She’s now suddenly become a saint.
Like, even though she’s absent, lying in a coma in the hospital, somehow she’s evenmorepresent. Getting evenmoreattention.
God knows I’ve wished her dead many times, but for obvious reasons, I hope she makes it.
Dad pulls into the shooting range.
We’re the only car in the parking lot.
Good.
Most people don’t come out here in the middle of the week, during the day.
He grabs our guns out of the back; I carry the gear: our earmuffs, safety glasses.
Normally, I’d be excited to be out here with him—away from Mom, away from everything, just me and Dad out under the pines.
But at this moment, I can barely stand the sight of him.
“What’ll it be today, shooter? Glocks or rifles?”
It’s been a while since I’ve practiced on a Glock.
“Glock.” It’s the first word I’ve uttered to him.
The shooting range is a do-it-yourself operation. Dad strides the length of the lane, hangs our targets.
We then stand side by side and blast away.
I’m off my game today, my bullets barely striking the outline of the man on the paper target.
Dad, however, has hit the man in the chest, in the forehead.
I place the Glock down, shake my shooting arm out, roll myshoulders.
“Can’t hit ’em all,” Dad says, glancing over at me.
I don’t know why, but this is thewrongthing for him to say to me. At thewrongtime.
“Gimme a minute,” I grunt.
He takes out a rag, starts cleaning his gun.
A rage so hot, it threatens to light me on fire comes over me. DadknowsI hate Jane, knows Mom hates Mrs. Swift, so how in the world could he have possibly betrayed us like this? What the actualfuck.
“I’m ready,” I say, staring straight ahead.
We aim, shoot. I hit my targets like the sharpshooter I am, wiping out the man’s brain with my bullets.
“Damn! That’s my girl!” Dad hoots, sticks his hand up for a high five.
I ignore him.
“Again,” I command.
It’s time for fresh targets.
Dad walks up the lane, his boots crunching on the pine needles, cocky with his hot-shit swagger, cold as ice.
