“I’ll show you,” I told her. “I’ll show you.”
She cried out after me as I hopped over the counter and ran out into the rain. I tore around back to where the Ford—
she’ll purr, benji, and you’ll know love because she’s so cherry
—was parked. I threw open the door and my cherry baby roared to life. “We need to find Dad,” I told the Ford. “Take me home so we can find Dad.” The tires squealed as I slammed on the gas, quickly righting the truck as the rear began to fishtail onto Poplar Street.
Even as I gunned the engine, I was pulling my cell phone from the console on the dash. Don’t you dare be talking and driving at the same time, Big Eddie whispered in my head. If I catch you, you’ll lose the phone. We clear?
I hesitated for a moment, but then realized he would forgive me. He would see the fear in my eyes and he would forgive me. And it was just a phone. So what if it was taken away. That’d be fine. I’d give up the phone. Right then, I would have given up anything.
I fumbled through the contacts list, barely keeping my eyes on the road. Then BIG EDDIE was highlighted. I put the phone to my ear. His voice immediately came on the line, and I cried out such a call of relief that I almost didn’t hear his words. And it took me a moment to process them.
“You’ve reached Big Eddie’s phone. Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”
“Dad?” I choked out, even as I heard a beep in my ear. “Is that you? Hello?”
Nothing.
I hung up. And called again.
Immediate. “You’ve reached Big Eddie’s phone. Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”
And again. And again. And again. Immediate message each time. The phone never rang.
I almost missed the turn to Big House. It was raining even harder by the time the Ford’s tires left asphalt for the gravel driveway. Mud slung up in arcs behind me. Rocks flew. I slammed on the brakes in front of Big House, almost skidding into the porch. I couldn’t see his truck, but that didn’t mean anything. It was afternoon. He said he’d be back. Maybe the truck broke down on the way home and he had to have it towed to a shop. Maybe he’d had a few too many beers hanging out with his friends and he’d had to hitch a ride home. Mom would be pissed that he’d left the truck all the way in Eugene, but that was okay. I could drive him there to get it tomorrow. I smiled, thinking that we could make it a mini road trip. Maybe take a couple of fishing poles with us and stop off near the bridge on the way back. It would be just the two of us. Just the two of us and nothing else would matter.
I stepped out into the rain, leaving the Ford’s door open behind me. Days later, I’d have to reupholster the door since it would sit open for another six hours, and the material became bloated and reeked of mold. I’d do it with a grim expression on my face, cursing myself when it wasn’t looking right, berating myself that Big Eddie would have done it right the first time. Big Eddie would have made it look spectacular right away. But that was still days away.
I bounded up the steps and threw open the door. The house was almost quiet, the only sound water falling on the roof. “Dad,” I tried to call out, but it came out as a croak. I cleared my throat and
took another step into Big House.
And with that second step, with that small movement that meant nothing, came the first cold realization that my mother had not been lying. She had not been making it up. It was a tiny part, a tiny voice screaming from the depths. I pushed it away, but it had done enough damage, even in a split second. “Dad?” I said again. It was a little louder.
Another step into Big House, and I wanted to scream. “Dad?” I said, raising my voice. “You here?”
Upstairs. He can’t hear me because he’s upstairs in the shower or in his bedroom or he’s just playing a game and trying to trick me. He and Mom came up with this stupid trick, this awful trick, and pretty soon, he’s going to jump out and yell surprise! Surprise and weren’t you just so scared? Weren’t you just freaked out over nothing? Just a joke, son. It was just a joke. It was just a joke and I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave you, I promise.
I ran up the stairs, ignoring how the rain falling on the roof sounded like the roar of a river.
He wasn’t in the bedroom or the bathroom. He wasn’t in my room or the spare room. He wasn’t in the closets. He wasn’t in the attic. I went room to room, whispering his name, saying his name, finally bellowing his name, demanding that he come out from wherever he was hiding, that he show himself and end this joke, end this whole fucking thing. I was tired, I screamed at him. I was so tired of this game and I wanted it to be over.
No reply came.
I slumped against the wall near the stairs and slid down, wrapping my arms around my knees. I sat there, shivering, for I don’t know how long. Finally, I pulled out my phone again and called my father for the last time.
“You’ve reached Big Eddie’s phone. Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”
The howl that tore from me then echoed throughout the house.
“You’ve reached Big Eddie’s phone,” I say now, sitting in the Ford at the gates
of Lost Hill Memorial Cemetery. “Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.” I open the door to the Ford and step out into the dark. There’s a chill in the air, but I’ve forgotten my coat at home or back at the store. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.
I hop over the security chain stretched out across the road. The cemetery closes at nightfall, but I’ve been here after dark many times over the past five years. It’s better for me to be able to come here without anyone else around. There’s nothing more awkward than standing above a loved one’s remains and having someone mourning two headstones down. Do you acknowledge them? Do you ignore the tears on their face? Or do you just exchange a knowing look that says, “I know. I know what you’re going through.”
But you don’t. Not really. Everyone grieves differently. No one handles the loss of a loved one the same. Some put on a brave face for others, keeping everything internal. Others let it all out at once and shatter, only to pick up the pieces just as quickly as they came apart. Still others don’t grieve at all, implying they are incapable of emotion.