piled in a corner. “What’s that stuff?”
“My things.”
“Your things?”
“I’m moving in.”
“What? Why?”
Her face dropped. “Don’t you want me here?”
“Of course I do! You’re always welcome. But—why now? This is so much farther from school and work than your mother’s house.”
“I don’t want you to be alone.”
Vega felt touched by her concern. But another deeper part of him cringed with embarrassment and shame. He didn’t want to be the object of his daughter’s pity. “I’m fine,” he said stiffly. “I don’t need anyone taking care of me—especially not my daughter.”
“Don’t get all defensive, Dad. It’s not like I’m going to cook for you or anything.”
“Thank God for that.” The last time his vegan, gluten-free daughter cooked for him, she made a tofu lasagna that tasted like someone had mixed wallpaper paste and grass clippings.
“We can talk about this later if you want,” said Joy. “After we get back from the Bronx.”
“The Bronx?”
“Don’t you remember, Dad? Today is Lita’s birthday.” Lita—short for Abuelita—Grandma in Spanish. “You promised we’d go put flowers on her grave.”
Vega collapsed on the lumpy corduroy couch in front of the stone fireplace and palmed his eyes. “I don’t think I’m up to it, Joy. I need a shower and some rest.”
“You could take a shower and nap and we could go later. I’ll drive.”
“In the Bronx? No way.”
“You need to keep busy, Dad. Be around people. Talk things out.”
“I can’t talk about the shooting.”
“You can talk about your feelings. You’re going to make an appointment with a therapist, I hope.”
Vega didn’t respond. Joy’s mother was a school psychologist. Therapy was Wendy’s answer to everything—except ironically, their marriage. The phrase, “I’m pregnant with twins and you’re not the father,” kind of puts a dent in the notion of talking through your marital problems.
Vega noticed that the dining table across from the kitchen counter was covered in old photo albums, some of them open to yellowing snapshots of him as a child. He usually kept them in a trunk in the spare bedroom upstairs.
“Why are the albums out?”
“While I was waiting for you to come home, I thought it might be nice to look back through Lita’s life,” said Joy.
“Mmm.” Vega never liked looking at old family albums. They just made him sad. Joy walked over to the refrigerator and opened the door. She was greeted by a can of coffee, a pint of milk, a six-pack of beer, and a bottle of hot sauce. She was probably just beginning to discover what living with her single father might be like.
“Are you hungry?” asked Vega.
“A little. I can go to the supermarket for you,” she offered. “Stock up your refrigerator while you get some sleep.”
“You don’t know where the supermarket is.”
“I don’t need to,” said Joy. “I have GPS.”
Vega wondered if anyone under thirty could read a map anymore. He fished some bills out of his wallet and handed them to her. “I’m too tired to write up a grocery list.”
“That’s all right. I’ll improvise.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
As soon as Joy left, Vega trudged up the stairs, showered, and fell into a deep sleep. In his dreams, he was running through a dark forest. But instead of chasing someone, he was being chased.
Someone is in the woods with me.
He stopped and slipped a hand into his back pocket, searching for the snapshot of Joy that he always kept in his wallet. It was gone. And then he heard it. The deep kettledrum sound:
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
He woke up shivering and soaked in sweat. His head was pounding. His stomach was turning flips.
Someone was in the woods with me.