The Impossible Knife of Memory(71)

Trish took a deep breath and spoke in a calmer, quieter voice. “Your father and I have been discussing his need for help.”

“What kind of help?” I asked cautiously.

“Anything,” she answered. “Therapy, medication, time with guys who understand, whatever it takes so that he can stop running away.”

“I’m not running from anything,” Dad muttered.

Time slowed to a cold honey pour, bitter spit flooded my mouth. I could smell his whiskey, the meat cooking in the kitchen, the tea she’d spilled on her uniform. The way she glared at him crashed into the anger that came off him in waves. Lightning could strike at any second. I still had my jacket on, backpack over my shoulder. I reached for the doorknob.

Dad said, “It would only be for a couple of days at a time. Maybe a week now and then.”

Time caught up to itself with a brilliant blue flash of light.

I turned around. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t tell her?” Trish asked.

“Tell me what?” I asked.

Dad poured more whiskey in his glass, sipped, then crunched on a handful of pretzels. He tilted his head to look beyond Trish and see what was on the screen.

“You promised you’d talk to her about this at least,” Trish said. “You swore!”

“Tell me what?” I repeated, louder.

Trish suddenly crouched and yanked the television’s power cord. The plug flew out, trailing a spark.

Dad swirled the whiskey in his glass. “I’m following your advice, princess. I’m going back on the road. Shorthaul mostly.” He sipped, watching me over the rim of the glass. “You’re not coming,” he said. “You have to stay in school.”

“No way.” I put down my backpack. “You can barely get through a day here, where things are quiet. Besides, what are you going to do? Let me live alone?”

He glanced at Trish and took another sip.

“You lying son of a bitch,” Trish murmured.

Shaking her head, she stormed down the hall to Gramma’s bedroom. Dad pressed the button on the remote twice before he remembered that the TV was unplugged. And I figured something out.

“Did you bring her up here to babysit me?” I asked. “So you could leave?”

He didn’t answer.

Trish stomped back carrying her purse and unzipped duffel bag, clothes hanging out of it. She set the bag by the door and rooted through her purse.

“Don’t go,” Dad said. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I swear it, on my honor. Just not tonight.”

She pulled out her keys. “Take your phone out, Hayley.”

I hesitated, then pulled it out of my pocket.

“Here’s my number,” she said, rattling off the digits.

I typed them in and saved the contact as “Bitch.”

“What are you going to do,” Dad asked, “drive all the way back to Texas? After all the crap you fed me about facing demons instead of running away?”

“I’m going to find a AA meeting, Andy.” She opened the front door. “After that meeting, I’m going to find another one, and another one after that until I’m sure I can make it through the night without drinking.” She picked up the duffel bag and looked at me. “Call me if you need anything.”

She left without saying good-bye. The victory was so sudden and unexpected I didn’t know what to make of it. Cold air poured into the living room as she backed down the driveway and drove off, tires squealing. She hadn’t closed the door.

“Shut that, will you?” Dad asked. “And plug the set back in.”





_*_ 73 _*_

I hummed “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead” and lined up plans in my head like shooting-range targets. Dad needed time to recover from Tsunami Trish. I wouldn’t bug him for two, maybe three days. After that I had to get him out of the house, maybe convince him to walk the dog with me, or tell him I was thinking of going out for track in the spring and wanted him to help me get in shape. The next step would be to call his friend Tom and ask him to help find Dad more painting jobs that he can work alone. The work plan was a little vague, but I’d figure it out soon. For right now, he needed to relax and recover.

Two days after she left, I came home to find an envelope taped to the front door. Inside was a short note from Trish giving the address of the motel where she was staying and six twenty-dollar bills. I used the money to buy potatoes, onions, creamed corn (on sale, ten cans for eight dollars), bacon, bread, peanut butter, cheese, chicken noodle soup, and milk. I cooked a vat of mashed potatoes with bacon, but Dad said he was feeling crappy. Thought he might be coming down with stomach flu, he said.

That night I burned Trish’s note, then lit a candle that I’d set on a mirror on the kitchen table. Didn’t think I’d see any spirits, but figured it was worth a try. The mirror showed an eruption of stress zits that made me seriously contemplate walking around with a knit cap pulled down to my chin.

Dad wouldn’t cooperate. He didn’t want to walk the dog with or without me, even after I had given him a few days to chill. He thought getting in shape for track was a good idea, but he made excuses instead of taking me for a run. That Tom guy didn’t return any of my messages and I began to wonder how much of that story Dad told about the kitchen he painted was an exaggeration.