Heart Bones(7)

Home still feels like a mythical place I’ve been searching for my whole life.

By the time I make it out of the bathroom, all the other passengers have gone and my father is at a counter filling out a form for my missing luggage.

“It shows there were no bags checked with this ticket,” the agent says to my father. “Do you have the receipt? Sometimes they stick them on the back of the ticket.”

He looks at me. I shrug innocently. “I was running late, so Mom checked them for me after they handed me my ticket.”

I walk away from the counter, pretending to be interested in a sign posted on the wall. The agent tells my father they’ll be in touch if they find the bags.

My father walks over to me and points at the door. “Car is this way.”



The airport is ten miles behind us. His GPS says his home is sixty-three miles ahead of us. His car smells like aftershave and salt.

“After you’re settled in, Sara can run you to the store to get whatever you need.”

“Who’s Sara?”

My father looks over at me like he isn’t sure if I’m joking or not.

“Sara. Alana’s daughter.”

“Alana?”

He glances back at the road and I see a tiny shift in his jaw as it tightens. “My wife? I sent you an invitation to the wedding last summer. You said you couldn’t take off work.”

Oh. That Alana. I know nothing about her other than what was printed on the invitation.

“I didn’t realize she had a daughter.”

“Yeah, well. We haven’t really spoken much this year.” He says this like he’s harboring some resentment of his own.

I hope I’m misinterpreting his tone, because I’m not sure how he could be resentful of me in any way, shape, or form. He’s the parent. I’m just a product of his poor choices and lack of contraception.

“There’s a lot to catch you up on,” he adds.

Oh, he has no idea.

“Does Sara have siblings?” I ask. I pray she doesn’t. The thought of spending the summer with more than just my father is already a shock to my system. I can’t handle more voltage.

“She’s an only child. A little older than you, a freshman in college, home for the summer. You’ll love her.”

We’ll see. I’ve read Cinderella.

He reaches toward the vent. “Is it hot in here? Too cold?”

“It’s fine.”

I wish he’d play some music. I don’t know how to have a comfortable conversation with him yet.

“How’s your mother?”

I stiffen when he asks that question. “She’s…” I pause. I don’t even know how to say it. I feel like I’ve waited so long to bring it up, that now it would seem strange or worrisome that I didn’t tell him on the phone last night. Or when I first saw him in the airport. And then there’s the lie I told the ticket agent—that my mother was the one who dropped me off at the airport.

“She’s better than she’s been in a long time.” I reach down to the side of my seat to find the lever to lean it back. Instead of a lever, I find a bunch of buttons. I push them until my seat finally starts to recline. “Wake me when we get there?” I see him nod, and I feel kind of bad, but I don’t know how long of a drive this is going to be and I really just want to close my eyes and try to sleep and avoid questions I don’t know that I can answer.





THREE


My head is knocked around by a violent shake. My eyes flick open and my whole body jerks awake.

“It’s a ferry,” my father says. “Sorry, it’s always bumpy on the ramp.”

I glance over at my father, a little discombobulated. But then everything comes back to me.

My mother died last night.

My father still has no idea.

I have a stepsister and a stepmother.

I look out my window, but there are rows of cars blocking my view in every direction. “Why are we on a ferry?”

“GPS said there was a two-hour traffic backup on highway 87. Probably a wreck. I figured the ferry to Bolivar Peninsula would be faster this time of day.”

“Ferry to where?”

“It’s where Alana’s summer house is. You’ll love it.”

“Summer house?” I cock an eyebrow. “You married someone who has seasonal homes?”

My father chuckles lightly, but it wasn’t a joke.

When I last stayed with him, he lived in a cheap one-bedroom apartment in Washington and I slept on the couch. Now he has a wife with more than one home?

I stare at him a moment, realizing why he seems different. It isn’t the age. It’s the money.

He’s never been a rich man. Not even close. He made enough to pay his child support and afford a one-bedroom apartment, but he was the type of dad who used to save money by cutting his own hair and reusing plastic cups.

But looking at him now, it’s apparent that the small changes in him are because he has money. A haircut he paid for. Name brand clothes. A car that has buttons rather than levers.

I look at his steering wheel and see a shiny silver leaping cat in the center of it.

My father drives a Jaguar.

I can feel my face contorting into a grimace, so I look out the window before he can see the repugnance radiating from me. “Are you rich now?”