The People We Keep(17)
I want that to be true. It would be so much easier. But I’ll never belong the way Matty does. I only fit with him because we’ve been this way forever, from when our moms used to drink tea at his house every day. He doesn’t see me how everyone else does. He doesn’t notice that none of his friends ever talk to me. And because he’s Matty, because everyone wants him to like them, they don’t say what they really think. They just pretend I’m not there. It’s not something a few years and some jello will change.
Matty laces his fingers through mine. My hands have been in my pockets; his feel like ice. “Trust me, Ape. We’re good here.”
* * *
When I get home, my dad is parked in front of the motorhome, sitting on the hood of his truck. I see him from the end of the driveway before he sees me, smoke and hot breath swirling. My head says turn tail and run, like a warning light flashing over and over again, but the walk back from the deer blind was long and it’s like twenty out. My feet hurt because my boots are too small, and I just don’t have the energy to play these damn games with him anymore. So I tell myself I’m only shaking from the cold. I hold my head high and try to walk past like he doesn’t exist. He jumps down and grabs my arm.
“What’d you say to Irene?” His fingers dig into my armpit, even through Margo’s old down jacket.
I look him right in the eyes and give him my blank face, like I’m dead. I’m a corpse. Corpses can’t talk.
He pulls my arm up. I can barely keep my feet on the ground, “What did you do to her?”
My hand is pulsing. I give him a big, sick smile. “I told her you’re Father of the Year,” I say. “That’s one lucky kid you got on the way. Congratulations.” My nose smarts and I know the tears are coming. I fight them. Close my eyes and imagine I’m running, feet pounding on pine needles in time with my heart, air stinging my lungs until I can barely breathe.
He pushes me away. “You show her respect,” he says.
“Like you do?” I open my eyes and back out of his swinging range. “Telling her you still have a job? Getting her knocked up when you’re broke? Blowing money you don’t have on a car?” I shake my head and smile, trying so hard not to cry. “You’re a shining example, Dad. I’m sure your new kid will look up to you.”
“Maybe this one won’t be such a little shit.” He throws his cigarette down, stomps it out, and opens the door to his truck.
“What? Going already?” I laugh and it sounds like it’s coming from another person. Something’s come unlatched. I can’t stop. “Why don’t you come in for some tea, Dad? We’ll have a talk.”
“Irene’s boy’s got a band recital,” he says, staring me down. “I want to be there.”
“I told her she looks like Mom,” I say, getting closer. “But Mom was prettier. And she had the good sense to leave you.”
I see his hand coming like it’s slow. Tobacco stains on the tips of his fingers and every line in his palm. All I can see is that hand—it eclipses the sun—but I can’t make myself move out of the way. I’m a corpse again. Corpses can’t move.
— Chapter 6 —
I pack everything. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know how I’m getting there, but anything that could be useful gets thrown in a garbage bag—three cans of baked beans, two and a half boxes of Pop-Tarts, the last Coke, toothpaste, flashlights, fuel cans for a camping cookstove that came with the motorhome and doesn’t even work. I need supplies. Reinforcements. Survival tools. I wish the damn motorhome had a freaking motor and I could just drive it away.
When one bag is full, I tie the end on itself and throw it up front. Before I even get to the bedroom, I can barely see out the windshield. I didn’t know we had this much stuff.
The world is ending, or at least I’m done with it. I keep thinking I need a plan, but so far, this is it: shove everything in bags.
In the bedroom, I take the lumpy pillows; all the clothes in the closet, even the ones that aren’t mine; and the pilled pink blanket with fraying satin trim.
Do I need sheets? I do need sheets. You can use them for things like escaping from windows or pulling a person out of a ditch. I picture myself hanging by my hands off a bent sapling, bare feet dangling over a ravine with a river raging below.
I wish I had someone to come with me, pull me out if I get stuck. Tie the sheet around your waist, April, before you get too close to the edge, I tell myself. Tie the other end to a tree. There’s the plan. No falling in ditches without a lifeline. You can’t afford to. I wad up the sheets and the mattress pad and jam them in the bag.
I take my mom’s ring out from under the mattress and shove it in my pocket. The box digs into my thigh, but that’s good. I know it’s there.
I get down on my knees and reach my arm under the mattress until it’s all the way under, the side of my face pressed against the edge. I feel for the photo and pull it out. It’s rippled and crumpled and there’s a stain across my mother’s face where I had to pick off a soup noodle after I saved it from the trash. It’s her wedding day and her dress is simple.
I tuck the picture in the corner of the bathroom mirror and study our faces, doing my best to ignore the swollen red marks on my cheek. I look like her, and I wonder what it is that’s different between the way Irene looks like her and the way I do. What makes it okay in Irene but not me? Maybe it’s the nose or something about the way my mother and I have the same dark eyelashes and a dimple in our chins when we smile.