The song changes, and I recognize it within a few notes: “Rooster,” by Alice in Chains. Dad speeds up to merge in front of an oncoming car, muttering curse words as he tries to make it in time. In my lap, I weave my fingers together, clenching them tightly until we’re safely in the flow of traffic heading east through the tunnel, toward the bridge.
“Where was I?” He settles back in his seat. “Oh yeah, Pearl Jam. Anyway, your mom and I got pizza beforehand and then we hit the show. It was electric, the place was packed, and we somehow got right up against the barricades at the front. Your mom was wearing a cute little dress over some jeans, that was the style at the time. And a few years later I proposed.” He snorts. “And now we’re divorced. Should have seen it coming.”
I want to ask why he says that, why he thinks he should have known, but I also don’t. The conversation is veering sideways now, like a semitruck hitting the rumble strip of a highway, the loud grinding a reminder: Get back on track, before you crash. Get back on track, before you die.
Dad curses, and I jerk my head up in time to see him brake, but he does it wrong, too hard, or too slow, and the car drifts, screeching sideways toward the edge of the bridge as we leave the tunnel, and—
“Earth to Sidney.” A hand waves in front of my face, and I look over. We never hit the brakes, never hit the railing. It was an anxiety movie. It was all in my head.
“Sorry,” I say. “I spaced out.”
“It’s all good,” he says. Loud guitar rips through the car and he bops his head side to side, gaze staying on the road as he does the gentlest headbang I’ve ever seen. We’re halfway across Lake Washington now, and I look to the right out of habit, across the water.
“The mountain is out!” Dad whoops, and I can’t help but smile. Mount Rainier is fully visible today, snow just starting to speckle her sides, the distance rendering her in hazy blues and white, massive ridges sloping down from the sky into the valley below. “Maybe we can go pay her a visit next,” he adds.
I nod. “Yeah. That could be cool.” My stomach tightens. I knew somewhere in my mind that a text to Dad meant I was signing up for a whole lot more than one hike, but now it’s real. He’s back in my life, and I have no idea how it’s going to go.
We drive for almost an hour in silence, the suburbs slowly dwindling and trees taking their place, green ridges rising up around us as we climb toward Snoqualmie Pass. The wind rushes past the open windows, the white noise a comforting curtain shielding me from having to make conversation. There aren’t that many cars on the road, just some semis dragging loads over the mountains to who knows where. Finally, Dad changes lanes and we exit, turning onto a road that crosses above the freeway.
It’s later in the morning now, the light golden on the trees. I lean my head closer to the window, breathing in the air; it’s fresher already, all pine and earth and a slight hint of smoke from somebody’s chimney somewhere.
“Do you remember where we are?” Dad asks. A sign ahead of us lists trailheads to our left and right. I scan it.
“Denny Creek?” I look at him. “Didn’t we go here all the time?”
“That’s right.” He grins. “I thought you might enjoy it. You loved it when you were younger.”
The images rush in: glittering water rushing down shallow grooves on a wide expanse of smooth-rock creek bed; an eagle soaring high up in a hot blue sky; Dad’s face, less red, more smiley, the sun behind him. I don’t know why, but there’s a lump in my throat, tears stinging my eyes. I stick my head out the window before he can see, letting the wind blast my face.
He slows down as we turn onto the Forest Service road, winding through the trees, taking another turn, until finally we pass a giant parking lot.
“That’s new,” he says. “Used to be a big rock field.”
“I played on it,” I say suddenly. The memory is so clear. I haven’t thought about it in ages. “There were all these big boulders, and we’d jump from one to another.”
“Your mom got so pissed at me,” he says, laughing.
He parks and gets a day pass for the dashboard from the pay station, and after a stop at the bathrooms we’re heading up the gated road across from the parking lot, towardthe trailhead. I feel different, lighter, like the air out here is going straight to my head, clearing out all the bad thoughts. I stride ahead of Dad.
“Hey, listen.” The tone of his voice makes me turn around and look at him, walking backward as he follows me. He swallows, then takes a deep breath and blows it out.
“I know I haven’t really been ...present the past year. Or at all, really.” He barks out a laugh. “But this time ...I don’t know. It feels different. Rehab taught me a lot. I’m going to be around more, and I’m going to make it up to you. All the times I was ...yeah.” He clears his throat. I slow down, falling into step beside him. “I’m back at AA, I’ve got a sponsor, and I’m working the steps. When it’s time, I want to make amends to you. How does that sound, kiddo?”
“Sounds good,” I reply softly, because I don’t know what else to say.
“All righty.” He grips the straps of his backpack in his hands, staring straight ahead. We pass the sign at the trail-head, and I drop behind him to walk single file on the narrow path. Above us, the trees spread their limbs, the sun filtering through.
I’ve never heard Dad apologize before. Not that this is an apology. For that, I think someone has to actually say the words “I’m sorry.” But it’s something. I scan my body, looking for what I should be feeling: happy, or grateful, orsomethinggood. Because this is good. I love my dad, and he’s finally getting sober, for real. He’s finally going to behereagain, the way he was when I was little. At least for a while.
He looks over his shoulder, smiling at me, and I smile back automatically.
“I’m glad we could do this,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, focusing on my feet as I navigate the rocky path. “Me too.”
“Hey, Co-President.”
I look up from my locker Tuesday morning to see Forrest leaning against the wall a few feet away. The hall is crowded, students chattering in clumps before the last bell rings for first period.
