Carly fishes the remote from between the couch cushions and we sprawl out under the ancient afghan my mom knit when she was pregnant with me. While we watch TV, I text people back, directing them to Carly’s page, where she’s posted her eyewitness account of what went down.
An hour and a couple of cartoons later, I head to the bathroom to text Luka again. This time my message is a bit more insistent. An hour later, I do it again. Rinse and repeat as the day wears on. He doesn’t reply.
Carly snorts as I head to the bathroom for the fifth time. “Bladder infection?” she asks, all sweetly innocent.
“Yup. Caught it from your toilet seat.”
She throws a pillow at my head.
When my phone rings at five-thirty, I nearly jump out of my skin. But it’s only Kelley, telling us to meet her at Mark’s Texas Hots on Monroe for dinner.
It isn’t until after midnight—once Dad’s gone to bed and the house is quiet—that I build up the nerve to actually phone Luka. He doesn’t answer, and I don’t leave a message.
I’m drifting off when I get a text:
dont ask any Qs. cant ansr. told u that. trying 2 protect u.
Frustration surges and I text back:
Not buying that. Will u call me?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“PANCAKES?” I ASK DAD THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AIMING for bright and cheery even though last night’s dreams were again populated by aliens and cries of pain.
And Jackson. I kept seeing him. The way he jumped in front of me and took the alien’s shot. The sound of his voice when he said, “You’re doing great, Miki.”
Luka still hasn’t answered my last text. I’m so frustrated and anxious that I actually called again this morning, and this time, I left a message. Then another. And another. Stalker much?
“Real pancakes?” Dad asks suspiciously.
Whole grains are real; they just aren’t what he’s hoping for. “With real maple syrup and sliced bananas,” I say, knowing that once they’re made and in front of him, he’ll polish off the plate, whole grain or not.
I set out the ingredients, pausing for a second to stare at the empty bottles lined up on the counter yet again. Only five of them this time. I want to ignore them almost as much as I want to turn around and ask Dad why he leaves them out like that. Because he wants me to see them? Because he doesn’t care if I see them? There’s a world of difference between the two. Sort of like the difference between suicide and murder.
In the end, I keep my back to him as I put them in the box under the sink, then wipe the counter even though it isn’t dirty.
We both ignore the elephant in the room and get on with breakfast.
“How was fishing?” I ask.
Dad lights up like a kid. “Caught a ten-pound steelhead. Look!” He pulls out his phone and shows me the picture—he’s a catch-and-release kind of guy so I never actually get to see his catch, just pictures of them. It’s at an awkward angle and I can only see about two-thirds of the fish, but Dad’s thrilled. He launches into the details of the catch. I chew and listen, not that I’m really into fishing but because I like seeing him like this: happy. He hasn’t been fishing much in the past few months, and I’m glad he decided to go yesterday. It seems like the more often he drinks, the less interested he is in doing all the stuff he used to like to do.
Or maybe it’s because he’s less interested in life that he drinks so much.
He flips to the next fish picture—a blurry shot of a swishing tail—and launches into more details of his day.
It isn’t until later when we’re standing side by side at the sink—me washing pans, Dad drying—that he asks, “You okay?”
No. I can’t sleep. I’m having nightmares. And I spend every waking second wondering if—when—I’m going to get pulled again. “Of course I’m okay.”
Mostly honest, but sometimes not.
He nods. “Thought I heard you walking around last night.”
“Upset stomach,” I lie. “Probably the garbage plate I had at Mark’s.”
“You? A garbage plate? Burger, hash browns, grilled cheese, gravy? If that’s true, then you really aren’t okay.” He lays the back of his hand against my forehead as though to check my temperature.
I smile and slap his hand away. “I shared one and a big salad with Carly and Kelley.”
“Meaning you ate the salad and they ate the rest.”
Pretty much, but I don’t bother to admit it. “The salad had grilled chicken. And cheese.”
“Dressing?”
“Actually, yes.” Low-fat raspberry vinaigrette.
He stares at me, saying nothing, his expression solemn. “I love you. You know that.” Not a question.
My breath catches. I know he loves me; it just isn’t something he actually says all that often. “I know, Dad.” You just don’t love yourself, at least not enough to stop drinking before something terrible happens. But there’s no point in saying that because if I do, he’ll just turn around and walk away. No deep convos for Dad, at least not if the deep end is on his side. I smile a little sadly. “I love you more.”
At my reference to our childhood game, he smiles back and I have to look away before I throw my arms around him and babble out all my fears like I used to do when I was five, worried about the monster under the bed.
