by Sasha Dawn
I look him in the eye for what feels like the first time this morning.
“Because I didn’t want to get into it in front of Cass. And then later, I tried to talk to you about Trina, but you were so defensive, and so worked up, and convinced I’d lied to you—”
“You did lie to me.”
“I prefer to think of it as delaying the conversation until a more appropriate time.”
And I prefer to think of that as rationalization.
“And then we started talking about your mom. Sam, I didn’t want to ruin that.”
That makes sense, I guess.
“I should’ve known you’d look her up. I should’ve thought it through and talked with you last night. Is this why you didn’t sleep?”
“It’s part of it. I mean, not knowing about Mom? Okay, I’m sort of used to it, but it still eats at me sometimes. And then last night, to feel like you know things you’re not telling me . . . Dad, come on. Don’t do that to me.”
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told her family a decade ago,” he says. “The same thing I’ll tell the police again today if they want to talk with me about it. Trina went through a hard time with her family. Whether or not I wanted to see her, she showed up from time to time. She dropped in a few months before Delilah left. But after that I never saw her again. And Sam, we were never—romantically involved during those visits. I was married by then to your mom.”
“Happily?”
He pauses on this one and meets my gaze. “Not as happily as I would’ve liked. Obviously.”
“Cass said Mom cheated on you.”
“She said that, huh?”
“Yeah. She said you and Heather used to talk about it.”
“Maybe we speculated once or twice, but that doesn’t mean it’s true.” He shakes his head. “That’s exactly why I don’t want you discussing this Trina business with your sister.”
I think of the memories resurfacing lately. The bonfires, Mom’s laugh. I almost can’t believe I’m about to ask this. For years, our neighbor has been a quiet, slightly standoffish fixture across the lawn, watering his hydrangeas. I’ll get an occasional smile or wave from him, but he and Dad aren’t on speaking terms, and honestly he doesn’t seem to be on speaking terms with most of the world. He may as well be a garden fountain these days.
But lately, I’m remembering he wasn’t always that way. Maybe something happened that turned him inward.
Most of my sunflowers have thirty-four petals. Some of the bigger ones’ll have fifty-five, but . . .
“Was it Schmidt? With Mom?”
Dad looks startled. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. Mom used to love sunflowers.”
He nods and even smiles a little, then slurps up a gulp of shake. “She did.”
“Schmidt grew them when I was little,” I go on. “He doesn’t grow them anymore. I thought maybe he grew them for Mom.”
“So this theory that your mother had an affair is based on sunflowers.”
“Well, yeah. I guess.”
And in the early days after Mom left, Lieutenant Eschermann asked me where I thought she’d gone. I figured she’d moved into Schmidt’s enormous place, and that she’d come back when she stopped being mad at Dad. The house is big enough that she could’ve sneaked in through the underground tunnel, I’d fantasized, and Schmidt wouldn’t have even noticed. I never considered, until now, he might’ve offered her refuge in his arms.
“Henry Schmidt wasn’t your mom’s style.”
I want to ask how he can be so sure.
Schmidt made my mother laugh. At least once.
For a few seconds, the only sounds in the house are comprised of chewing and sipping.
“Anyway, about Trina. I promise you, when all the dust clears, she’s going to turn up somewhere, with a new life of her choosing. Safe and far away from her family.”
Maybe he’s right. And for a second or two, I feel better.
But if Trina took off ten years ago, Dad wasn’t exactly married anymore, either. He and my mom weren’t together. He was with Heather. It’s another lie.
And the pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know I was working on are beginning to spread out in front of me. Suddenly, I’m struggling to understand the mystery that is my father—the one constant in my life. Predictable ever since he worked through the twelve steps of AA, regimented, boring in some respects. But he’s an enormous question mark now.
He brings his protein shake to his lips for another sip.
I have more questions, but what’s the point in asking, if he’s only going to fill my head with half-truths?
Maybe he’s trying to protect me from something.
Whatever he’s protecting me from, it’s bad.
“Sami, it’ll be okay.” He chucks me under the chin. “I promise.”
“Okay.”
He presses a kiss to the part in my hair.
Instinctively, I wrap a hand around whatever I can grasp onto—his arm, as it turns out—as if holding him here will keep us both safe from the past and the future.
I feel the warmth of him near me, feel loved and close and safe.
Guilt floods my heart.
Just last night I made a mental escape plan out of this house in case I thought my father might harm me.
Maybe he’s lying to me, but he loves me. He could never . . .
What kind of a daughter thinks things like that?
“I gotta hit the shower, Sam. We’ll talk more tonight?”
I sniffle through an affirmation. Unless he actually put it in his plan for the day—7:35, reassure Sami for five to seven minutes—he’s taken time out of his meticulously scheduled routine to have this talk.
“I assume you’ll already be bowling by the time I get home. Long agenda today.”
“Probably, then.”
“In that case, I’ll see you when you get home.”
When he leaves the room, I dab at my tears with my napkin.
Amidst the silence of the house, I hear Dad’s shower running.
The sound of the Jeep horn signifies Cassidy is here.
