“You sound like president material!” Leah says, poking my ribs.
“Shut up,” I groan.
Milo’s lips brush against my temple. “You’re incredible.”
If I were really all that incredible, I probably wouldn’t want to Exorcist puke on the whole school right now. Which I kinda do. The praise is humiliating, but it’s not what’s making my insides numb. That feeling has been building up for weeks.
I ignore it and kiss Milo back. The core of me is calcifying, but I can still control my smile, so I make it bigger. “Thanks.”
The Johanna sermon finally ends, and Colonel Sanders reels off a few announcements about midterms and next month’s spring break volunteer opportunities. I make a mental note because it’s not like my grandparents are whisking me off to Paris anytime soon. After that, before we’re excused, Sanders gets the whole school to pose for a picture over by the mural, the dandelion-yellow sun bursting over our heads. The reporter has to stand on the roof of the auditorium in order to fit everyone in. Of course, they put me front and center. Sanders shoves Annette right next to me too. Some cruel, sadistic punishment.
“Hey,” I say out of the side of my mouth. “How’s it going?”
“Bet you’re loving this,” Annette mutters.
“Actually?” I shrug. “Not so much.”
“Don’t like being Sanders’s new pet?”
“Not even close. But that’s not—” I pause, lost for words as I drag my knuckles along my forehead. Rather than complete the thought, I reach into my pocket for a glossy cinnamon lipstick. “Can I? It’ll make your lips pop in the picture.”
“Really?” Annette frowns. “I mean, okay. Sure.”
“So, you and Tim Ellison?” I ask, making my lips wide and flat for her to mimic.
Her mouth obliges, and she shrugs.
“I still think he’s a dick,” I add.
“He’s not that bad when you get to know him. He’s even had some sorta nice things to say about you.”
“You’re joking.”
“Maybe a little. But he said he didn’t mind cleaning brushes.”
I snort.
“It really does look good, Johanna. You must be ecstatic.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I press my lips together a couple of times, and she does the same. “There. Looks great.”
“So does the mural. I mean it. Everyone thinks so.” She bites her cheek, hesitating slightly. “Even if not everybody is able to see it, I bet they love it. At least, that’s what I think.”
Maybe it’s a lie, but it makes the lump in my throat burn.
36
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Drum roll, please …
Dear Dad,
Sorry I’ve been kinda MIA. Guess what, though?! The mural is DONE! There’s a picture attached. Our headmaster gave this big speech, and a guy from the paper covered it, and people are super impressed. I know I should feel happy because it really does look cool, and I fought hard to make it happen, but mostly I’m super tired and feeling kind of weird. Remember how you were talking about counting sheep? Like, how thinking about Mom helps you sleep and stuff? I guess I was hoping the mural would be my sheep or something. Does that make any sense? I’m not trying to say I did the mural only for ME. God, I sound completely selfish. Never mind! The mural is great! Yay! Anyway, how are you? How’s Houston and your new promotion? Oh, hey, so, remember how you said you’d come visit when the mural was done? Just wondering if that’s still a plan.
xox, Jo
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Drum roll, please …
Good news! I’m cleared for takeoff. See you Sunday? Congrats on finishing the mural, it looks AMAZING. And no, you don’t sound selfish. I get it.
Love,
Dad
37
Gran’s muffled voice calls out from the kitchen on Sunday morning. Something about carrot cake? Something else about soup? They’re heading to church, she says, and they’ll be home around noon. I stay quiet, waiting in bed for the sound of the garage door, unfazed by its ominous mechanical growl. Well, maybe half-fazed.
I don’t go to church anymore; I can’t take any more of God’s judgment. Now I don’t have to fake being sick, and Gran doesn’t have to get her hopes up. We both silently agreed that I’d hit pause. It’s been nearly two months of Sundays, and I wonder if I’ll ever go back.
