by C. C. Hunter
Kelsey and I sit in the surgery waiting room, which smells like coffee and tears. Silence seems mandatory. Even my intake of air seems too loud. An elderly woman across the way sits running her rosary through her fingers, and her lips move, but nothing comes out. A spirit of an elderly man stands beside her. I can tell he’s not dead. I assume he’s the one in surgery, the one that keeps that rosary moving.
I send up a positive thought that he’ll make it.
Everyone in here is waiting to know if their loved ones are okay. I pull up my phone to refocus on the job at hand.
“What are you looking at?” Kelsey asks.
“Just surfing Snapchat,” I lie before I realize I don’t have to. Kelsey knows. But then again, I don’t want Kelsey pulled into the bride stuff just in case the fertilizer hits the ventilator.
Sure, I’m hoping it doesn’t get dangerous. And I will be taking Bessie’s advice and handing it over to the police, but I have to have something to hand over. Right now, I have nothing. Not the bride’s name. Not when she died. Not who killed her.
So instead of combing through Snapchat, I’m combing through all the missing-person cases in Catwalk, Texas. The online database only goes back five years. And frankly, it’s scary how many people are here one day and gone the next. I can only hope that at least half of them are living it up on a beach in Mexico.
So far, I haven’t found anyone who matches the bride’s general description. Before I went to this site, I Googled dead-bride stories, but the one story I got was about a woman, Mary Ebert, who died in a car crash two years ago on her way to marry John Lawless. Because she was the right age, I searched her name and found her obituary. The picture was of a blonde. But not my dead bride.
My phone dings with a text.
Dad: Where you at?
Me: At the hospital with Kelsey. Her mom broke her arm.
It feels good not to lie.
Dad: Okay. Don’t cook, I’m working late.
Working or drinking? I almost type that in. But I still haven’t confronted him about the bottles I found in his office.
Kelsey stirs in her chair.
I look at her. “It’s my dad.”
“Everything okay?” The fact that she can even think about my issues when we’re caught in the middle of her own is heartwarming.
“He says he’s working late. Again.”
“Why don’t you go by there, see if he’s lying. Or find out if he’s drinking on the job again.”
“I might,” I say. But the thought of it has unease crowding my stomach like a bad burrito. I hate confronting Dad. Confronting anyone isn’t my strong point. But especially Dad. Every time I do it, I swear it pulls us further apart. We talk less. We hug less. And the hugs get shorter. I feel like I’m losing my dad. And that’s a sucky feeling.
She leans closer. “I forgot to ask, how did your time with Hayden go?”
Voices echo from the other side of the room. I realize someone has turned on the television, and it makes our talking feel less like whispering in church.
“Batshit crazy,” I say, wanting to curtail my lying average, then I glance past her to make sure no one is eavesdropping.
Kelsey’s brows pinch. “About Hayden?” Her slow shift closer speaks of secrets about to be shared. “Did you…” Her voice is a whisper. “Since he wasn’t dead, did you still see him?”
I stare at my phone face down on my lap. “I thought he was…dead.”
“He didn’t tell you he wasn’t?”
“No.”
“And you…fell for him, right?”
“Yeah.” Maybe I should feel embarrassed, but I don’t. Instead, my answer gives my heartstrings a robust tug. I recall how it felt to have Hayden on top of me, how badly I ached for him to remember me, how desperate I’d been for him to kiss me. How badly I felt for him when he’d fallen. But damn, I miss him. I miss us.
I shift closer until my shoulder’s against hers. I divulge everything. About Hayden not telling me about Brandy, about him saving me with his exploding-phone trick. About him being willing to die for Annie and her coming to his room just now. “Right after they left, he started asking about it. All insistent-like. Then your text came, and I got the hell out of there.”
“I’m not sure batshit crazy covers it. I mean…” She lifts her gaze, her eyes widen, and her lips close in a surprised O. “And the drama continues. Look who’s here.”
I glance up. My lungs noisily suck in a gulp of air. Hayden, in a wheelchair, is being pushed by Dex, the guy Kelsey kind of likes, but she refuses to let it happen.