I check my reflection in the toaster. It’s plain I’ve been crying, but at least my mascara hasn’t smudged. I don’t have time to touch up my makeup.
“You turned your phone off,” Cassidy says before I even pull the seat belt around me. “And it was such a crazy night that I cannot believe I couldn’t get a hold of you.”
I glance at my phone. I’d turned the ringer off last night, and I’d been so preoccupied that I hadn’t turned it back on. “Did you talk to Zack?”
“Dad lied to you.”
My hackles rise in defense, even though it’s true.
“I looked her up,” she continues. “Trina Jordan. And you wanna know what?”
“She was his girlfriend.”
Cassidy looks almost disappointed. “Yeah.”
“He told me this morning. But they haven’t been in touch in a long time.”
“Did he tell you she’s missing?”
“I—”
“I swear, when you weren’t answering last night . . . God, I don’t even want to tell you the things that were going through my mind.”
“Sorry. I just couldn’t—”
“My mom was freaking out. I half-thought I’d pull up today to an empty house.”
“What? Like you thought we’d leave? In the middle of the night? Don’t be dramatic, Cass.”
“The woman’s missing.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with Dad.”
“Well, if either of you had answered your phones last night—”
“Cass, you should know better than to think like that. And your mom? She’s known him her whole life. Why would she start thinking those things now?” I ignore the fact that I was thinking some of those same things not so long ago.
She sighs and glances in the rearview mirror before backing out of the driveway. “To be honest—and don’t get mad, okay? But
Mom’s starting to say stuff that makes me think . . . I mean, it seems like—she’s not so sure Dad’s in the clear.”
I shake my head. Cassidy is clearly taking Heather’s comments out of context, blowing them out of proportion—something. Heather would never actually accuse Dad of something like this. “She’s mad at him. They’re getting divorced. Of course she isn’t going to say nice things about him right now. But that doesn’t mean she thinks he’s capable of . . . you know.”
“I know. But, God, what else can happen, right?”
“You know what Dad said today?” I help myself to Cassidy’s compact. “He said he loves your mom.”
She raises a brow. “He loves her. That’s what he said?”
“He said, I love Cass, and I love Heather.”
“Huh.”
“Does your mom ever say things like that, or say anything about why they split?”
“You mean, besides the standard we’re-too-different discussion? No. But they are different. Divorce doesn’t have to mean you don’t love someone anymore. Just that you can’t live together.”
“You think that’s what happened?” I wonder, in that case, if Dad could live with anyone.
“Maybe. If you think about it, they’d been at each other a lot over the past year. Maybe Dad saw the writing on the wall. Mom wasn’t going to live with his bouts of silence forever, and lately, he’s been—”
“Hey!” I snap. “I’d like to see how Heather would cope if your sperm-donor father suddenly took off—”
“He did!” Cassidy says. “Dad didn’t miss a single soccer game last year. You want to know how many games the sperm donor has been to in my whole life? Try zero. But Mom doesn’t let his absence rule her days.”
“Maybe because it’s obvious he’s still breathing, even if he doesn’t keep in touch.” An emptiness floods my heart, stirring memories of Mom clacking away at an ancient typewriter—she preferred it to the computer—and tears prick at me. I press a few fingers to my lips, as if I can take back what I just said.
“Sam.” Cassidy pats my knee. It’s obvious she realized it too.
For the first time ever, I’ve admitted what so many other people—the police, the press, the whole town—have always assumed.
That my mom might really be dead.
“What do you mean, you don’t know if you can come?” Brooke’s leaning on a sink in the girls’ room, unnecessarily touching up her dark red lipstick.
“Aren’t you grounded, anyway?” She’s always grounded.
“Yeah, but the Ps are going out of town this weekend. They said I couldn’t leave the house, except for school or work. So I’m not leaving the house. And you’d better be there.”
“My dad,” I say, rubbing a temple. There’s still a dull ache in my head. Probably due to lack of sleep. “Something’s going on.”
“You have to come.” She glances at me in the mirror and offers, “I’ll buy stuff for s’mores. Your favorite.”
She blots her lipstick on a tissue, then tends to her eyelashes, which probably don’t need curling—or another coat of mascara—any more than her lips needed more color. But we have trig next hour, and Alex Perry’s locker is on our way to class. He and Brooke have a sort of love/hate relationship. They’ve been dancing around an inevitable hookup for years. “You can’t leave me alone with Cassidy and my brother. They’ll probably start making out within five minutes. I need you there tonight.”
“Is Alex going?”
“Don’t know yet. I mean, do I want him there? Do I not?”
“If he’s there, and you ditch me to hot tub with him—”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She flips her dark blonde hair over her shoulder and pivots toward me for approval. “Do I look okay?”
“Stunning.” She may have lipstick on her teeth for how closely I looked at her, but it doesn’t matter. She knows she looks great. “I’m going to class.”
“Wait, wait.” Brooke digs in her bag and produces a tablet. After a few touches on the screen, she presents me with a Bible app. “Solemnly swear you’ll be there tonight.”
“You’re cracked.” I’m already halfway out the door.
“That’s why we’re friends!” she calls after me.