The doorbell rings an hour later. I race down the hallway, knees shaking at the sight of my father on my front porch in his trusty bomber jacket and leather boots. His wavy blond hair has grown, brushing his jawline; all his facial hair is gone. It’s almost as if a stranger is standing before me. I guess he feels the same way because any kind of comfortable seems to have vanished between us.
“Do you want to head straight to school and see the mural?” I ask, reaching for my keys.
Robert nibbles at his thumbnail. “Let’s hang out here for a minute.”
I look at the clock, then across the street. “Um, sure. We’ve got a little time, but it’s probably better if you don’t stay on the porch.”
“Right, right. Okay, sure.”
We half hug. A clumsy double-back-pat combo as he skirts around me. Magic is in the living room when we get there, sleeping in front of the fireplace.
“Nice-looking dog.”
“That’s Magic. We’ve had him forever.”
“Smells good in here.”
“Pretty sure that’s vegan black-eyed pea gumbo,” I tell him. “Want some?”
“Do I have to?” He laughs. “I’m kidding. How ’bout a glass of water?”
I race into the kitchen and quickly tighten the lid over the Dutch oven.
“Everything looks the same,” he says, raising his voice over the kitchen tap. When I come back in, he nods around the room. “Your grandparents’ stuff. It hasn’t changed since Mandy and I visited them in Little Rock, way back when. Same armchair. Same dining room table and old cuckoo clock. Even that needlepoint of Abe Lincoln in the stovepipe hat.”
“God, was she doing those back then?” I groan. “She’s been an old lady her whole life, hasn’t she?”
We joke about their weirdly endearing artistic outlets for a while, but then Robert puts his glass down on the table, pushing it away as he falls limply onto the sofa. “We need to talk.”
I ease down beside him. “That sounds bad.”
“It’s not. Or, I mean, it doesn’t have to be.”
Heat prickles my face as I watch him exhale.
“I know I’ve been gone a while. And I did get a promotion, but—” He pauses, fingers running through tangled blond hair. “The truth is, I’ve been scared to come back.”
“What?” I flinch. “Why?”
“All of this,” he says. “Knowing that I’m the one who told you about Mandy.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Yeah, but, I hate feeling responsible all over again. I wasn’t sure I could face you, knowing what I did to you.”
“What you did?”
He frowns. “I failed you. In so many ways. I let Kate and Jimmy adopt you when it should have been me and Mandy raising you.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“All I wanted was to protect you. That’s a parent’s main job, right?”
I think back to Annette’s words from the hearing: A father’s right to protect his family. I’m queasy even thinking it. Queasier still to see tears welling up in Robert’s eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, but his smile is too strained. “It took me years to accept my role in Mandy’s death, and I’m finally okay with it. I know what I did. And I know what I need to do.”
“What do you mean, need to do?”
As soon as the question’s out, I regret it. Robert’s eyes look so wild and un-fatherly. It makes my stomach clench.<
br />
“I have to keep trying,” he says. “That’s what Reverend Tucker is always telling me. He’s great, the way he’s helped me get my life back on track. He always knows what to do—like, making me find you.”
I blink.
Wait … what?
For a minute, it hangs in the air. My brain reeling, the knot in my stomach tightening, plummeting to the ground. Little sounds trickle into my eardrums, mingling with my pounding heart. The drip of our kitchen tap; Robert’s breath, heavy and frustrated. My heart, though. It won’t shut up in my ears.
“Wait,” I say, nearly choking. “It was your pastor? That’s who made you contact me?”
Robert’s face twists almost sheepishly. As if it never occurred to him how this might sound. I look away, retracing his words in my mind, gluing them back together, forward and backward, piece by piece, until only one thing makes sense.
Robert used me.
My own father. Tricked me.
I gasp like I’m coming up for air. “This whole time—it’s been about you? Getting your life back on track?”
