by Vicki Grant
And I do keep my chin up—at least until the door bangs open and Sophie and Helena fly in. They throw themselves on me, sobbing. Tears and mascara are streaming down their faces. Everybody turns to look.
Helena keeps going, “It’s not fair! It’s not fair! Why Steve?” Sophie takes my face and forces me to look at her. “Ria. We loved him too. We all did. You know that.”
I start to shake. They hold me closer. They think they’ve touched me with their heartfelt tears, but that’s not it. What’s getting me is realizing that this is just another drama for them. They’ll make their big public display of grief, and then they’ll go home and text their friends with the latest scoop. OMG. Did you hear about Ria’s dad?
I push them away. “Sorry,” I say. “Sorry. I got to get some air.”
I head toward the back door. Mom’s there, thanking Helena’s grandmother for the casserole. She turns to me with that blank look on her face. Everyone else probably thinks she’s brokenhearted about the accident—but I know different. She’s had the same look on her face for months now. The fact that Dad is missing hasn’t changed a thing for her.
I can’t stand it.
I turn and head for the front door instead. Helena starts running after me.
I put my hand up. I only manage to squeak out, “No. No. Please.”
I step out onto the front deck. The sun is shining, and it’s warmer than it’s been in days. I think of Dad, in the woods somewhere, in pain—and I’m at least thankful for the weather. He won’t be cold. The helicopters will be able to find him. He’ll make it. He’ll come back.
I’m not sure exactly how to pray, so I just whisper, “Please. Please. Please.”
I hear a car pull up in front of the house. I open my eyes. I see Tim/Tom get out the passenger door. He’s carrying a bouquet of flowers—bright blue carnations wrapped in a green paper cone.
I’m surprised—he doesn’t seem the flower type. Then I notice all the other bouquets and cards and candles and balloons piled up against our front fence.
It’s like a shrine.
Or a grave site.
My teeth start chattering.
Tim/Tom says, “Sorry for your loss,” then nips back into his car before I can say thanks or scream at him.
Chapter Seven
Colin must sense there’s something wrong. In a flash, he’s out the door with his hands on my waist, whispering in my ear. “It’s okay, Ria. It’s okay. We’re getting out of here.”
I don’t ask where. I can’t. I just let him take me down the stairs, put me in the LeSabre and drive. It’s as if someone slipped a drug into my food. I’m not connected to my body anymore. I’m floating off to the side somewhere.
We’re sitting at an intersection waiting for the lights to change when I get knocked back to reality. There’s a woman I recognize in the next lane. She’s looking at me. I suddenly see myself as she sees me: out cruising with my boyfriend in my flashy turquoise convertible. It’s almost as if there’s a thought bubble over her head reading, How heartless can that girl be? Her father could be dead!
The light turns green, and I blurt out, “Go! Go!” It startles Colin. He turns and sees the lady in the next car too. I don’t know if he understands or not, but he hits the gas.
He keeps one hand on my leg, the other on the wheel. He drives straight to Point Pleasant Park. “It’ll be quiet here,” he says.
He parks the car and leads me up a winding trail through the woods to an old tumbledown army fort. In the summer, there’d be bus tours and day camps and people getting their wedding photos taken here, but today there’s no one except the occasional power walker.
Colin drags a picnic table over so that it’s half-hidden by one of the old stone walls.
We lay side by side on the tabletop. This stray thought floats in from my previous life: I should have some sunscreen on. I’m the type that burns.
So’s Dad. Is he wet and wounded and now sunburned as well?
Am I weird even wondering that?
I reach over and take Colin’s hand. At least here, I don’t have to worry what other people think. I say, “Thank you for rescuing me.”
He turns to me and smiles. He’s got one eye squinted up from the sun. The other eye is as green as a Granny Smith apple. “Thank you, nothing,” he says. “I just wanted you to myself.”
It’s such a Dad thing to say—one of those fibs he comes up with just to make you feel good. I do my best to play along.
