Twelve Steps to Normal(31)

Lin, on the other hand, gives me a quick hug. “We’ll plan for another time.”

Raegan smiles. “Yeah, it’d be good to see Mr. Seneca.”

A knot of worry forms in my stomach, so I keep it noncommittal. “Yeah, for sure.”

I drive back home, trying not to feel bad about lying to my friends. It’s for the best. And I really, really don’t want to get sent back when I just got here.

The first thing I notice when I get home and open the front door is music. It’s not Queen, thank god. It sounds like something that you’d hear at a serene water garden.

Confused, I step into the living room—which does not look like a living room anymore. Our beige couch and leather recliner are pushed against the wall, and our coffee table has been moved in front of the stone fireplace. The only thing in the middle of the room is our olive area rug and, dead center, Saylor, who is sitting cross-legged with his eyes closed.

“Uh, hey,” I say, making sure my voice is clear over the music. “What are you doing?”

Saylor’s eyes snap open. “Hey!” He leans over and turns down the music on my old boom box. “I was just meditating.”

I blink. That’s why he reconstructed our living room?

“O-kay,” I say slowly. “Well. I’ll leave you to it.”

Saylor sits up a little straighter. “You’re welcome to join me if you want.” He stands up, pulling his palms together over his head. His cluster of leather bracelets drop down toward his elbows. “You become attuned to the world around you.”

I nod, not sure what to say to that.

He must sense a subject change because he goes, “Peach says you got your Texas license?”

“Yeah.” I can’t help but smile. “Feels good to drive a car that’s mine.”

Saylor lowers his arms. “I bet. Oh, hey! I got a job at the 7-Eleven down the street. I’ll be the night clerk.”

I debate asking him about those graphic design jobs, but he looks so proud of himself. Then it hits me. Maybe this job is the way to complete step 11: getting him out of here.

I choose my next words carefully. “That’s, uh, really great.” Pause. “So… this job. Does that mean you’re moving out?”

It comes out more bluntly than I intend, but if Saylor notices he doesn’t show it. He closes his eyes, as if returning to his previous meditative state, and says, “Perhaps. It’s hard to say. I have nowhere to go at the moment.”

I remember what my dad told me about him the other night, but that sympathy doesn’t quite shield my disappointment. “Great,” I mutter. “I’m gonna go shower.”

Saylor nods. I leave the room and dart upstairs.

I shower quickly, not minding the lukewarm temperature after sweating all day outside. I use a few different kinds of body wash and soap to try and scrub the red paint off my hands, but nothing completely removes it. I give up, turning off the water and wrapping myself in a towel before heading to my room.

After I change into a pair of shorts and an old Cedarville Middle School shirt, I check my phone. There’s a picture text from Lin. I open the image and see Lin’s face twisted into a scowl. She’s holding one of her red hands in the air. I read her text that follows.

LIN: Doesn’t it look like we committed murder??

I laugh, then take a picture of my hand.

ME: i went all Lady Macbeth in the shower. out, damned spot! didn’t work.

LIN: lolol

There’s a knock at my door. I let out a deeply annoyed sigh. I hope it isn’t Peach wanting to cook dinner together or Saylor wanting to talk me into yoga again. I wrap my towel around my hair and open it.

My dad stands in the hall, a smile on his face. His left hand holds up a twenty-dollar bill. “I thought I’d stop by to give you your allowance early if your room is clean.”

I open the door a little wider so he can see inside. He takes it as a cue to come in instead.

“I’m still putting away laundry,” I explain as he stares at the piles of clothes on my desk. “Sorry. School’s been draining with homework and stuff already.”

My dad nods like he understands, then takes a seat on the edge of my bed. I sit on my desk chair. I feel a little shameful about how our conversation ended last night, but it wasn’t like I said any of it to be hurtful. It was the truth.

“You got your license okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Oh, I have your debit card.” I grab my purse from the ground and pull it out of my wallet. “Thanks,” I add.

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a small pause of awkward silence.

He looks at me, then takes a deep breath. “Listen, I know you’re not ready to forgive me for what happened, but I want to tell you again how sorry I am.”

It was all in his letters. The mournful apologies, the guilt-ridden sentences. It’s not that I don’t believe he’s sorry, because I do. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to forgive him yet, even though I’d written in my personal twelve steps that I should.

“I want you to know—really know—that I know how much I screwed up. If anything had happened to you… if my actions had harmed you in any way—” He swallows, shakes his head. “I would have never forgiven myself.”

I stare down at my bare knees. Grams had been gone two and a half years prior to the intersection incident, and in that time I knew my dad was slipping farther into his alcoholic haze. I was too terrified to do anything but deny it. Even when June would call and check in, I’d pretend like everything was fine.