That’s good. I’ve loaded the rest in the car already.
It’s full, but there’s room— “No, Dad! Haven’t you
heard a single word I said?
I. Am. Not. Running. Away.”
He changes tactics, digs for some semblance of tears.
You hate me. I don’t blame you.
“I don’t hate you.
It’d be easier if I did.
But I don’t exactly
like you right now,
either. It’ll take time to sort out my feelings.”
Not to mention the details of the last fifteen years.
Every memory now requires careful reexamination.
It’ll be an exhausting, but necessary, process
and once it’s over
I’ll have to let things go.
I can’t launch a future by wallowing in the past.
“I really wish you’d change your mind and try to work things out here. There’s your job to consider, and Zelda, and . . .”
As I watch, his demeanor changes completely,
from injured pup
to rabid dog.
You’re a liar, just like your mother. I know where you’re really going. You’re backstabbing me to take up with that cold-hearted whore, aren’t you?
“No, Dad, I’m not.”
I sling a backpack over each shoulder, hoping
he’ll let me reach the door.
He does, but as I open it, he says clearly and purposefully, I should’ve killed that bitch when I had the chance.
Goose Bumps Lift
All over my body, and it
has nothing to do with exiting the warmth of the house,
and everything to do with the invisible menace that follows me into the crisp starlit envelope of this December night.
The tips of my nose and ears sizzle from the cold, but it’s not far to the Focus, whose engine is still warm. The first thing I do is lock the doors.
Then I pump up the heater, jack up the music, and take a moment to text Monica,
let her know I’m on my way.
I’ve always hated this time of year. The truncated days, late dawning to early dark; the claw of bitter air, when often whatever secondhand coat I called my own was
threadbare, hardly there.
Ditto the lumpy sleeping
bags that kept us from
freezing when we had to
sleep in the car, exhalations painting frost pictures
on the window glass.
But worse was the holiday cheer, which rarely touched me personally. Other kids went to shopping malls,
sat on Santa’s lap, asking for things their parents
already knew they wanted.
If I ever believed in Santa, it was before my conscious memory, and all those shiny presents with big bows?
Rarely were there any for me under a tree, and those that did appear if we happened to be living with one of Dad’s women were afterthoughts— dollar-store dolls or teddy bears.
I’ve read that people often choose this time of year
to die, and I don’t wonder why.
Especially if they’re alone, or grieving, or just damn tired of trudging through another day, and the thought of crossing the threshold into another year sucks the soul right out of them.
I Turn Up the Radio
Just as the station goes to a break, and the commercial happens to feature my least favorite Christmas song ever:
“Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
I hate this song, always have, and somewhere I’ve forever understood it had something to do with my mother. Mom.
Trying that one on for size, too.
Maya McCabe. I think she used to sing that song to me, back when she and I shared Christmases.
Were there only two?
Every December when Dad
and I stopped long enough to notice, I’d see other kids and their moms singing
Christmas carols together.
Only I didn’t have a mom.
I wanted one then.
Wanted one more than anything, as long as she wasn’t a dyke whore who tried to fool me into believing she loved me by doing regular mom stuff like singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” and decorating
a cut-down-dead tree with cheap homemade ornaments.
That, according to Dad.
How the hell could he do what he did? To Maya McCabe, who I don’t even know,
but, more, to me? The life he built— all that running, all those women, every shredded chapter— was pure fiction.
What am I supposed to think now? Is it even remotely possible that my mother—mom?— will be here for this and future Christmases? What am I supposed to do? Go shopping with her?
Bake cookies together?
Talk about lesbian love?
Musing
I drive toward town well under the limit, unsure about wildlife and my ability to miss it.
A vehicle approaches from the opposite direction.
Fast. Too fast.
And swerving,
zigzagging side to side across the white line.
As it nears, I recognize Garrett’s pickup truck, and a stray thought dashes through my head— is that bottle still rolling around in the back?
He passes now,
and his head rotates toward the window.
Even though I can’t see his face, an outbreak of anxiety strikes well before I notice his brake lights in my mirror.
Holy hell,
he’s turning
around.
Whatever he’s got in mind can’t be good.
What does
he have in mind?
I grab my phone to keep it in close reach, go ahead and give the Focus a big shot of gas.