“Hey.” Dex parks Hayden beside me. I feel my skin go hypersensitive just from being this close to him, but I long to be closer. I remember his fingers brushing my hair off my cheek. I meet his eyes and see his earlier questions lingering there.
Dex, eyes on Kelsey, drops into the chair beside her. “Hayden said your mom was having surgery. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Kelsey’s tone is sharp enough to draw blood. I remember she was upset when she learned Dex took a girl to Jacob’s party.
I sense Hayden staring at me. “Riley?”
The moment I meet his blue eyes again, he starts speaking as if he senses I’m trying to avoid him. “You never really agreed to take the job driving me to my therapy sessions.”
A wave of relief hits. “I thought I said yes.”
“You didn’t.” He smiles, and it’s slightly crooked and amazing. How many times have I felt that smile on my lips?
He eases in. “My mom will be happy.”
But not you, huh?
He rolls his wheelchair a little closer as if his words are private. Butterflies, the warm fluttery sensation, fill my chest. “Does he look like me?”
“Huh?” I ask.
“Your boyfriend. I figure that’s what happened…with Annie. She has me mixed up with your boyfriend.”
I shrug, because if I say no, he’ll ask more questions, and if I say yes, he’ll think I have a boyfriend. And I do, but he woke up and doesn’t remember me.
“What kind of surgery is your mom having?” Dex’s voice is a little too loud, but it gives me a reason to focus my attention away from Hayden.
“Arm,” Kelsey answers in her go-jump-off-a-cliff tone.
“What’s wrong with her arm?” Dex asks, proving the guy is certifiably tone deaf.
“She broke it.” Kelsey, tone still all edge, pulls up her phone, using it as a visual barrier between her and Dex’s questions. At least now I understand her attitude isn’t just about her feelings toward the inquirer, but about not wanting to share what really happened to her mom.
“How did she break it?” Dex blurts out. Poor guy sucks at reading cues.
“Anyone want some hot chocolate?” I ask, hoping to ease the tension.
Kelsey lowers her phone and glares at Dex. Okay, it might take more than a hot-chocolate-diversion trick to solve this.
Her head tilts. “You’re kind of nosy, aren’t you?”
Dex shifts as if uncomfortable in his chair. “I was just trying to be nice.”
“That’s not nice. That’s nosy.”
“I think they have the kind with marshmallows,” I say.
Hayden leans back in, closer, and I forget about marshmallows, and hot chocolate, and Dex and Kelsey.
I can feel his warmth. “My mom’s right about you.”
The question Right about what? sits on my lips, but do I want to know?
“The Macon family,” a voice echoes from the front.
Kelsey jumps up and rushes toward the doctor. I join her.
“The surgery went great,” the doctor explains. “My biggest concern now is her pain level and the limited pain medication we can give her due to the pregnancy.”
After we get the report in its entirety, I look back and find Hayden and Dex are gone.
It’s best. I should be relieved, but I feel nothing but loss.
An hour later, I leave Kelsey, who insists she’s staying
the night in the hospital with her mom. “If you change your mind, call me. You can stay at my house,” I tell her before leaving.
Walking to my car, I feel like someone is watching me. Please don’t let it be dead cone guy. I send out feelers and don’t sense the cold of the dead. But that thought takes me immediately to the dead bride. To what Bessie said about her knowing something about my mom. When is Bessie coming back?
When I arrive at my car, the being-watched feeling becomes stronger. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and chills whisper down my back. I look around and see no one, then I look up. All the way up to the fourth floor. Hayden’s window faces this way. I estimate where his room is. As my eyes move toward the possible windows, I see one has someone staring out. The curtain flutters back in place.
Was it him? Was he watching for me? Could he instinctively miss me the way I’m missing him?
Or is he missing Brandy?
As I drive away, I remember Dad’s text, and instead of taking FM 1960, I take Main Street, which passes the funeral home. Realizing I’m hungry and wanting a reason to see him, I pull into a fast-food drive-through and get two hamburger meal deals.
