Evidence of Things Not Seen

by Lindsey Lane

  She spots the white ribbon of a trail curving around a stand of oak trees and heads for it. When she steps into the shadows of the trees, fear creeps up the back of her neck like the cool air lingering under the tree branches. She knows where she is going but she feels a little afraid. Her father had always been with her before. And now, even though he’s with her, it doesn’t exactly count. She stops and listens. When she doesn’t hear anything like footsteps or rustling or the snap of twigs, she exhales.

  Again, she thinks about Tommy. It’s weird being out here to scatter her dad’s ashes, and Tommy keeps popping into her head. She wonders if he’d been scared right before he disappeared. Kids at school talked about him going into another dimension but Tara doesn’t think it’s possible. She wants to believe he’s alive someplace. But now she isn’t so sure. Bad things happen. Someone could be at the sinkhole right now. Tara might be attacked. Or killed.

  Somehow, thinking of Tommy makes her less afraid. Like imagining the worst possible thing that could happen makes walking down to the sinkhole not so big and scary. Trying to push it away and pretend it isn’t there makes it bigger. But if she names the fear and looks at it straight on, it stops scaring her. The worst possible thing that could happen is in her backpack. She tightens the straps and keeps walking.

  When she first saw the sinkhole with her dad many years ago, she thought it looked like some thirsty monster had taken a bite of the earth to drink from the pool of water underneath. He told her there were lots of natural springs running underground. In some places, like this one, where the land slopes a little, the ground collapsed above a spring. At first, it looked like a gash. Now, with the trees growing up around it and grass creeping through all the rocks, it seems like it had always been there.

  Tara kneels by the edge of the water. Hot from the walk or the fear or both, she scoops up a handful and rubs it on her face. Then her hair. Then her neck. She slides the backpack off, unzips it, and pulls out the ashes. When she first had the idea of coming out here, she thought she would empty her father’s ashes into the pool. It seemed right to take him to the last place he wanted to go before he died. Maybe if they’d come here, he would have missed that call. Maybe.

  Instead of emptying the bag into the water, she pours a small bit into her hand. She tries to remember what it felt like to hold her dad’s big hands. She can see them in her mind. She can even see her smaller hand in his. But she can’t remember what it felt like.

  A gust of wind blows the ashes into the air. Some of them land in the water. The rest fall on the land invisible to her.

  Her dad’s life had been invisible to her. She had no idea he had a secret life. He seemed happy and successful. The ups and downs of the lavender farm never seemed to bother him. When he went away, he always said he was building up business for their lavender products.

  Even her mom seemed surprised. She said that he’d done drugs and ran with a pretty rough crowd. But that was before Tara was born. Her mom swore that he was done with it. That’s why they moved to the country and started farming. Because he was done with that life. Because he was a father. She swore it. To Tara. To the police.

  Tara pours another small bit of ashes in the palm of her hand and releases them into the water. They float on the surface for a bit and then gradually sink. In a way it’s like watching him disappear when he left town. Tara remembers how he used to hug her so tight and tell her to be good and take care of her mom. He also whispered, “I love you, baby girl.” Then he got on his Harley and rode away. Again and again.

  How could her mom not know? He went away for such long stretches. Where did she think he was going? Sometimes, Tara felt infected by her mother’s anger. She wanted to be sad that her dad was dead. But then she’d think about the girl who killed him. Tara saw her picture in paper. She was only a year older than Tara. How could he make love with her? Did he make her fall in love with him by whispering, “I love you, baby girl,” in her ear? Is that what made her want to kill him?

  She reaches in the bag and pulls out another scoopful. Maybe her dad has other families besides Tara and her mom. Maybe he has other baby girls. Maybe in a year, someone else will show up looking for him. Maybe Tara will have a half sister or brother.

  Bit by bit she pours her father into the palm of her hand. One palmful, she blows into the wind. Another, she lets fall into the water. Another, she sprinkles on the ground. It seems fitting somehow that her dad is everywhere and nowhere; that she has made him disappear like he had disappeared on them.