With a shudder, I remember the way the Drau was sucked in by my weapon: legs, then torso, and finally head. It knew what was happening the whole time it was dying. Its end wasn’t fast and easy.
An hour and a couple of cartoons later, I head to the bathroom to text Luka again. This time my message is a bit more insistent. An hour later, I do it again. Rinse and repeat as the day wears on. He doesn’t reply.
Carly snorts as I head to the bathroom for the fifth time. “Bladder infection?” she asks, all sweetly innocent.
“Yup. Caught it from your toilet seat.”
She throws a pillow at my head.
When my phone rings at five-thirty, I nearly jump out of my skin. But it’s only Kelley, telling us to meet her at Mark’s Texas Hots on Monroe for dinner.
It isn’t until after midnight—once Dad’s gone to bed and the house is quiet—that I build up the nerve to actually phone Luka. He doesn’t answer, and I don’t leave a message.
I’m drifting off when I get a text:
dont ask any Qs. cant ansr. told u that. trying 2 protect u.
Frustration surges and I text back:
Not buying that. Will u call me?
CHAPTER EIGHT
“PANCAKES?” I ASK DAD THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AIMING for bright and cheery even though last night’s dreams were again populated by aliens and cries of pain.
And Jackson. I kept seeing him. The way he jumped in front of me and took the alien’s shot. The sound of his voice when he said, “You’re doing great, Miki.”
Luka still hasn’t answered my last text. I’m so frustrated and anxious that I actually called again this morning, and this time, I left a message. Then another. And another. Stalker much?
“Real pancakes?” Dad asks suspiciously.
Whole grains are real; they just aren’t what he’s hoping for. “With real maple syrup and sliced bananas,” I say, knowing that once they’re made and in front of him, he’ll polish off the plate, whole grain or not.
I set out the ingredients, pausing for a second to stare at the empty bottles lined up on the counter yet again. Only five of them this time. I want to ignore them almost as much as I want to turn around and ask Dad why he leaves them out like that. Because he wants me to see them? Because he doesn’t care if I see them? There’s a world of difference between the two. Sort of like the difference between suicide and murder.
In the end, I keep my back to him as I put them in the box under the sink, then wipe the counter even though it isn’t dirty.
We both ignore the elephant in the room and get on with breakfast.
“How was fishing?” I ask.
Dad lights up like a kid. “Caught a ten-pound steelhead. Look!” He pulls out his phone and shows me the picture—he’s a catch-and-release kind of guy so I never actually get to see his catch, just pictures of them. It’s at an awkward angle and I can only see about two-thirds of the fish, but Dad’s thrilled. He launches into the details of the catch. I chew and listen, not that I’m really into fishing but because I like seeing him like this: happy. He hasn’t been fishing much in the past few months, and I’m glad he decided to go yesterday. It seems like the more often he drinks, the less interested he is in doing all the stuff he used to like to do.
Or maybe it’s because he’s less interested in life that he drinks so much.
He flips to the next fish picture—a blurry shot of a swishing tail—and launches into more details of his day.
It isn’t until later when we’re standing side by side at the sink—me washing pans, Dad drying—that he asks, “You okay?”
No. I can’t sleep. I’m having nightmares. And I spend every waking second wondering if—when—I’m going to get pulled again. “Of course I’m okay.”
Mostly honest, but sometimes not.
He nods. “Thought I heard you walking around last night.”
“Upset stomach,” I lie. “Probably the garbage plate I had at Mark’s.”
“You? A garbage plate? Burger, hash browns, grilled cheese, gravy? If that’s true, then you really aren’t okay.” He lays the back of his hand against my forehead as though to check my temperature.
I smile and slap his hand away. “I shared one and a big salad with Carly and Kelley.”
“Meaning you ate the salad and they ate the rest.”
Pretty much, but I don’t bother to admit it. “The salad had grilled chicken. And cheese.”
“Dressing?”
“Actually, yes.” Low-fat raspberry vinaigrette.
He stares at me, saying nothing, his expression solemn. “I love you. You know that.” Not a question.
My breath catches. I know he loves me; it just isn’t something he actually says all that often. “I know, Dad.” You just don’t love yourself, at least not enough to stop drinking before something terrible happens. But there’s no point in saying that because if I do, he’ll just turn around and walk away. No deep convos for Dad, at least not if the deep end is on his side. I smile a little sadly. “I love you more.”
At my reference to our childhood game, he smiles back and I have to look away before I throw my arms around him and babble out all my fears like I used to do when I was five, worried about the monster under the bed.
With a shudder, I remember the way the Drau was sucked in by my weapon: legs, then torso, and finally head. It knew what was happening the whole time it was dying. Its end wasn’t fast and easy.