Please let him be there. I imagine the best scenario. I walk into his office, surprising him with dinner. We sit around his desk, enjoying a meal, enjoying being with each other. I won’t even bring up Mom. I won’t bring up his drinking. I want some daddy-daughter time. Perhaps seeing Kelsey so worried about her mom has made me homesick for some parental affection.
With the hamburgers in tow, the fast-food smell fills my car as I drive to the funeral home. Stomach grumbling, I dip into the bag and snag some hot, greasy, salty fries as my appetizer. My stomach welcomes the food.
I pull into the funeral home parking lot. My hopes for some daddy time evaporate. Dad’s car isn’t out front. On the off chance he parked in the back, I drive around and hold my breath, praying I’ll find his car. That he didn’t lie to me.
No car. “Where are you, Dad?”
I park and pull out my phone. I swipe his name to call. The few fries I’ve eaten now feel heavy in my stomach. I put the phone to my ear, unsure what I’m going to say, but anger bubbles to the surface.
I get that alcoholism is a disease, but does my dad get how hard it is to watch him do this to himself? Does he not understand how this hurts me? How he’s my only family?
The line rings seven times, then goes to voicemail. Afraid I’ll say something I regret, I hang up. Then I regret hanging up. Something has to give. Dad has to give.
Do I need to push him harder? Does he need to hit rock bottom? Just how far down is rock bottom? Isn’t lying to his daughter, getting drunk by—I look at the time—seven o’clock rock bottom? And will he attempt to drive home after consuming who-knows-how-many drinks?
I pull up his last text on my phone, stare at the message box, and type: Where are you?
I wait. Wait. And wait. Finally, three little dots appear.
Dad: Told you I was working late.
“But you aren’t!” I let out a low growl. Three more dots appear.
Dad: Everything okay?
At least he still cares. Or is his concern even real? If I needed him right now, would he come? A heavy, tight, unhappy feeling hits my chest. I do need him. With all the other shit going on in my life, I could use one of his long hugs. The kind he used to give me. The kind that felt like unconditional love and understanding. It didn’t even matter if he didn’t really understand.
I continue to stare at the phone.
Me: Can u meet me at the park by the house? I’ll bring food. We’ll have a picnic. I miss you. Need to see you.
He doesn’t answer. I wait for those three dots.
Dad: Sorry. I’m elbow-deep at my desk doing paperwork. Already ate.
I look up at the empty funeral home. Even in my car, I can feel the unearthly chill. Only the dead are there. “Why do you lie to me, Dad?”
Me: Promise me you won’t drive if you’re drunk.
I wait. Wait. No three dots appear.
I sit in the car. Have myself a pity party. Fifteen minutes later, I start my Mustang and drive home.
It’s almost dark when I get there. No lights left on. No one to greet me. Alone. Lonely. I blame the empty feeling on Dad. The angry hum in my blood is an irritant like a mosquito buzzing at my ear. But I know it’s not just Dad. It’s Hayden, too.
I step into the kitchen, and I have to rescind my alone thought. Tiny cat paws come tap-tapping to meet me. Dropping the bag of uneaten fast food down on the counter, I pick Pumpkin up and hold him against my chest. His soft purr is almost a hug.
His welcome-home greeting is a sure sign I don’t have visitors from the other side. In fact, the house is warm. I take in a breath and can still smell the chili I made yesterday. Chili I made and Dad never ate. He worked late last night, too.
Pumpkin rubs his face against mine, then squirms to be put down. Once on the floor, he runs to his food bowl. “Hungry, huh?” I add food to it, then I drop my purse on the kitchen table and listen to his quiet munching fill an empty house.
My stomach grumbles, but I’m no longer hungry. I pull my phone from my purse to see if I possibly missed a text from Dad.
I didn’t.
Part of me wonders if I should drive around to bars to see if I can find his car. What if he gets drunk and gets behind the wheel?
“I hate this, Dad!” I mutter.
Furious, I start typing.
