What Lies in the Woods(13)

He looked me up and down with his pale, watery eyes and grunted. “Didn’t know you were in town.”

“Good to see you, too, Dad,” I replied. I swallowed. “You going to invite me in?”

“No,” he said. I crossed my arms; he grunted again. “Suit yourself.” He backed up, because there wasn’t room to step aside. I followed him into the gloom. He took a right, weaving his way between stacks of plastic grocery bags. I didn’t know what was in them. I could only hope it wasn’t perishable food.

“What are you here for?” he asked.

“Checking in on you,” I said, balancing on one foot as I stepped over a spilled pile of magazines.

“Still alive, aren’t I?” he asked.

“I crossed paths with Chief Bishop just now.”

“Nice lady,” he said, pausing to look at me. “Wants to evict me. Put me in a home.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Sarcasm. That’s all you’ve got,” he muttered. “Are you here to tell me I’ve got to clean this place up? Because I’ve already heard it.” He lurched his way toward the kitchen. I followed apprehensively.

I braced myself, ready for mold and rat droppings, but it wasn’t as far gone as I’d feared. The stove had two burners clear, and there was enough room to maneuver. It smelled stale like the rest of the house but not foul, which suggested he wasn’t keeping rotten food around.

“Clear off a chair, then,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the kitchen table, which was buried beneath canned food and unopened cleaning supplies. The chairs were stacked with plastic cutlery and disposable plates and bowls. A line of full trash bags stood by the back door, ready to go out, a few flies zipping around them.

“I’m good standing,” I said. I didn’t really want to touch anything in here. “She said she warned you three weeks ago you had to get this taken care of.”

“What’s to take care of? It’s my house, I live in it. Shouldn’t be anyone else’s business,” he said. “You want a beer?”

“No, I don’t want a beer. It’s barely eleven,” I said, deciding not to mention the wine I’d had already. He shoved aside a teetering pile of canned chili to get at the fridge. The cans tipped, banging to the floor and rolling everywhere.

“Jesus Christ, Dad. How can you live like this?” I asked.

“I do just fine,” he said, extracting a can of beer with great discernment despite the fact that there was only one brand in the fridge. “And why do you care, anyway?”

“I care,” I said, anger turning the words into a snap of teeth.

“I didn’t ask if you cared, I asked why,” he barked back.

I stared at him. He stared at me. It was always like this. He’d never once raised a hand to me, but we couldn’t stop ourselves tearing into each other. When he was around and conscious, which wasn’t often.

Anyone would have had a hard time knowing how to help a scared, wounded girl or the scared, angry teenager she turned into. Maybe Dad had never had a chance, but he hadn’t even tried. The only emotion that got any reaction from him was anger, and so I’d clung to it. At least if we were fighting, it meant he was paying attention.

“You’re my father,” I said. “I care. Can’t help it, apparently, and God knows I’ve tried.”

He popped the tab on his beer and took a long sip. “I don’t need charity.”

“You need help,” I said. “You can’t clear this place out on your own. Please, Dad. Let me call someone, or—”

“What, you want to pay someone to take all my stuff? Throw it out like it’s garbage?”

“It is garbage,” I said, and knew immediately it was a mistake. There’d been the tiniest sliver of light under that door, but now it slammed shut.

“It’s good stuff. Just needs some fixing up. Organizing,” he said.

“It’s not—” I stopped. There was no point. There had never been any point, any of the times I’d tried. “They’re going to make you leave. You won’t have a choice.”

“We’ll see,” he said. “What are you doing back here, anyway? You didn’t just come to see me.”

“Cass and Liv and I wanted to get together,” I said, letting the subject change, knowing it was the same as admitting defeat. “Mark the occasion, that kind of thing.”

“You mean Stahl dying. Yeah, I heard about that. Cancer. Huh.” He said it like he was commenting on the weather.

I made a sound of disbelief. “That’s all you’ve got? The guy who almost killed your daughter is dead, and you’ve got ‘Huh.’”

He took another swallow and sat with it a moment. “I’m glad if it gives you some kind of peace. That’s something you’ve had in short supply. So I suppose I’m grateful he’s dead.”

I didn’t know what I’d expected. Some sign, at least, that he gave a shit about what had happened to me. But it had always seemed like he just didn’t understand what the big deal was. I wasn’t dead. The wounds healed. Why was everyone still making a fuss about it?

“It was good to see you, Dad,” I said through gritted teeth. “We should do this again sometime.”