  When all that is left is one palmful of ashes, she closes her hand tight around the ashes and puts her hand into water. The water sneaks in between her fingers and the ashes slip out of her grasp. That’s when she remembers how she would wiggle her small fingers in between her dad’s big ones until she can feel his whole hand covering hers. Then she feels him slip away between her fingers like he’d always been slipping away but they never knew it.

  He’s gone.

  Tara watches her empty hand float on the surface of the water. She still has to go to school and deal with all the questions and looks and whispers, but she isn’t worried about it. This part is done. She said goodbye to her dad and the world didn’t end. She hadn’t realized until right then that she’d been afraid of falling into a black hole when she let her father’s ashes go. That all the light and air would get sucked away when he was really gone. But it didn’t happen. Maybe everyone needs to say goodbye to Tommy.

  The crescent moon had set by the time she gets back home. She creeps upstairs and pauses outside her mother’s bedroom. She must be sleeping on her back because she’s snoring a little. Tara hopes she’s taking a rest from all her anger. She wonders if her mother would ever be sad or remember good things about her father. She hopes so.

  Tara goes into her room and lies down. When she finally falls asleep, she dreams of Tommy. She dreams she is looking out the window at the Milky Way. It looks like a stream of glittering ashes trailing across the sky and Tommy is floating in it.

  SEPTEMBER 7 . FOUR MONTHS MISSING

  THE LAST DANCE

  Like always, Frank starts braking on the gravel road, a good fifteen or twenty feet before it intersects with US 281, and, like always, the car skids a little on the pebbly surface. When it stops, he looks over at Stella. Like always, she has the visor down and is looking in the little mirror, fiddling with her hair.

  “You know you don’t need to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Check yourself in the mirror. I can tell you if something’s out of place.”

  “But then you couldn’t keep your eyes on the road because I’d be asking you to look at me all the time.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” Frank glances in his rearview mirror. No cars are coming. He slides the gear into park and faces Stella. She is a beauty. A natural beauty. With high cheekbones and sparkling blue eyes that glint like the sunlight on water whenever she smiles. Frank loves to make her smile.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  Stella stops scooping her hair around ears for a moment and stares at herself. Her hands slide down to her neckline and she pulls her light blue sweater closed, buttoning the top button. Then unbuttoning it.

  Frank reaches over and puts his hand under her chin. He looks at her beautiful face. “Are you feeling all right, Stell?” Her eyes dart from his face to the windshield to her lap. He takes both her hands in his and sings, “Would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar?”

  Like he hoped, that song makes her smile. And giggle. She tips her face up toward Frank’s and kisses him. He loves it when she does that: seals the moment with a kiss. It feels like an exclamation point after that smile. Both of them take Frank’s breath away. But that smile is what he lives for. If he drew his last breath making that smile cross her face, he would die a happy, happy man. He leans into her lips, bending his head over hers, lingering in the kiss, and turning the exclamation point into a comma.

  H
onk. Honk. Honk.

  Frank jumps away from Stella.

  A car skids to a stop behind them and then pulls around, still honking. The driver yells, “Get a room,” as he accelerates onto the highway.

  Frank laughs. “Oh hell. Just when I was going to get a little.”

  “Frank!” Stella sounds embarrassed but she giggles.

  “Shall we go to the dance, Stell?”

  Stella turns around and faces front. She leans forward a bit, straining against her seatbelt, like she is willing the car forward. “Let’s go, Frankie.”

  He slides the car into gear and eases it forward, looking both ways before turning north onto 281.

