Tragic Beauty (Beauty & The Darkness #1)(3)

I park the truck and open the door, then just sit for a moment, listening to the cricket song and the grass rustling. It’s strange—when my mom left, all I wanted was to leave with her. To go off in search of a bigger and better life, just like she did, but now—now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

My gaze drifts to the distance, to the outlines of trees whispering in the dark, and the curves of hills making shadows in the night. If I think about it, I suppose the land might be more my home than the house. As a child it was my sanctuary, my shelter to run to when the house wasn’t a safe place to be.

Sometimes I’d go to the little gully behind that first hill, where in winter, a creek would get going when it rained enough. Other times, after the cold started to pass, I’d go wander to the north end, where the yellow mustard would take over the hills. I was so small, and it would grow so tall, and so far, I could run through it forever and never come out the other side. Then once spring started to set in, I’d run to the big meadow towards the south that filled with California poppies, turning the world into this dreamy, orange heaven that I’d lie down in and read a book until I eventually fell asleep. Or if I was feeling like an adventure, I’d go climb the oak trees, especially the old giant that fell apart because of the drought. I’d walk over its twisting branches, jumping from one to the other, playing on nature’s own jungle gym. So many cherished memories on this land. This land I love so much.

All of a sudden, I feel homesick, even though my home is right in front of me. Maybe because it feels like it’s slipping away. But it’s not I tell myself. I’m just leaving for a while. A long while. But when I get back, it’ll be mine. All mine. Then I can make my dream come true.

All I have to do is survive.

I push the tears away, and through the eucalyptus trees to the left, I see the lights come on at Ben Hanley’s place, my only neighbor for miles.

I stare at the big, blue, two-story house with white trim and a wraparound porch that was once my home. In fact, everything around me used to be my home, a large spread that had been in my father’s family for three generations. But my father wasn’t much of a rancher, and when I was seven, he sold most of it off so he wouldn’t have to work. He let go of the main house and forty acres and kept the foreman’s house and ten acres for himself. Wasn’t too long after that my mom left. My father got it in him the Hanley’s were to blame. Was easier than blaming himself, I guess. I’ve lost most of the memories from back then, but it still hurts when I look that way, seeing something my father let slip away.

My father.

A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down, grab the bags and climb the porch steps.

Inside, it’s quiet. So quiet.

I switch on the lamp and toss the keys onto the side table. Memories come flooding back, as though the past seems so much clearer to me now. I see the deep gouge in the wall and remember when my mom left, and my dad threw a heavy candlestick at the wall as she walked out the door. I look at the quilt on the sofa, thinking of the time I was lying on it with chicken pox when I was eleven, while my father got drunk and tried to make me popcorn and nearly burnt the house down. He never knew how to take care of me, so he didn’t. He couldn’t even take care of himself.

He never asked me how the bills got paid. Some part of me always wondered if he knew, but he never said anything. Once the money ran out from selling to the Hanley’s, he took out a mortgage on what was left. That ran out about the time the sickness hit. Then he had other things on his mind.

I walk down the hall, into the small kitchen and set the bags on the table. After I put the chicken in the fridge, I grab a glass of water and lean against the counter. My father’s flannel shirt hangs from one of the chairs around the kitchen table. I stare at it while tears prick and form, blurring my vision.

I shouldn’t miss him, but I do.

After a moment, I set the glass down and head to bed, trying hard not to think about the past or the future that’s to come.





CHAPTER THREE





When I wake on Wednesday, a silver frost coats the world, reminding me that while the days might be warm, it’s still February after all.

I go to my father’s room and stare at the empty bed, at the side table filled with pill bottles, at the television in the corner, and the chair off to the side. I used to sit in it sometimes and we’d watch movies together in those rare moments he was really there. He wasn’t into the books, like I was, but he was into movies, and sports, so that was the one thing I always made sure he had—that dish on the roof.

And even though he was sick, those times I sat in that chair next to him, were perhaps our happiest. Maybe because he knew the end was coming for him. I think that gave him peace. And sometimes he’d look at me, just staring, and I could see the sadness and the guilt in his tired, brown eyes, and I’d know what he was saying. He was saying sorry. He was saying sorry he hadn’t been a better father. And then there were times he’d tell me to leave and stay away for a while because he couldn’t stand to look at me. He’d say it in his broken voice with his hand covering his eyes. I looked too much like her, you see.

I spend the next couple days clearing out his things. Some of it I give to the thrift store, other stuff I throw out. I keep what means something, like his watch and some reining trophies from when he was a kid. I also go through the kitchen, getting rid of any food I won’t be using up before I leave, then make a list for Ben. I’ve already talked to him about watching the place, but I want to make it easy for him, so just a few things like where the shut-off valves are and reminders like starting up my truck from time to time.