The You I've Never Known(77)

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.

Come on, baby.

Once I get off this road and onto the highway, mayhem will be less likely, and I’ve got a decent lead.

Still, before long here he comes,

screaming up over a slight rise, bright lights on and blinding.

I pick up speed, but he’s right on my bumper and

and I don’t know what to do or how to quiet the loud percussion of my heart thudding in my veins.





Flashback


Dad’s driving.

It’s a strange car.

I’m in the backseat.

With a dog.

Dog?

No, puppy.

No, somewhere in between.

A young dog with a silky golden coat.

I’m scared.

Crying.

The dog whines at the lights in the rear window. Bright lights.

I plant my face into the dog’s shoulder.

“Boo,” I whisper.

Boo?

Dad cusses.

The car behind us honks.

Rides our bumper.

Starts to pass.

Dad swerves.

Slams on the brakes.

The other car goes sideways, trying to avoid us.

Crashes.

Dad laughs.





Real Time


A vehicle starts to pass.

Close. Too close.

We’re almost touching.

Only when I glance to my left it isn’t the hulk of a pickup.

It’s a car.

A familiar car.

Dad’s LeSabre.

And it isn’t Garrett behind the wheel.

“Dad?”

I say it out loud, but I don’t know why.

He can’t hear me.

Can he see me?

Surely he knows it’s me.

I honk once.

His head doesn’t turn.

I honk again, longer.

Still he stares straight ahead.

Pass already, would you?

Suddenly, he cuts me off.

I swerve.

Slam on the brakes.

Only this time it’s me who overcorrects.

Goes sideways.

Manages to avoid the ditch on my right.

Barely.

Skids left.

Manages to avoid the LeSabre’s rear bumper.

Barely.

The Focus hits the left-hand shoulder.

Sideways.

The Focus stops suddenly, slams my forehead against the steering wheel.

Brain spinning inside my skull, I reach for my phone—still there on the seat.

Hit the first number in memory. “Help me.”





Dark Out Here


Dark.

But where is here?

Cold out here.

Cold.

But where is here?

I open my eyes.

Work hard to remember.

Car.

In my car.

Stopped.

Something’s wrong.

Why am I sideways?

Ditch.

What ditch?

And why is my car tilted into it?

Most of all, why does my head hurt?

I reach up, touch the spot above my eyes that has swollen into an awful knot.

Oh my God.

I remember.

Dad.

Headlights appear.

Approach.

Quickly.

Slower.

What if it’s Dad?

Did he come back?

I should move my car.

I reach for the key.

The engine starts easily.

But the tires spin uselessly.

I think I need a tow truck.

The other car brakes to a stop.

It’s an old GTO with a new paint job.

Gabe hurries over, takes a good look at the position of the car.

Opens the passenger door.

Ariel. Are you okay?

Does anything feel broken?

Everything but bones.

Holy shit. Look at your head!