The Swap(70)

My dad had joined us by then, the hatchet still in his hand. “I didn’t like what I saw when I brought you the dal. You were in over your head.”

“You called CPS?” I shrieked. “I was fine! I was happy! How could you do this to me?”

My mom sounded stern. “We did this for you, Swallow. A teenaged girl is not equipped to look after an infant on her own for days on end. It’s too much.”

“We were looking out for the child,” my dad added. “She’s what really matters in this situation.”

“I’m what matters. Me!” I shrieked. “You’ve never cared about me! You’ve never put me first!”

“Stop being so melodramatic,” my dad said, but I was already storming toward my truck.

“Come back here and talk about this,” my mom called after me. But I slammed the vehicle door and backed out of the driveway, narrowly missing the goat.





65


My first instinct was to drive back to the Light-Beausoleil household and profess my innocence. But in a way, it was still my fault that CPS had been called to check on Maggie. I had complained about being hungry and alone; I had asked my parents for help. If I’d just eaten those fucking chia seeds, everything would be fine right now.

I drove around for almost an hour, despondency seeping into the marrow of my bones. There seemed no way forward for me, and no way back. Freya was leaving. She blamed me for all her problems. I couldn’t follow her to LA, but I couldn’t imagine staying here without her. And I was not going back to my family, who had betrayed me.

My aimless route took me to the interior of the island, and I found myself approaching Hyak Canyon. A drastic, devastating plan began to take shape in my mind. I pulled into the canyon’s empty parking lot and up to the guard rail. My truck idling, I envisioned crashing through the barrier and hurtling over the edge. It was a deep gully and more than one careless or drunk driver had plunged to their death. If I did it now, before Freya left for LA, she’d hear about my tragic demise and regret her treatment of me. She’d weep at my memorial service, might even make a speech. After the cremation, she’d take some of my ashes to LA with her and throw them off the Santa Monica pier. Better yet, she’d wear them in a locket around her neck. Forever.

They say suicide is a coward’s way out, but I beg to differ. Maybe it depends on the method. Plummeting to the bottom of the canyon, while tragically poetic, was also terrifying. What if I didn’t die instantly? What if I lay at the bottom of the canyon, badly injured, for days? Thirsty and bleeding and alone? Who would find me? And how? I’d told no one where I was going. My parents would think I’d gone back to Freya’s. Freya thought I’d gone home. No one would search for me. No one cared.

I needed courage to go through with this . . . liquid courage.

Thompson Ingleby lived nearby. I had never been to his house, but he’d described the location, its proximity to the canyon. And he’d mentioned the distinctive train car that sat in their front yard, heavily graffitied by his older brother and his friends. Pulling back onto the road, I drove north for less than five minutes before their homestead came into view. Among the broken-down cars, trucks, and tractors was the train car, grad 2017 and fuck off prominently tagged on its side. Nice touch.

As I drove down the rutted drive, I was greeted by two large barking dogs, intent on eating my tires. Hopefully Thompson would emerge and shepherd me inside. Being torn apart by snarling mongrels was not the way I wanted to go out. I stopped my truck but kept it running while I waited for rescue.

A short, sinewy man in a dirty white undershirt walked onto the porch and glowered at me. He had a pistol in the waistband of his filthy jeans, and his hand rested on it, anticipating trouble. When he saw the tall, pale kid in his driveway, he whistled through two fingers and the dogs obediently galloped to his side. He disappeared back into the house with the animals, and moments later, Thompson came out. I turned off the ignition and opened the car door.

“Hi.” Thompson couldn’t hide his delight. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I came for a drink,” I said. “Can you get some of that grain alcohol?”

“Umm . . . sure.” He glanced over his shoulder. I could tell he didn’t want me to go inside his house. Neither did I. “I’ll get it and we can go down to the barn.”

Ten minutes later, we were perched on sawhorses in a dilapidated building cluttered with farming equipment, car parts, and empty beer cans. Thompson handed me a jar half filled with a cloudy liquid. The smell made my eyes water.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his jar to mine. We drank then and both shuddered at the taste. The alcohol burned in my throat, chest, and stomach, but I felt myself relaxing, the anxiety seeping out of me. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, the day’s dramatic events tying my guts in knots. The strong alcohol on an empty stomach hit me hard. After a few more gulps, my loss and sadness became more profound, more painful. I resigned myself to my tragic fate.

We drank in silence, Thompson matching me sip for sip. I had a reason to be getting wasted at six in the evening, but Thompson was being chivalrous again. I guess he didn’t want me to drink alone. Soon, I felt ready to execute my plan. And if I drank much more, I wouldn’t be able to pilot my truck back to the canyon. Setting my jar down on the concrete floor, I turned to say my goodbyes.