  Frank rolls his window down. The sun is about to set. It’s going to be a pretty evening. The glare of summer is over. Frank loves the early fall when the light is softer and the night comes on a little earlier. He reaches over and holds Stella’s hand. He glances at her. She’s leaning back a little bit. She looks a little bit more relaxed, as if the wheels moving farther down the road are unwinding the worry. That’s what it looks like to Frank: worry. Kind of a high-strung, nervous worry. Sometimes he can’t get her mind off whatever she’s worrying about. Singing, talking, telling her a joke—that usually works. Asking her directly what’s bothering her makes it worse. It’s like drawing attention to a problem she can’t fix. She starts grabbing at her collar or her skirt, and whatever thought is in her mind takes her over. Usually, he can hold her hand and that eases the worry some. Always, a drive brings her back to him.

  “Frankie, do you think the Traverses are still at the pull-out? I want to stop and see what they have.” She turns and looks out the back of the car. “We haven’t passed it, have we?”

  “No, it’s up ahead. But it’s way past their selling time.”

  “Would you stop anyway? I can say hello to Jean if she’s there.”

  Frank knows the Traverses aren’t going to be at the pull-out. Not only is it after six but it’s Friday. He brakes and eases off the road, dropping into the ruts and divots. The car rocks from side to side as he pulls up next to a cluster of cedars.

  Stella looks around. “Oh darn. They’re not here. We need to come get our vegetables earlier, Frankie.”

  “You bet, sweetheart.” Frank smiles at his beloved. He would stop here at midnight and look for vegetables if it made her happy.

  “It’s so pretty right now.” Stella opens her car door and gets out.

  Before Frank can turn the car off, Stella walks toward the field and disappears between the cedars. He yanks the keys out of the ignition. Stella left her car door open. Frank thinks about closing it but goes after her instead.

  “Stell?” He stoops to get under a low cedar branch, pushes his way through the undergrowth. “Stella? Are you okay?”

  At first he can’t see her. Then he spots her running across the field. He starts after her, yelling her name. She is about a hundred yards away from him. She isn’t going very fast. Both of her arms are outstretched. She looked like a bird gliding over the field, but as Frank gets closer, he notices her gait is jerky and a couple of times she almost falls.

  “Stella, stop!” he yells, and just like that, she stops and turns toward him. Frank doesn’t know what to expect because he doesn’t know what caused her to run across the field, but when she looks at him, she is smiling. As he walks up, her smile seems to grow brighter as her cheeks flush and her chest heaves from the running.

  “Stella, what the—?”

  “Frankie, I saw some deer in the field and I started walking toward them. Real quiet. They were watching me but they weren’t running away. Then, all of a sudden, this big bird, a hawk or something, swooped down and we all started running. I was running and running. The deer were so fast. Then I was running alone and I put my arms out like that big bird and I felt like I could fly.”

  “Oh, Stella.” Frank pulls her into him so he can bend forward and kiss the top of her head.

  “Did I look like I could fly?”

  “I was worried you were going to fly away.”

  Stella giggles and smiles up at him. Then she looks into his eyes. Not quickly. She gazes at him as if his eyes steady her, as if she is walking a tightrope and his eyes are guiding her across the chasm between them. Frank knows this is his cue to kiss her. When he does, it’s a free fall into her lips. He lets himself go and holds on to her. His arms tighten around her, pressing her whole body into him. They could be falling through space.

  Frank shivers. Not from cold. From the thrill of standing next to her. How does she do that? He straightens up. “You got me again, Stella by starlight.”

  Stella nuzzles her nose into his chest. Pulling his shirt open a little.

  “Come on now, Stella. We still got daylight.”

  “Aw, Frankie. We could go behind those bushes.”

  “Chiggers.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  “I do not want to paint nail polish all around my privates to kill little buggers ever again.”

  Stella laughs. “I thought my cotton candy pink looked pretty good on you.”

  “You are wicked.” Frank slides one arm behind Stella’s back and guides her back to the car. Stella leans into him. Even though Frank is a good six inches taller, they fit together easily. They’re made to walk next to each other. Or dance together.