“You’re lying,” I say. “You would have been happy to stay there all day—or at least until the muffins ran out.”
We both laugh even though it’s not that funny.
“I just couldn’t stand it,” I say. “Everybody looking at me. Everybody expecting me to act a certain way. Even Helena and Sophie doing their big drama-queen thing. It made me want to scream.”
I get up on one elbow and look at Colin. “He’s not dead,” I say. “I know it. How am I supposed to take everybody’s stupid condolences when he’s not even dead? It makes me so mad.”
Colin gets up on one elbow too. He puts his hand on my hip. “People are just trying to be nice, Ria.”
I squish my eyes together and let out this sort of frustrated growl. “Well, they aren’t nice. They’re making me feel terrible. And I. Can’t. Handle. It.”
I flop back down on the tabletop with my arm over my face. We’re quiet for a long time.
“Fine,” Colin says. “You don’t have to handle it.”
He leans over me. “Forget about other people. We don’t have to spend time with them. I’ll pick you up when I get out of school, and we’ll go somewhere, just you and me. We can act however we like. We can do whatever we want. We can be sad or happy or mad—whatever we feel like. Okay?”
I don’t know what I’d do without him.
Chapter Eight
I stay home and sleep or watch movies or pretend to read a book until three in the afternoon, when Colin comes over. We pick Elliot up from school, eat a quick meal, then disappear.
Disappearing—that’s what this is all about. Colin put the roof up on the LeSabre. It still attracts attention, but most people don’t notice me curled up in the passenger seat now.
We drive to the park. On warm nights, we sit up by the fort. On colder nights, we find an out-of-the-way parking spot and stay bundled up in the car.
Despite what that might sound like, these aren’t just giant make-out sessions. Sometimes we watch a movie on my laptop. Sometimes we turn on the inside light and do our homework or play Mankalah. Once, Colin put on an oldie radio station and we slow-danced under the streetlamp.
Other times—like at least once a day—I just sit in the front seat and cry.
Tonight, I cry more than usual. It’s been five days since the accident. Divers have only found one of Dad’s boots and the sleeve of his jacket. Crews have searched the surrounding forest. There’s no sign of him.
They’re very sorry, the man in charge said today, but they’ve called off the rescue mission. The best they can hope for now is to recover the body.
Steve Patterson is officially presumed dead.
“Presumed!” I want to scream. “How can they presume? They don’t know Dad. They don’t know what he’s capable of. It’s only been five days.”
I bawl my eyes out. Colin just keeps passing me Kleenex. I don’t know how he isn’t completely grossed out. My eyes are red, my nose is huge, and my forehead is throbbing as if I’ve got some big pumping heart in there instead of a brain.
When I’ve finally exhausted myself, Colin takes my hand. He says, “Ria. I know this is hard, but I think you’re going to have to accept that your dad is gone.”
I try to pull away, but he won’t let me.
“That lake is really deep and really cold. The plane was completely destroyed. Even a guy as smart and athletic and tough as Steve couldn’t have survived that.”
I glare at him, but he won’t stop, he won’t let me go.
“I bet your dad’s looking down on us right now and wishing he could have stuck around for a whole lot longer. But I also bet that he wouldn’t want you to be getting bloodshot eyes over him.”
As if I have a choice! I turn away.
“He’d want you to pick yourself up, pull yourself together. He wouldn’t want you to miss out on life just because he wasn’t around anymore. He’d be telling you to live large. Go for it. Seize the day. That’s the kind of guy he was. Am I right?”
He lifts my chin. “Go big or go home! Party hearty. Eat, drink and be merry.”
He just keeps talking until I break down and laugh.
He is right. Those are exactly the types of things Dad would say.
I wipe my face and put on the Patterson smile.
“So I’d like to make a suggestion…” Colin leans over into the backseat and pulls out two champagne flutes and a bottle of Lime Rickey. That makes me really laugh. Only Colin would remember that Dad loved Lime Rickey.