One step into the hallway, I feel a shift in the atmosphere, like everyone’s looking at me. The pressure in my head intensifies.
A few feet down the hallway, I see the subtle turn of a few heads as we pass, and I wonder if maybe I have toilet paper stuck to the sole of my shoe or something. I glance down, and when I don’t see anything that would put a target on my back, a funny sensation—like a sliver of ice injected into my blood—pumps through me.
“Omigod, here he comes,” Brooke whispers.
“Ladies.” Alex sidles up next to us, which isn’t altogether unusual. He shakes his too-long blond hair out of his eyes. “Going out tonight?”
“Actually, no.” Brooke hugs her books more tightly to her chest. “Staying in.”
“Slumber party?”
“If I said yes, would you be interested?”
“Depends on the sleeping accommodations.”
The chilly feeling now settles in my fingertips, my toes. I feel as if I’m all alone, even though I’m obviously among hundreds of people.
A moment before I duck into our trig classroom, I catch the gape and subsequent smirk of a girl across the hall. By the time I turn toward her, she’s already turned away, but I still feel the remnants of her stare.
And I know something’s different the moment I enter the classroom too. Everyone sort of shuts up for a split second when I drop my books atop my desk. When I glance around, no one’s looking at me, but I feel like they all turned away only a moment ago.
My brain rattles. Oh, no. I slide into my seat, yank my shoulder bag off my arm, and rifle through it in search of my Imitrex. Have to stop this headache in its tracks.
A whisper behind me: “I wonder if she’s looking for her mother in that bag.”
I whip around, but see no one’s lips moving.
Behind me again: “Maybe she should look in her basement.”
“Or buried under the patio in her backyard.”
I close my fingers around my vial of pills, which I’m not supposed to have at my disposal at school. No one understands that when the migraines hit, I don’t have time for a teacher to maybe give me a pass to the office and wait for the nurse to look up my medication release and maybe find it in time. So I sneak it.
Behind me: “Probably an antianxiety, considering . . .”
“Samantha Lang.”
Busted. I look up to see Mr. Peters entering the room.
“Is that prescription?” my teacher says.
“Yes.”
Mr. Peters’ brows slant downward. “You know you’re supposed to report to the nurse for medication.”
“Sorry. I just—”
“I have to send you.”
I scoop up my books amidst what I’m certain is a snicker at my expense. Uncertainty hollows in my chest. And I head back out, past Brooke and Alex, who are making plans for tonight.
Maybe I’m imagining the whispers as I pass through the horde of students who ought to be scrambling to get to class. Maybe I’m paranoid.
Maybe.
“Sam!” Brooke calls after me.
I keep moving.
Along the way, I count eleven steps, then seven, eleven steps, then seven, but the white noise in my head is only getting louder.
“Sami!”
I keep walking and pass the commons, where the face of the local news anchor fills the television screen. The transcription of her words flashes up on the screen, and certain phrases catch my attention—new development, local professor—but I just quicken my pace.
The bell rings as I hook a right to the nurse’s office.
I’m unbelievably exhausted, as if someone drilled a hole in the bottom of my foot and drained every ounce of energy out of me. This new development in the case of
a random woman my father used to date might bring on the worst migraine of my life.
“Can I help you?”
“Migraine.” I take a seat and cradle my head.
Somewhere in this room, one of the bars of a fluorescent light is flickering, and I can’t concentrate. Its steady hum, coupled with the inconsistent brightening and waning of light, is making me nauseous.
Or maybe it’s the whole situation that’s wreaking havoc on my system. How selfish could my mother be to let the world think she’s dead? To abandon her only child? And let my father face the fallout?
On the other hand . . . if what they’re saying about Dad is true . . .
And the fact that I’m even considering the other hand is evidence enough that I’m losing my grip on reality. I know better than to buy into all this hype. Dad explained it all, and pretty soon, the whole world will know these suspicions are bogus.
“Your name?” I hear the nurse in the periphery and have to struggle to formulate my response.
“Samantha Lang.”
“Samantha?”
I look up when the nurse says my name, but she’s only a watery image before me.
Nothing is static. It’s all a silvery crescent-shaped aura. I shift so I can lay my head against the back of the chair.
“Should I call home?” Her voice sounds as if it’s in a tunnel.
I shake my head. Dad has a big day. The conference. The grant. He can’t come get me, even if I wanted to go home, which I don’t. And whether or not he deserves it, he’s the last person I want to see right now. I can’t help it. I have to blame someone, and there’s no one else here to throw darts at. I mean, how much more am I supposed to take?
Maybe I could ask her to call Heather. No, I just need to let the medication work its magic. Just need to wait it out. Twenty minutes or so, and I should be fine. I swallow over too much saliva pooling in my mouth. Heather’s not my stepmother anymore, anyway. I don’t even know if her name is on my emergency release papers this year.
It’s better that I deal with this alone. No one else understands my splintered existence. They don’t get that I can still long for my mother, even though she’s the reason my life is in pieces. They don’t see that my father, for all his faults, is not only my cross to bear, but also the pillar that holds me up.