  As they reach the ring of cedars at the edge of pull-out, Frank takes her hand and leads her through, holding a few branches so they wouldn’t snap back in her face. When they step into the pull-out, a large black bird takes off from the crown of a live oak. Stella looks up.

  “Oh there he is, Frank. The bird that chased the deer and me.”

  “That’s a buzzard, Stell. Probably a dead animal nearby.”

  “Really? A buzzard?” Stella stares at the bird as it wheels in a wide circle above them. The black wings look like a cutout against the sunset-streaked sky. “They fly so pretty. You’d never know they were looking for dead things.”

  “We better keep moving so it doesn’t get confused.”

  Frank opens the car door for Stella. As he does, he notices she isn’t wearing her sweater. “Stella, did you leave your sweater in the field?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure? I’m pretty sure you were wearing it.”

  Stella smoothes the skirt of her dress. Again and again. Each time, she shakes her head back and forth. “I don’t know.”

  Frank can see the worry line dig into the center of her forehead. He should go look for it. It might get colder. Blue northers can blow in real sudden, especially in September. He imagines the sweater lying on a tuft of grass like a small patch of blue fallen from the sky. But he doesn’t want to leave her alone right then. He leans down and kisses her on the cheek. “I’ll keep you warm, Stell.”

  As Frank accelerates out of the pull-out, clouds of caliche dust swirl behind the car. He can see the buzzard light on the trash can. It’s watching Frank, waiting for him to leave, so it can eat the dead thing, wherever it is, in peace.

  Frank looks over at Stella. Her hands are still smoothing her dress. He reaches over, takes one of them in his hand, and grips the steering wheel with his other hand a little tighter.

  “What do you say we stop at the Whip In for a shake before we go to the dance?”

  Stella doesn’t answer him. Her one hand is still folding and refolding the pleats. She tries to pull her other hand away from Frank but he holds on to it. “Remember our first meal there? We shared a burger, fries, and a chocolate malt. Only you wouldn’t let me have any of the fries.”

  Stella’s hand stops pulling away. “I told you to order your own fries. I like to eat all of them myself.”

  Frank loosens his grip on the wheel a little. “I still remember the dress you wore that night. Midnight blue.”

  “I wish I still fit in that dress.”

  Frank lets go of Stella’s hand and taps the side of his head. “You wear it every day up here.”

 
“I thought boys imagined girls naked.”

  “That too.”

  They both laugh. Frank loves it when they laugh together. It’s almost like they’re breathing in sync.

  The red neon cyclone circling round a ten-foot ice cream cone glows against the light blue twilight sky. Frank pulls around toward the back of the Whip In and parks near the side door so they’re facing the restaurant. Through the windows, Frank can see a few people eating at tables inside. It isn’t too busy. Maybe five or six cars in the parking lot.

  Neither one of them makes a move to get out of the car and go in. Frank can smell the burgers frying. He’s hungry but he doesn’t want to move. He likes how being in the car with Stella keeps them in a time capsule together.

  Frank points to the poster stuck on the side door. “They still haven’t found that Smythe boy.”

  Stella doesn’t say anything.

  “It’s been almost five months.”

  “Frank, I need to go.”

  Frank gets out and hurries around to Stella’s side of the car. He opens the door and together they walk into the restaurant. Frank’s glad to see there was no one sitting in the back of the restaurant near the restrooms. Sometimes people looking at Stella set her on edge. He follows Stella to the restroom door and watches her go in. He thinks about standing right outside the door but then he hears the lock turn so he walks to the front of the restaurant to order the chocolate malt.

  He’s pulling two dollars from his wallet to hand to the boy behind the counter when the banging starts. Frank drops the malt and rushes to the back of the restaurant. Stella is inside the restroom banging on the door. The door is still locked. Frank can’t get to her.

  “Twist the lock, Stell. It’s up above the handle.”

  Stella doesn’t say anything. She keeps banging.

  Frank runs up to the front. The boy is wiping the counter where the malt had spilled.