I can’t hear anything else Officer Stanley has to say. I stand up. “Enough.” I hold my hand up, halting him from telling me anything else. “I don’t want to know anything else,” I tell him. Pleading. My voice breaks as I say, “My parents are dead, and there isn’t anything I can do to bring them back. There’s no point in knowing because the outcome won’t change.”
He nods. “Don’t you at least want to know her name?” I tilt my head, pondering this question. Things might have been different if she hadn’t told my parents this information on my birthday. We might have already been at the lake house, enjoying our summer. If she hadn’t tried to pursue my parents in a car chase, they might still be alive. My anger morphs into something viable. “It’s also important for you to know that?—”
My humor is caustic as I laugh, cutting him off and causing Savannah to look at me like I’m a stranger. I barely recognize the voice that leaves my lips. “It’s bad enough that I know her face,” I spit out. “It’s something that will haunt my dreams, knowing that my dad had no respect for my mom and that he had her, and then she killed them.” My words are vitriol. “I don’t want to know her.” Hanging my head as the rage tries to consume me, I feel Savannah grab onto my arm. “I wish it was her who died instead.” I don’t contemplate my following words, but I’m a runaway train on a collision course set on causing the most destruction. I can’t stop myself. “So, no. I really don’t.” My tone is seething. Anger rushes in, and my teeth grind hard enough that I mayhave cracked a molar. I lift my head, making eye contact as I stand from the chair, Savannah rising with me. “I hope she rots in that jail cell.” My strides are in quick succession, taking me to the door as my last parting words ring out. “She deserves to be all alone, and I hope she suffers the same pain that she causes me every day.”
My rapid heartbeat thumps in my head. The swooshing sound in my ears is all I can hear. The artificial light of the police station is a live, breathing force around me, enveloping me in a constricting embrace. A tightness forms around my wrist, which is the only thing holding me to this spot, grounding me from getting lost in the anger I feel. Savannah ushers me out of the police station, never letting go of my wrist until we get outside. Once we get to the parking lot, she places her arm around my waist, guides me to her car, and places me in the passenger seat. As she drives me home, I keep replaying the words over and over in my mind.
Your dad had an affair. That’s why your mom was so upset. Your parents argued. The young woman, his other biological daughter and product of his infidelity, tried to speed up and drive after your father. Your mother was crying, and your father was frantic, trying to outrun his past indiscretions as he was already late to your surprise birthday dinner. He had been drinking. When he took a corner too fast, her car came crashing into your parents’ car, causing them to lose control and veer off the side of the hill. Their car tumbled over and over, finally landing on its hood. The young woman was alive after her car was found wrapped around a guardrail, but your parents were dead.
I need to get out of here. I need to escape to the only place that has ever brought me peace—the lake house.
I’m packingup the car Savannah had dropped off at the house sometime during the day. We rushed out and left my car at thepolice station. I should’ve waited until morning to do this, but I can’t spend another day in this house, knowing my parents will never stroll through our front door again. So I choose the most logical option. Run.
We were supposed to be together at the lake house this week, and I still intend to go. Ihaveto go. I have an indescribable, nagging feeling that tells me I should be there. The truth is, I don’t know who I am anymore. Staying here isn’t helping, so I will go to the lake and spend this summer mending the pieces of my shattered heart. I know Savannah will be pissed that I am leaving without telling her, but she’s my best friend. She'll forgive me, and most importantly, she’ll understand why I left. She’ll know where I am.
“See, it’s not a problem that I leave now,” I say, trying to convince myself as I stand in the foyer, looking at the back of the house where the kitchen is. I envision my mom cooking dinner and remember when my dad would sit at the granite island with a glass of whiskey. My mom drinks her wine as they laugh with each other, talking about the day’s events while she makes our dinner. It was a frequent scene in our home, but no longer.
I blink, and the vision is gone. There is no laughter and no more smiles. It’s just an empty house that holds too many painful memories. Everything seems tainted, and the house that was a home is now dormant. Their lies are splattered along the walls, festering among the wallpaper in the hallway where our family pictures depict a different portrait of the past.
With a sad smile, I turn the light off and lock the door behind me, punching the alarm code onto the illuminated keypad. I hear it arm itself as I walk away toward my car and leave those memories behind.
I drive out of the circular driveway, glancing back in the rearview mirror, expecting to see my mom waving, and I instinctively wave back, bidding her farewell. As I pull onto the two-lane county road, I immediately feel some of the tension release from my shoulders, making my way to the place where I have always felt the most at peace. A place of solitude that contains so many wonderful memories. No broken glass and smashed perfume bottles defiling the house.
This will be a chance for healing and for me to move past all the lies that have been concealed. I know my parents loved me. I believe that wholeheartedly, but my father’s betrayal cut deep. What he did to my mother was just so wrong, but I also don’t know what occurred in their marriage. I always thought they were happy, but I’ll never truly know. The young woman mimicking my dad’s features looked similar in age to me, but her haunted-looking eyes held years far beyond her presumed age.
I’ll never know if we would have moved past this as a family. What I do know is that I will try to hold onto the happy memories and keep them safe for eternity, because life is fleeting and can be taken away at a moment's notice.