He fills up our glasses. The street-lamp makes the green of the pop look radioactive.
“From now on, when you think of your dad, I want you to remember all the people he made happy, all the people he made laugh, and all the people, of course, he made rich. I’ll certainly be thinking of him next year when I head off to university with my tuition paid.”
We clink glasses.
Colin says, “To Steven John Patterson. I just hope that some day I’ll be half the man he was!”
I think he already is.
Chapter Nine
It’s easy to feel happy when I’m with Colin. It’s a lot harder when he’s not around.
I know I should go back to school, but the thought of everyone looking at me with those sad faces is more than I can stand.
Instead, for the last couple of days, I’ve just hung out at home in my sweatpants and glasses, waiting for Colin to show up. Food nauseates me. Movies bore me, and tv depresses me. Exercise is beyond me. Mostly I just sit and “read.” I’ve been on page 27 for three days now.
I throw my book across the room.
I’m ashamed of myself. Dad didn’t raise me to be some helpless damsel who just waits around to get rescued.
I stand up straight and take a big breath. I’m going to start working on some of those assignments Ms. van de Wetering has been sending home. Tomorrow I go back to class.
I sit at the kitchen counter and turn on my laptop. A math test Tuesday. A chemistry lab that I’ll have to borrow somebody’s notes for. A 500-word essay for Global Affairs: Using printed and online sources, explain how China’s growing economy is impacting our global environment.
Okay. I can do that.
I remember a tv documentary about water pollution in China. This sudden image of Dad’s plane slamming into the water flashes in my brain, but I shake it away.
I’m a Patterson. Up and at it.
I google China, environmental impact. I scroll down. I don’t see what I’m looking for, but after a while I notice something. I’m feeling good. For the first time since Dad went missing, I’m me again. Just a seventeen-year-old girl, cramming to get her homework done. It’s comforting.
I find a listing for the documentary, or at least one like it.
I click, and a website opens for an all-news station. The link to the documentary is on the left. I should just open it, but I don’t. I scan the news headlines instead. I realize I’ve been in a bubble since the accident. I hadn’t heard anything about the earthquake in Central America or the scandal over the Best Actress Oscar or the psycho in Montreal who hijacked a bus full of tourists.
I also hadn’t heard the news about my father.
Millionaire’s Death Suspected Suicide In life, Steve Patterson projected the perfect glossy image of the self-made man—brilliant, charming, athletic, generous. Rising from an impoverished childhood, he became the darling of the investment industry, often earning 20 and 30 percent returns for his clients, even during recessions.
Now, eight days after his presumed death in a plane crash, a different picture is emerging. Reports are beginning to stream in of investors finding their bank accounts drained and their financial portfolios worthless. Mr. Patterson may have defrauded his clients of up to $100 million.
Shaken employees at S.J. Patterson Financial Holdings have been unwilling to respond to reporters’ questions.
Police now suspect that Saturday’s plane crash was not accidental. “Suicide is definitely one of the motives we’re pursuing,” said Sergeant Jo Yuen. “Our preliminary investigation suggests Mr. Patterson was aware that authorities were closing in on him. He must have known that financial ruin was all but certain for both him and his clients.”
The Halifax Hospital, the Steamfitter’s Union and Chebucto Community College are just some of the major institutions likely to have lost millions through their investments with S.J. Patterson Ltd.
Sadder, though, is the fate of the countless smaller investors—the pensioners and independent business owners—for whom Mr. Patterson had once been a hero.
Chapter Ten
No. No. No. No. That’s all I can think. This is wrong. It’s a mistake. It has to be.
I’m trembling like an old man. I google S.J. Patterson. The Herald, The Times, Newsnet—they’re all running the same story.
Somebody—some sad, bitter, twisted little person who was jealous of Dad’s success or couldn’t stand how popular he was or who hated him for some other petty reason—made up a lie, and now everybody believes it.
I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to stop it.
