When We Collided(51)

“Lower your voice this instant,” he hisses at me, and now I’m sure that I’m crying, I’m sobbing, making these gross, primal noises like a grief-stricken cow braying on his front porch.

Lower my voice? He doesn’t get to tell me what to do! Like a dad. I gather enough breath to retort. Oh, I will, oh yes, because my lungs are swirling like a windstorm, circling up the words like floating leaves, and I will carry them together with violent force. “LOWER YOUR FUCKING VOICE! YOU ARE THE BIGGEST DISAPPOINTMENT OF MY LIFE. So just KEEP your REAL FAMILY because I really don’t CARE. I’m just SO RELIEVED to know I was never missing anything. But you were, JAMES BUKOWSKI. Because I’m pretty FUCKING GREAT, and I’m SORRY FOR YOU that you don’t know it. Have a GREAT LIFE. I will NEVER think about you AGAIN.”

My legs carry me in long strides, but I curse myself for wearing heels, even low ones. I didn’t think I’d need a getaway plan, didn’t think I’d be running for my life from a man who is everything I don’t want to be. I’m sobbing so much that snot is warm beneath my nose.

“Jim, what the hell is going on?” I hear the shaky voice of the woman behind me as I run down his driveway toward my Vespa, and I glance back in time to see the door close. Good. GOOD. I’m glad his wife knows. If he didn’t have the balls to tell her he’s had a daughter for seventeen years, I’m glad she knows now. Maybe I was the angel of death for his marriage, and I wouldn’t even be sorry, I swear to God I wouldn’t be. DO YOU HEAR ME? I AM NOT SORRY FOR MY CREATION OR MY BIRTH OR MY LIFE.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jonah

When Vivi calls, I can barely make out the words. It’s sobbing and it’s a chant, half my name, half pleases. Jonah, Jonah, can you come get me? Please, Jonah. I can’t—I just. Please come get me.

“Vivi.” My voice sounds the way it does after a long run. “Viv, are you okay?”

“Yes. I don’t know. Jonah, please just come get me.”

“Okay, I’m coming. Where are you?”

“Cloverdale?” Sniffling. “I think.”

That’s over an hour away. “Did you call your mom?”

“NO. Not my mom, Jonah, please, just you.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. Go somewhere safe, okay? I need you to find an intersection you’re close to and text it to me. I’m leaving now.”

Fortunately, Naomi’s home from work early, and I drive, and drive, southbound, and I don’t know what to expect. The sun starts to drop and so does my stomach. Once I get close to where I think Vivi is, I scan every street for pale hair and skin, for a shock of red lips. I call, but the phone goes to voice mail.

I finally spot the Vespa and the little ball of person next to it. She’s sitting on the sidewalk in front of a dumpy apartment complex. Her legs are tucked up and hidden by her skirt, which is ripped at the bottom. Her black-streaked face is pressed against her knees. I bail out of the car like in an action movie, barely sliding it into park before my feet hit the ground. I don’t bother to shut the door behind me.

“Viv! Vivi, hey,” I call to her. “Hey.”

She scrambles to her bare feet and runs to me. Her white shirt is untucked and dirty. Before I can process that, she’s in my arms, face buried against my shoulder. Her tears soak through my shirt, warm and wet on my skin.

“Why didn’t you go somewhere safe like I told you?” I ask. She cries and cries. Wrong question. “Where’s your helmet?”

“I think it’s . . . on . . . his . . . lawn. I got pulled . . . over . . . for not wearing it.”

Wait, what? “Viv, what are you doing down here?”

“I hate him,” she wails. “I hate him.”

“Who?”

“My . . . dad.”

I feel her breathing, the way her heaving chest pushes against my own chest and against my arms. Oh my God. She found her dad? Here in Berkeley?

“It’s okay,” I tell her, and she sobs into my shoulder. It’s clearly not true. I just want it to be.

“I wish I’d never met him, I wish I’d never met him,” she mumbles into my neck. “I wish I’d never met him. I wish he was dead.”

Holy shit—she did find him. I hold her there, on the sidewalk, while she cries. Finally, I put her in the car. An older man stops to ask if he can help. He’s carrying a gallon of milk home from the convenience store around the corner, and he sets it on the sidewalk before I can reply. We heave the Vespa into the back of the van. Vivi’s reclined on her side in the front seat, hugging her arms to her chest. She’s motionless enough to be asleep, but her eyes are open. Staring into nothing.

“Is she okay?” the man asks after we’ve shut the trunk. “Do you guys want to come in and regroup for a few minutes? My wife and I live down the street if you need a cup of coffee.”

“That’s okay.” God, do I appreciate the offer. It’s nice to have someone older than me try to help. “Thanks, though. She’s just had a really long, really bad day.”

He chuckles, clapping me on the shoulder like we’re old frat bros. “Hang in there. Any time we have car trouble, my wife has an emotional breakdown about it. She’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“I hope so,” I tell him. Inside, Vivi’s rocking herself a little. Her hand is curled near her mouth like she wants to suck her thumb. “Thanks again.”