“Uh, yeah. My dad… He’s dead. We’re in room 128 at the Vinton Motor Inn.”
“Oh… Um...” The noise clacking keys filled the line for a few seconds. “Son, how do you know he’s deceased? And what is your name?”
“Paxton Ross.” Sighing, I closed my eyes and hoped I’d soon forget this entire day.
A memory of my mother surfaced, of her pulling the covers over my four-year-old body, then settling into the chair next to my bed with an old-fashioned hardback book covered in navy-blue cloth andPeter Panoutlined in gold lettering.
“Now, what chapter were we on?” She’d smiled, her chestnut-colored hair pulled into a loose bun, a few wisps framing her face.
“The one where Peter said,‘To die could be an extraordinarily large adventure,’” I’d responded, eager to hear the next part of the book.
“Oh yes.” She turned a page, then leaned toward me, her jade irises sparkling with excitement. “Like a hero, Peter rushed in and saved Tiger Lily and Wendy, so let’s see if he was rewarded for his efforts.”
Those times with my mother were the most precious of my childhood, and what I wouldn’t have given to go back to that era, to hear her smooth voice and smell her coconut- and vanilla-scented skin.
“Paxton, you still there?” The dispatcher had been talking as I’d zoned out.
A momentary flash of panic filled me when I remembered I left my guitar in the room. I didn’t want to retrieve it, to chance seeing Dad’s dead body again. Yet like the book, I couldn’t leave it alone in there. Those two possessions were the only things I’d managed to keep by begging my father not to pawn them.
With a deep breath, I closed my eyes, turned the knob, then blindly reached inside the room, patting my fingers against the wall to my left until the guitar case met my fingertips.
I didn’t want to see my father’s pale face so I kept my eyes shut until I’d tugged the prized possession outside.
My whole world is now a book and a banged-up guitar.
That bitter disappointment coursed through me and reformed into icy fury. I wanted to lash out, to scream, to beat my fists against the wall into a bloody pulp and demand God tell me why things were so unfair.
With even greater shame, I wanted to hammer my fists into Dad’s face, to slam him against the mattress and force him to apologize, to come back to life.
Why did you leave me? Why couldn’t you have gotten help? Why couldn’t it have been you instead of Momma?
Instead of spewing all my hate, I pushed it way down inside and clenched the phone against my ear. “Y-yeah. I’m still here. There’s no hurry. I think…” I blinked back tears.
I will not cry over his death.
In a sick, twisted way, his death relieved me. The guilt of this though wracked me, but I couldn’t help it. The fear of this moment—which had haunted my dreams for the past year—of finding my wasted, overdosed father in some dirty motel room had finally come true. Some of the worry lifted from my shoulders at the realization that my worst nightmare had happened. Now I no longer had to worry about it. “I think…” I cleared my throat. “I think he died this morning, but I just got home from school.”
A moment of silence. Beads of sweat trickled down the back of my neck.
“Okay, son.” The dispatcher’s voice sounded tight, hoarse even. “Just stay where you are and don’t touch anything, okay? An officer is on the way.”
“I’ve got nowhere to go, ma’am.” A scuffed white plastic chair sat next to the door on the sidewalk. I plopped myself into it.
“Stay on the line with—”
I disconnected the call. There was nothing more that needed to be said. The stranger on the phone couldn’t help me. The police couldn’t help me.No onecould help me now.
Dad had burned all the bridges with our family and friends over the years. I couldn’t think of one person who would shed a tear over his absence besides me.
Even though he’d put us through living hell, I’d still loved him deep down. My love had been the only thing I’d had to give, and he’d been the only person I’d had to give it to.
And where has that love gotten me now?
Homeless, broke, and a minor who very likely was about to be entered into the foster care system for the next two years.
I shivered, then lowered my head into my hands, covered my face, and gave myself a full minute to cry, to be sad, to rail at the unfairness of the situation. This time of the day most of the other rooms were empty. Night time, under cover of darkness, was when guests needed their privacy.
Wiping my tear-streaked eyes, I lifted my face at the sound of gravel crunching under tires.
