Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(83)

“Are you about to tell me you don’t think you can?”

“Yes.”

“Because it hurts too much?”

“Yes.”

“Because you would prefer to forget?”

“DeeDee—”

“Because you want to move on.” I spit the last two words with contempt.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t wait. I summon all the fury I have. Ten years’ worth, saved up in every cell of my body. It made me a creature of sadness to carry that around. “Well, guess what? You will. I built this castle for you. Do you get it? I made this show so you would see me. So you would hurt for leaving me. And you’re going to. You don’t have to ever talk to me again. You don’t have to ever remember me or think of me again. But on some Saturday night when Marisol is out with friends or if you’ve ditched her too, you’re going to put on this DVD and pretend like you discovered this show while you were channel surfing. And you’re going to watch your daughter on TV, acting out what you left her, with one of the VHS tapes you left her, trying with all her heart to connect with you in the only way she knew how. Maybe it was stupid and desperate to hope that you would happen to watch my show, but I’m having the last laugh because now you’re going to. I win.”

He looks down at the DVD, defeated, and nods.

“Remember my seventh birthday? When I fell asleep and you took me outside to look at the stars and the moon?” I don’t know where I’m going with this. My heart is no longer communicating with my brain.

His face is blank. “Seventh birthday…”

“Remember?”

“Vaguely?”

“Never mind.” I open the door again.

“What, DeeDee? What was it?”

I make sure I have his eyes before I speak. “That was the most perfect day of my life. That’s all. Thought I’d tell you.”

“I’m glad,” he says softly, and looks away.

I look for some evidence of loss. There is not enough. “When did I stop feeling like a part of you? When did I start feeling like a fingernail clipping you could throw away?”

He says nothing.

“Because you’ve never stopped feeling like a part of me.”

He looks back at me with reddening eyes. “Can you ever forgive me?”

I’ve rehearsed this moment in my mind so many times. The moment my dad sees me on TV and calls me and asks me to forgive him. And none of that rehearsal prepared me for this. Because I never imagined I’d be looking him in the face. Sitting in his new car, in his new driveway, in front of his new house, with his new pregnant fiancée asleep inside. And with all that newness, I think he probably doesn’t need the forgiveness that would cost me so much to give him.

“No,” I say. “I can’t. Bye, Dad. Have a good life. Take better care of your new daughter. Too bad I’ll never meet her.” I get out and start walking away without closing the door. But I turn and go back. “One more thing: I’m really awesome. I’m a good person and a loving daughter, and I worked hard and made a show I thought you would love. You shouldn’t have abandoned me. I didn’t deserve that.” I manage to get the words out, but as soon as I start stumbling back to Josie’s car, the wall inside me falls. It’s hard to say things out loud that you haven’t even convinced yourself are true. He calls after me, but I keep walking.

This may be the least perfect day of my life. Less even than the day I woke up and discovered he was gone. But I know I’ll keep it stored inside whether I want to or not.

I drive off, leaving my dad standing in the street behind me. I look in the rearview mirror and see him—probably for the last time—lit up red in the taillights like something from an old horror movie.





It’s exactly like one of those dreams where you’re seeing something horrible and you want to scream, but your vocal cords are frozen and all that comes out is an impotent dry squeak.

Yuri crouches over Lawson and throws another powerful punch. Lawson deflects it into the ground with a sickening thud. Yuri roars in agony and curses (probably) in Russian. Lawson has a momentary opening. He could jump to his feet while Yuri shakes it off. He doesn’t. What are you doing? Yuri reaches behind himself, for something at the small of his back. I stop breathing.

Lawson kicks Yuri’s leg out from under him. He loses his balance and pitches forward on top of Lawson, throwing another punch as he’s falling. Lawson dodges it and entangles Yuri’s arms. Suddenly, Lawson scissors his legs into the air and clenches them around Yuri’s head and neck, pinning one of Yuri’s outstretched arms like he’s raising his hand to ask a question. Lawson loops one thigh around the back of Yuri’s neck and hooks his other knee over the shin of the leg wrapped around Yuri’s neck. It doesn’t look like Lawson is improvising. His motions are purposeful and precise.

He starts to constrict like a python, pulling on his foot. Yuri’s face turns a deep shade of purple in the orange glow of the parking lot lights. He wheezes what’s probably more Russian profanity, then jerks, trying to escape the hold, but he can’t get free. Lawson makes adjustments with his hands to the positioning of his legs and Yuri’s head and neck in the hold. Yuri tries to stand, pulling Lawson up, but Lawson keeps his shoulder blades on the ground.