One Small Thing(79)

“Okay.”

We separate and try to corral Morgan between us. He, of course, thinks that we’re engaged in a wonderful game and darts just out of reach.

A piercing whistle fills the air. It startles Morgan into a momentary stillness and I leap on top of him. Mrs. Rennick throws me the leash. I quickly affix it to Morgan’s collar and hand him over to his frazzled owner.

“I’m so sorry, Dave,” our neighbor apologizes as Dad strides forward, a screwdriver sticking out of his front pocket and a ladder hoisted over his shoulder. Morgan strains under Mrs. Rennick’s grip. “Morgan got loose again.”

He gives her a terse nod at the obvious statement but doesn’t stop walking until he reaches Rachel’s swing.

“I, ah, better get home. I’m sorry again.”

Dad still doesn’t respond, instead focusing on setting up the ladder.

“It’s fine,” I say, trying to cover for my father’s uncharacteristic rudeness. As a local small business owner, he’s usually super nice to everyone. “Bye-bye, Morgan.” I give the doggy a wave. He wags his tail happily, oblivious to the tension in the air.

“Call me if there’s a problem,” Mrs. Rennick says, although I’m not sure if she’s directing that to me or my dad.

I answer again, “Sure thing, Mrs. R.”

She gives me a finger wave before hauling Morgan away. Dad climbs down off the ladder only seconds later with the wooden seat in his hands, the rope over his shoulder.

“I should’ve taken this down years ago. It’s a miracle there isn’t more damage.” He inspects the planks that are worn from the years of exposure to the Midwestern weather.

“It’s just a swing, Dad.” Rachel’s not here. She only swings in our memories.

“It’s not just a swing, Lizzie. It’s her swing.”

I give in. From long experience, I know arguing with Dad about anything is a futile endeavor. Instead, I offer a hand. “I can carry that. Where do you want it? The garage?”

He shakes his head and tucks the seat under his arm, and still manages to fold the ladder closed. “I’ll put it in the den.”

That’s healthy.

I trail behind, frustrated and more than a little hurt that I’m not good enough to handle the swing. Back in the house, Dad disappears for a second to place the holy swing in his study. My parents are like dragons, hoarding Rachel’s things like they’re rare treasures.

They need therapy—that’s becoming more and more obvious to me. I stopped suggesting it a long time ago, but after everything that’s happened lately, I think I need to bring up the subject again. Maybe Ms. Tannenhauf can help me stage an intervention. Or I can see if my old grief counselor can stop by the house for an ambush therapy session.

Either way, my parents need help. They can’t keep doing this to us.

My stuff on the dining room table mocks me. There’s nowhere for me to go in this house.

“When am I getting my door back?” I ask as Dad reappears on his way to the kitchen.

“When you show yourself to be trustworthy.”

“I’m not doing anything bad. I’m not drinking. I’m not doing drugs. I’m not sleeping around. I’m just trying to enjoy my last year of school.”

“You were at parties. You were with drug dealers. You have repeatedly disobeyed us.” He picks up the knife and resumes his dinner preparations.

“Because your rules are ridiculous!” I have the urge to stomp my feet like I did when I was five.

“I know you think I’m going overboard with you, but I’m trying to protect you,” he insists. “I wish you’d understand. The security measures, making sure you don’t have contact with filth, the tracking. This is all for your own good. What kind of dad would I be if I didn’t protect my little girl?”

“But, Dad, this isn’t protecting me. This is smothering me. What happened with Rachel was an accident. It could happen to anyone, no matter where they are. You can’t prevent bad things from happening.”

“I can do my best,” he says grimly. “I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror if something happened to you, too. This isn’t about Rachel. This is about you and how much we want you to be safe. Now, go finish your homework.”

With that, he continues chopping. Denial. He’s in total denial.

Gritting my teeth, I go back to the dining room and try to concentrate on my homework. For the next few minutes, the only sound from the kitchen is the tap-tap of Dad’s knife hitting the cutting board, until it’s finally broken by the chirp of his phone.

“Hello?” comes Dad’s brisk response.

I strain to hear what he’s saying but only make out the low murmur of his voice.

A moment later, he walks into the dining room, tucking the phone in his pocket. “Let’s go for a drive,” he suggests.

A drive? “Seriously? I just tried having a real conversation with you and you dismissed me. Now you want to go for a drive?”

“We can have that conversation in the car, then.” He pauses. “We’ll talk about the door.”

I know he’s manipulating me. I know it, but I let it happen anyway.

“Where are we going?” I ask as I buckle into the passenger seat.