Kasie West - On the Fence

“Hey, Evan.”

He turned and smiled, his eyes lighting up. “You’re back and you didn’t even call me.”

“I was so tired yesterday. Sorry.” I looked at Linda and she nodded, seeming to read my mind. “Do you want to talk in the back for a minute?”

“Sure.”

I led him to the stockroom. “Do you want something to drink? There’s water.”

“No. I’m good.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“We need to talk,” we both said at the same time.

He laughed. “Go ahead.”

“No, you go first.”

“Okay.” He looked at the ground then back up at me. I suddenly remembered what he had tried to talk about before I left for basketball camp: our relationship. He opened his mouth.

“I better go first,” I blurted out.

He laughed. “Sure.”

“I’m . . .” Wow, this was hard. I’d never done this before, and I felt bad. I didn’t want to hurt him, but at the same time, I knew I couldn’t be with him. My heart just wasn’t in it, and that wasn’t fair to him. Between the supposedly huge secret I needed to pry out of my dad and my feelings for Braden, I couldn’t string Evan along like this. “I’m in a weird place.”

He seemed to sense what was happening and his entire demeanor changed. His eyes became guarded. “Are you breaking up with me?” He seemed shocked. Like this had never happened to him before.

“I . . .” Had we been together? “Yes. I’m sorry. I need to figure things out. Maybe in a few months, when I’m in a better place . . .”

A booming voice sounded from the main room and Evan turned around. “What was that?”

“I don’t know.” I listened and the voice came back, angry. “Oh no. It’s my dad.”

“Your dad?”

I ran down the hall but paused right before the sales floor, wanting to know what he was upset about before barreling in there.

“She’s sixteen years old,” he said.

I couldn’t hear Linda’s response.

“I did not give her permission to do this! You should not have let her.”

Nathan must’ve told him about my makeup sessions. I needed to get out there and smooth things over. Only when I entered the room, still unnoticed by either my dad or Linda, I saw how my dad really found out. He held—and was angrily waving—the ad from the bridal store in Linda’s face. Oh no.

And now I could finally hear her. “This is not my ad, sir. You’re going to have to ask your daughter about this.”

“But she did this makeup stuff for you, too.”

“Yes. She got permission from your wife.”

I tried to open my mouth to interject, but before I could, my dad spit out, “My wife is dead.”

I gasped, and both he and Linda turned toward me.

“Charlie, we are leaving. Now,” he growled, then marched out the door.

I could feel Evan over my left shoulder, breathing. He was probably glad he was on his way out of my life after that.

In front of me, Linda just stared. She looked hurt and angry. I guess I wouldn’t have to quit now. Linda would ask me to leave.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

She looked to the door, where my dad had left. “You’d better go.”

I nodded, unable to find any excuse to make this better, and I followed after my dad.

He paced in front of his police car. I headed for the car I’d driven.

“No,” he said, and pointed to the passenger side.

“But . . .”

He pointed again, more forcefully, so I climbed in. The police radio was in the middle of a broadcast, and he turned it down and started the car. “We need to talk.”

“I’m sorry. She asked me about Mom, and I didn’t want to tell another person that she was dead. I didn’t want her feeling sorry for me. I wasn’t thinking. It was stupid.”

He backed out of the parking spot and started to drive.

“I didn’t know the bridal store was going to put out that ad. If I’d known, I would’ve asked you if it was okay.”

My dad pulled into a parking lot at the beach, turned off the car, and then stared through the front window at the ocean. He wasn’t talking, and that was unnerving. I waited for him to explode like he had in the store, but he just sat there, eerily calm. Probably because I was confessing everything without him having to say a word. And there was something else I needed to confess, something I’d been in denial about, something I’d been running from for years. I was done running. I heard it come out of my mouth and hang in the air before I even thought about how I was going to word it: “I want to know what happened the night Mom died.”

He wasn’t expecting that request. I could tell by the way the color drained from his face. “Okay. What exactly do you want to know?”

“What happened that night? There’s something more than you’re telling me.”

“Charlie, I’ve tried to talk to you about this before. You weren’t ready. It nearly broke you.”

“I’m ready now.” I said it confidently, even though I felt everything but.

“There’s no easy way to say this.” He raked a hand through his hair as if trying to prove his statement. “Your mother . . .” He hesitated. “She was very sick.”

My ears started to buzz and my head felt fuzzy, just like it had when I was ten. I wasn’t going to let that stop me this time. “I don’t understand.”

He took my hand, his grip soft but sure. His eyes went glassy and that terrified me. I held my breath.

“It wasn’t an accident.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. What that single sentence implied was something I didn’t want to accept. “How do you know?”

“She left a note.”

Like a tidal wave, everything made sense. My mom was depressed. I knew this. It’s why I had no memories of her as a child—she wasn’t around. She didn’t want to be.

The police radio crackled in my ear and my dad flipped a switch, turning it off. The dashboard of the car pushed against my forehead, and I tried to press against it harder, hoping the pain would rid me of the thoughts.

“Charlie.”

I shook my head back and forth.

“Charlie. You knew this. Come here.” He pulled me against his chest. “You’ve known this. Breathe. It’s going to be okay.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure it was ever going to be okay again. My mom left me. On purpose.

My dad smelled like . . . my dad—a cross between a musky cologne and cinnamon gum. This was the smell of my entire childhood. He was my childhood. My life. I remembered him at every important event, every unimportant event. All the places she never was.

He shifted a little, his hand moving to wipe at his face. I didn’t want to look up and see if that meant he was crying. I couldn’t face seeing his pain when mine was already too unbearable. But I didn’t have to look up; I heard it in his voice when he said, “And she almost took you with her.”

That statement had me sitting up faster than I intended, blood rushing up the back of my head. “I was in the car.” I had realized that right away, but I hadn’t put the pieces together. No wonder I’d been trying to deny this my whole life. The dreams. The way I could picture that car spinning, glass flying, so perfectly. Her hand lying there limp in front of me. It wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory.

“She didn’t know,” he said quickly. “You snuck into the car. You were supposed to be in bed.”

I let out a little breath. At least she didn’t try to take me with her. That thought didn’t help at all. But it was something, and right now I felt a whole lot of nothing. I was numb.

It was a quiet drive back to the shop, where we’d left the other car. My dad kept opening his mouth to say something and then shutting it again. Eventually he spit out, “You have questions. What are they?”