Nightfall approaches as the setting sun dips through the hills and vast greenery before me. The sky is streaked with hues of yellow, orange, and red, earthy tones that saturate the rosy landscape. I continue to drive until the roads become windier and the tree growth thickens. New Hampshire is beautiful in the winter, but it is devastatingly beautiful during the summer and fall. Summer is the best time of the year, because after the winter snow cleans the earth, the blooms ignite the terrain in luscious colors. Forsythia and burning bushes line granite stone walls along the route there, reminiscent of a time when the bush wasn’t considered invasive. Sometimes, the prettiest ones are the most dangerous.
I slow down before reaching the road sign that indicates a sharp corner ahead. I could navigate these roads in any condition, driving with the familiarity of two decades of repetitive travel behind my belt. The scenic landscape boasts lush foliage amidst moss-covered stone boundary rock walls, marking property lines along the rural stretch of pavement.
I let down the window, allowing the cool air from the nearby lake to permeate the car’s interior. My hair blows around, tickling my cheek. The gentle tug of the strands causes a feeling that prickles at my scalp like a lover’s caress. I revel in this feeling, never wanting it to end. It’s a momentary reprieve from the shit storm that is my life.
I put both windows down all the way, greedy for more of these sensations as I turn up the radio volume. Morgan Wallen’s “LoveSomebody” plays on my music app as I sing along to the lyrics. I tap my hand on the steering wheel, feeling empty like the song describes, wishing I had some whiskey. I stick my hand out the window, letting the wind hit it, embracing the feeling of life smashing against my palm.
I breathe in the distinguishable resinous smells of assorted woodsy pine trees, which are crisp, unlike the city’s. I inhale deeply, looking around at the sights as if seeing them for the first time. Maybe I am seeing the world through different glasses—ones not so rose-tinted but with a deeper appreciation for the things I once took for granted. I always drove this path with my parents, and I don’t think I ever took the time to appreciate how beautiful this area is. And the smells—like earth and wet leaves. In the near distance, someone is having a campfire. I imagine a family gathered around a fire pit, holding sticks with marshmallows ready to make s’mores, which evokes a sense of nostalgia in me.
The humid summer heat coats the forest in mossy, polished textures, and the asphalt faintly shimmers in the fading light. The distant chirping sounds of insects in the forest are carried through the air, along with the gentle rustling of leaves in the light breeze. As I make the final turn across large boulders alongside the road, and the incline increases slightly, I navigate between the old granite posts. The crunch of the grated dirt road against my tires reminds me to decrease my speed to twenty-five mph. I pass the sign of the town lake association as I turn left onto the final dirt road leading to our home.
I can make out the lights of similar residences covered by the thick, plush foliage of the summer evergreens, sugar maples, and birch trees, which provide a natural privacy screen among the other lodgings on this lake. I carefully handle the slight decline as I pull up in front of our family lake house. I raise the windows and immediately feel suffocated, so I shut the car engine off and jump out quickly.
Standing in the driveway, I stretch my legs, lifting my hands above my head and rotating my torso back and forth. The evening air is cooler here by the lake, and the sound of nature around me makes me eager to get inside. I quickly pop the trunk to gather mybags. Memories of bears and ransacked bird feeders come to mind, as well as remembering being spooked when I saw red eyes staring out at me while I was on the porch reading in the hammock one night. The sound of what I thought was a child crying, only to find out later that it was a fox.
The automatic light flickers as I approach the covered entry, and I drop my luggage on the porch. I fumble for a minute with the lock as I finally open the front door and set everything down in the foyer. I don’t bother turning on any lights as I leave the bags and walk toward my childhood bedroom. I can’t see the lake now in the darkness, but I know it’s there. It is a comfort as I fall onto my bed, managing to kick off my shoes in one slick movement. I shuck off my remaining clothing until I am clad in nothing but my undergarments. I do not bother getting under the covers. Instead, I bring them around me like a warm embrace, curling into myself. I veer around onto my side, nuzzling my oversized Squishmallow. This time, sleep comes readily as I fall into a dreamless slumber.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Mijita, can you please pass the bag over to me?” My little girl looks aimlessly at the bags before following my finger, pointing straight to the half-full planting soil.
Donned in her pink gardening gloves, she bites the side of her bottom lip in concentration. “I got you, Papá.” She gives me a very hot-pink thumbs up.
My lip twitches as I watch her, my little princess, bring the bag over and dramatically drop it like its weight is crushing before depositing it at my feet. She wipes her brow with dirty gloves, leaving a streak of soil across her forehead. I already know where this is going.
“Papá, we’ve been working out here allmorning, and I think we need to reward ourselves with some pancakes.” She crosses her arms together, ready to validate her reasoning. I firmly bring the remaining topsoil around the purple impatiens she picked out at Piney Woods Florals. Pressing it against the pretty purple bunch of annuals, I give her my best side eye, and she beams at me. Fucking beams. I swear this little girl has me wrapped around her finger. She knows it, no matter how gruff I am. She sees through my scarred and rugged heart that, at the moment, only belongs to her. I have no room for any more heartache in my busy life, especially now that I have full custody of Catalina. I’ve had enough lies and betrayals to last a lifetime.
I kneel with my hands on my thighs, resting there. Perspiration drips down the side of my face. Damn, it’s already humid this morning. I point at her with my gloved finger. “I’ll make you a deal.” She pops her hip out, her hand resting on it, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes again. “You help me finish this up quickly,” she assesses the remaining job, “and we can get some pancakes for breakfast.”
She quickly notices what I do. There isn’t much left. I would take her regardless, but she doesn’t need to know that. I can put the mulch on myself. Spreading it around is easy, as it is just around the trees and this bush, where I am sprinkling in bits of color she chose for the yard.