He blushes. “I mean, no. It sounded way better the way Reverend Tucker said it. Like, that I’ll never truly be able to move on without your forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” I repeat. The word sounds harsh and dirty, three clunky syllables lurching off my tongue. He wants me to stop resenting him, but maybe I’m just getting started. “Yeah, that sounds much better.”
“Come on, don’t look at me that way. Everyone deserves to be forgiven. I know you want the same thing.”
My stomach wrenches. “I do, but—”
“We’re the same, you and I. Remember what you said in your email, about the mural not making you feel better? It’s the same for me. You wanted the mural to heal you, and I need you to heal me.”
I don’t want to cry, but tears sting my eyes anyway. My face reddens, every part of me unraveling. “Stop talking,” I whisper.
“Please—”
“Stop,” I say again.
But he doesn’t. “Maybe it sounds pointless to you, but it’s really important that you tell me what I did was okay.”
“What? How do—”
“Goddamn it, Jo. Come on!”
My body lurches, dizzied by the bark of his anger.
It wakes Magic too, his head jolting, growling at the sight of a stranger. I shush him and glare back at Robert, who apparently doesn’t have time for my childish confusion.
I try to respond, but the room zigzags around me, words skittering into darkness like rats. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. But that’s just it. “I can’t!” I finally shout.
“What do you mean, you can’t?” he shouts back. “Why can’t you?”
“Did it ever occur to you that it’s not my place to forgive anyone?”
He shakes his head, eyes twitching.
“I’m the one who killed her,” I say. “We both know it’s my fault.”
“That’s not true,” Robert insists. “You were a baby.”
“Why do people keep saying that like it changes anything?”
“Because it was my gun!” he cries. “I left a loaded gun where my two-year-old could find it. Shit—what if you’d had a playdate over? Can you even imagine?” He shudders, wiping away tears. “I was young and stupid, and I didn’t think someone so small would know how to fire it. I just. Didn’t. Think. And now you don’t have a mom and I don’t have her, and it’s all because of me and that goddamn gun that I told myself I needed.” His shoulders rock like a tethered boat as the words come tumbling out of him. The way he forces his eyes shut, squeezing them, I know he’s back there again—that day, those memories. “Why did I leave it there? Why? She’s dead because of me, not you. And I would do anything to go back and change that.”
Robert sniffles pitifully while I sob these wild, debilitating tears. My head feels thick and fat and throbbing, and I can barely breathe, I’m crying so hard.
“I need you to tell me you don’t hate me,” he begs. “Because I put that gun in your hands, and I let you take her life. You have to forgive me. That’s the only reason I’m here!”
The only reason.
His words burn like hot wax on my heart. God, I’m such an idiot. I can’t stop crying, but now I’m full-on hysterical. Overwrought. Done. I’m just done.
“How awful for you,” I say, hiccupping through snot and gritted teeth. “Having to listen to me ramble over coffees. Getting to know your own daughter? It must have been torture.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, it is.”
I wipe my eyes, seeing Robert clearly for the first time. Seeing us. Little clues adding up, building me into a fool, breaking me down into nothing. It wasn’t about me. It never was. For a minute, I stare at him, wanting my pain to seep into him. But I don’t think it’s possible. He’s not capable.
I force myself off the sofa, my breath growing thinner. Faster. Hotter in my mouth. “My grandparents will be home soon.”
“Please, don’t push me away.”
He reaches for me but I jerk back. “You used me.”
“That’s not—” He sighs as I start to leave the room. “Please wait.”
“Gabby warned me,” I mutter, mostly to myself as I walk toward the front door. “I nearly lost my best friend over you because I deluded myself into thinking you actually cared about me. Why didn’t I listen to Gran when she told me to stay away from you? She’s always looked out for me. God, I defended you to all of them!”
Robert pads after me. “I get that you’re upset.”
“Upset? Upset?!” I roar. “You ruined my life with your selfish bullshit.”
“Joey, you have to calm down.”