Me: DO NOT DRIVE DRUNK!!! Call an Uber. Call me. If you hurt yourself or hurt someone else, I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!!
I tap my fingers on the table, waiting. Three dots appear. My chest fills with needed air. My gaze locks on those three dots. Finally, words appear.
Dad: I won’t. Don’t worry.
A strangled, scratchy sound escapes my throat. A sound that’s part relief, part anguish.
Me: Promise?
Dad: Promise.
I go upstairs. The creak of the wood stairs follows me as I climb. When I walk into the room, I see the painting I’m working on. A copy of the one I remembered Mom painting. The one signed by Sam that I saw hanging in the gallery. All my questions about Mom bob to the surface.
Suddenly, I wish the dead bride would come back. Tell me what she has on my mom. But why does just thinking about it open up some uncertainty in the pit of my belly? It feels like a warning that whatever I’m about to learn is going to change things. Change how I feel about Mom. Change how I feel about Dad. Maybe even change how I feel about myself.
And I’ve never been a fan of change.
My gaze shifts to the history book on my bed. I should study for the test coming up next week. I look at the painting again. Forget history.
Hoping that painting might relax me, I change clothes. After I spread the plastic cover around the easel, Mom’s easel, I dab my paint on the paper plate, then I go on automatic and just paint. I don’t think. I don’t worry. I swipe the brush on the canvas. Listen to the little sounds.
I don’t know how much time has passed, an hour or two, but I’m happy. No what-ifs playing in my mind.
My phone rings and shatters the sense of calm. I think about Dad. Him driving drunk. I hurry to the bed, where I left my phone.
I see the number but don’t recognize it. “Hello?” I take the call, my heart in my throat.
“Hi.” The voice is deep.
“Hayden?”
“Yeah.”
I drop down on the mattress, and I swear my heart sighs. A good sigh.
“Hi,” I manage.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling. Mom gave me your number, and I just…thought I’d see if you could come by tomorrow and…talk about getting me back and forth to the therapy sessions.”
I nod, then realize he can’t see me. “Yeah. What time’s good?”
“Morning?” He pauses. “If that’s good for you.”
“Yeah. How about around ten-thirty?”
“Good.” His silenc
e echoes through the line, and I scramble to think of something to say so he won’t hang up, but before I do, he asks. “Were you busy?”
“No.” More silence. “I was painting.”
“You paint?” His quick response makes me think he doesn’t want to hang up, either.
“Well, I try. I don’t mean I suck at it, but I’m still learning.”
“So art and cars, huh?”
“What?”
“Dex told me you are taking auto tech at school. So, I was saying that you’re into art and cars.”
“Yes.” I hear rustling, and I imagine him shifting around in his hospital bed.
“And you drive a bright green Mustang?”
“Yeah.” I remember the window at the hospital. “Were you looking out your…” I suddenly realize it’s going to sound stupid.
“What?” he asks.
The silence beckons for me to continue. “Someone was looking down from a window on the fourth…” Oh, it does sound stupid. “Nothing.” I push my palm against my forehead.
“Dex had pointed out your car earlier. I wasn’t spying or anything.” I recognize the hint of guilt in his tone.
“No. Of course.” I smile. Watching me shows interest, doesn’t it? “Do you like cars?” I throw out the conversation starter and remember him telling me he did, but not as much as Jacob or Dex.
“Sure. I wasn’t taking auto tech this year, but I know how to work on them, and I enjoy it. I worked on them with Jacob all the time.”
“That’s good,” I say.
The line goes quiet. “Was it…?” His voice lowers an octave. “Jacob?”
“Huh?”
“The person Annie thought was me. You know, the one you’re in love with? Was she talking about him?”
I pass my front teeth over my bottom lip, trying to come up with an answer. The pause gets too long, and I just throw something out there. “I told you Jacob and I are just friends.”
“That’s not what Dex…” He stops. “Jacob’s a great guy.”
“Yeah, you told me.” Frustration leaks into my voice.
“I just thought with you both loving old cars, it would be natural for you to—”