I think of our Media Arts teacher talking to us about net safety. Warning us how writing one stupid thing, posting one “inappropriate” photo could haunt you for the rest of your life.
I can’t stop it. I’ll never be able to stop it.
I hear Mom moving around upstairs, and some younger part of me wants to run to her, crying. I know right away, though, that she won’t help me. She doesn’t love Dad anymore. She’d no doubt be happy to finally have an excuse for kicking him out.
I squeegee the tears off my face with my hands and force my lips to stay still. I’ve got to figure out what to do. Call the media? Talk to a lawyer? What good would that do? I’m a kid. I’m his kid. Who’s going to listen to me?
I do the only thing I can think of. I call Colin.
His phone’s off.
Of course. “No cell phones on school property.”
I’m suddenly afraid that Mom’s going to come down the stairs and find me like this.
I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll go to school. I check the time. Colin will be in French. He’ll know what to do.
I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face. I look terrible. My skin’s the color of raw bacon.
I can’t go out like this. Dad would never go out like this. “Put on your game face and your best shirt.” That’s what he always says.
I hide my grungy T-shirt under the Club Monaco coat I bought just before everything happened. I brush my hair into a ponytail. Rub on some concealer, mascara and lip-gloss. I should put my contacts in too, but there’s only so much my eyes can take.
Luckily, Colin left the LeSabre here last night. I grab the keys and scream up the stairs, “I’m going to school. Can you pick up Elliot?” I slip out the door before Mom can ask why.
The pile of flowers and cards on our front lawn has tripled since Sunday. It made me mad the first time I saw it, but not anymore. Now it’s proof those stories are all garbage. Look, everyone! See how much people love Steve Patterson!
I run down the steps to take a closer look. Yellow roses from someone named Stacy. A card “from your favorite baristas!” A candle from Mrs. Purcell across the street. And a cardboard sign written in bright red letters—Burn in hell, you scumbag.
I almost lose my balance. I scrunch the sign up and stuff it into my purse. I see another card. Gone but not forgotten—just like my money. Some day you’ll pay. I grab that too, as well as the bouqu
et of flowers with the obscene note attached.
I should go through everything, get rid of all this stuff. What if Elliot sees it? I picture him asking me what the sign says.
A white van with a satellite dish on top turns onto our street. It’s a tv crew, the Live at Five! mobile unit.
I’m breathing way too fast. What should I do? Stay and defend Dad? How? What would I say?
I pretend I’m a stranger just stopping to look at the flowers. I get in the LeSabre and drive away. I’ve never driven such a big car before. It’s just one more thing I can barely handle.
Mrs. Lawrence, the school secretary, looks at me funny when I walk in the door. “Ria. I didn’t expect to see you back, considering, um…”
Considering what? We’re both paralyzed for a second. We both know what she meant to say. She goes pale and starts rummaging around in her drawers in a desperate attempt to look busy. I use it as an excuse to go.
I feel her eyes follow me down the hall. I feel Mr. Samson’s eyes follow me too. And the three girls I pass by at the water fountain. And the kids in the gym class, heading out to the field. Everybody’s looking at me.
Do they see the girl whose father went missing?
Or the girl whose father is a scumbag?
Chapter Eleven
I knock at room 208. Mrs. LeBlanc answers the door. “Oui?”
I lean forward and whisper, “Sorry—but I need to speak with Colin MacPherson.”
Students aren’t supposed to interrupt classes, but Mrs. LeBlanc knows who I am. She gives me a sympathy smile—the type I’ve been dreading—and says, “One moment…”
She pushes the door open. “Colin M. You have a visitor…”
The whole class turns and looks at me. Some of them put their hands over their mouths and whisper. I feel like one of those prisoners they used to chain up in the public square.
Colin has a strange look on his face. He must know how upset I am. He fumbles with stuff on his desk for a second, and then he gets up and starts walking toward me. He’s halfway across the room when Jared Luongo screams out, “Hey, Ria. Looks like your dad finally got what he deserved!”