“Don’t you dare call me that.” I push his chest and he stumbles. “I’m not your little baby anymore. I’m not your anything.”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“Yes, you did! You did, and you know it.”
He can’t even look at me. His eyes sink to the ground.
“Get out of my house,” I whimper. “I don’t want you here. You’re not welcome. Just go.”
“But—”
“Get out.” I grab the door handle, all set to kick his groveling ass to the curb, but when I open the door, Grandpa nearly topples in through it.
“JoJo?”
“Grandpa?”
“Robert?”
“Mr. Carlson?”
Oh. Shit.
38
“You bastard!” Grandpa growls.
“Jimmy, hang on,” Robert says, but it’s too late.
Grandpa’s fist is already colliding with Robert’s cheek, making this awful cracking sound. I can’t help screaming. Gran gasps too, lunging to shut the front door before our dirty laundry can be aired out for the neighbors.
“Robert, what in the hell are you doing here?” she shouts, but my father only groans, blood dribbling from his nose. She sighs. “I’ll get some ice.”
My insides spin, jerking me in every direction. I want to breathe, but it’s like I forgot how. Like my lungs are inching down a wood chipper. Breathe, don’t think, I tell myself, breathe, don’t think—but everything itches. Throbs. This skintight ache.
Robert uses his shirtsleeve to soak up blood before it can stain our shiny brick floor, and his eyes plead with me. I look at the ground, arms tight around my ribs, one thought banging relentlessly into me: Your father doesn’t love you. He never loved you. He never—
“Johanna?” Robert says.
“Not one word,” Grandpa barks. He pushes me back, ushering my body behind his for safekeeping.
Gran returns with two ice packs, pressing the first against Grandpa’s knuckles and tossing the other in Robert’s direction. I’m wheezing now, my heart tightening inside my chest. Breathe, don’t think. Breathe, don’t think—but my insides thunder. A flood of water filling up behind a door I can’t hold shut for much longer.
“Sweetheart?” Gran’s voice soun
ds far away. Underwater. “Are you okay?”
There’s blood spatter on her peach dress, hurt in her eyes. All I can see is that small spray of red. Was there blood on her clothes back then? Did they let her hold her daughter’s lifeless body before carting it away?
Something fuzzy erupts in me, fast and sharp. It charges up my chest and down to my stomach; up and down and up and down until black dots flicker in my vision, clawing at all parts of me.
“I’m going to call the police,” Gran mutters, turning toward the living room.
“Stop,” I scream.
“What?” she says. “What is it?”
“I can’t breathe.”
“JoJo, honey—”
“I can’t breathe! This doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel right. It hurts.”
Air punches my lungs, holding me tight. Shorter, tighter, tingling. Making me light-headed, vibrating my skin. I start to pace, going nowhere, shaking my hands frantically like they’re dripping wet. Like if I try, I can flick this feeling away.
“She needs fresh air,” Robert says, grabbing my hand. He reaches for the doorknob, but Gran grabs my other hand, yanking me back. “Kate, I’m not stealing her. Look at her—she’s hyperventilating.”
Gran’s eyes latch onto me. She’s blurry as she frowns, eyebrows knitting together. Finally, she nods, keeping her grip firm as Robert opens the front door, and we all tumble onto the porch.
“Is that better?” he asks softly.
The cold air takes away some of the burn, but I shake my head no to punish him.
“Sweetheart, what’s the matter?” Gran asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me how I can help.”
“I said, I don’t know!” I extend my shivering arms. “Here. Squeeze my wrists,” I order. “There’s a pressure point.”
I fight dizziness to remember what else Milo said or did.
“I need a pill. Get, get the pills that are in my backpack.”
Grandpa limps off to the kitchen and comes back with my bag. Milo gave me a few Xanax, just in case, and Grandpa finds them, pulling a little orange bottle out of the front zipper of my bag.
“Daniel Schmidt?” he reads. “Alprazolam? JoJo, what in God’s name …?”
Accidental Page 22
