The Ghost Runner

by Blair Richmond

“I know that,” he says, “and, Katie, I deserved it. And I sure don’t deserve to be alive right now, the way I treated you back then. That night, I was drunk and I was dangerous. You had every right to take that gun away from me, and I had no right to attack you. When I came to in the hospital and remembered what happened, how screwed up my life had become, how bad I treated you, I knew things had to change. I had to get my life together.” He takes a drink of water. “And so I did. I sobered up. I got a job. I started to pay off the credit cards, even put a bit away. Then I set out to find you.”

  “That investigator,” I say. “You hired him, didn’t you?”

  “Yep. And he found you, all right. Your boyfriend Roman gave him a hell of a scare.”

  “Roman’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not anymore,” I say. Then, just so he’ll know that I do have someone looking out for me, I add, “I’m with someone else now.”

  “Really? My, my, you sure have taken this town by storm.” He smiles. “I’d love to meet him sometime.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s fine, too. Whatever you want. What I most want is to spend time with you.”

  “Why? You’ve never wanted that in your life.”

  “I want to be a better father before it’s too late. Heck, it’s already too late. Look at you. You’re all grown up, with a job and school and boyfriends lining up out the door.”

  I’m not sure how to interpret all this. I hate the fact that everything he knows about me comes from having an investigator follow me around, and I hate the fact that no matter what I do, I can’t seem to outrun him. I feel long-dormant anger bubbling below the surface, and I can’t bring myself to smile in return.

  “Did you ever love Mom?” I ask. “Or me, for that matter?”

  His face clouds over. “Of course I did. I know I did a lousy job of showing it. You may be grown up, but you’re still too young to understand what it’s like—losing a job, having people to support, not knowing how. After I lost that last logging job I didn’t know what to do. I never should’ve turned to the bottle, and I’ll regret that the rest of my life.”

  “I do know what it’s like to struggle, Dad,” I tell him. “I’ve had to do that my whole life, thanks to you.”

  “I know, Katie. I could ask you to forgive me until my dying days, and if I have to, I will. But I hope you can forgive me sometime before that. I’d really like to have a second chance.”

  “You’re long past second chances, Dad.”

  “I know,” he says. “I’ll settle for any chance.”

  Our food arrives, saving me from having to answer. I notice that he’s ordered the same meal I’m having—angel hair pasta in marinara sauce—which is a surprise for someone who’s always been a meat-and-potatoes guy. I still don’t know what to say, so I focus on my pasta. I know that, from the outside looking in, we’re a perfectly normal pair—a father and daughter having a meal together. But from the inside looking out, I can’t help but search for my father’s motive, for the angle that he’s playing. With my father, there’s always an angle.

  So I decide that I should just ask. “How long will you be in town?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “For what?”

  “For us to be a family again.”

  I put down my fork. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m not, Katie. I gave up the apartment in Houston, sold a bunch of stuff so I could come out here. I’ve got a little apartment I’m renting in town. Ain’t much to look at, just a temporary place. And I’m going to get a job.”

  Suddenly I feel the way I had in Houston—stifled. “I came here to be on my own,” I tell him. “To start a new life. What if I don’t want you here?”

  “Then I’ll leave. You just say the word.”

  “Really?”

  “I promise.”

  Not that his promises mean anything. But just hearing him say it makes me feel a little better. As if I really do have control over my own life for once.

  “I know I’ve got to earn back your trust,” he says. “And I aim to do just that. But only so long as you’re okay with it.”

  “I guess we’ll see how it goes.” I pick at my pasta. “What are you going to do for work?”

  “I guess I’ll look for something in construction. Worked for me back then, before those damned environmentalists put me out of work.”

  “You know, I’m an environmentalist,” I say.

  “I know you are.” He smiles. “I’m only kidding with you. To be honest, I look up at these hills, and I’m glad they shut us down. These hills would be stripped bare if we’d had our way.”

  I study him, wondering for a moment whether my real father has been replaced by an alien. I’ve seen vampires here in Lithia—and now, maybe ghosts—why not aliens, too? It’s the only explanation I can think of for why he’s here, talking to me, being nice.

  He asks me about my job, about school. I still don’t trust him, but I tell him a little about the store, about my training, that I won Cloudline. When the check arrives, I watch him leave a healthy tip for the waiter, and we walk to an ice cream shop a block away. He gets a scoop of vanilla, and I get a chocolate-almond sorbet. We walk alongside the creek.

  “I’m proud of you,” he says.

  “You are?”

  “Of course,” he says. “I know I should have told you that a long time ago. I hope it’s not too late.”

  I shrug as if I don’t care—but I have to admit that it’s a nice thing to hear.

  We continue along the creek in silence. We weren’t a religious family when I was growing up—not in the formal sense, meaning my dad was too hungover on Sundays to get out of bed, let alone go to services, and my mother was far more at home in nature than in a church. But I do remember, in those early years here in Lithia, looking up at the night sky, the stars, imagining that someone or something was up there, watching over me. It helped me feel less alone, especially after my mom died and I had no one else. Even having someone look after me the way Alex has promised to isn’t the same as having a parent who loves you.

  Now, for the first time in years, I have a father again—the only family I have left. And I find myself wanting to believe that everything he says is true.

  Seven

  How do you introduce your real family to your adopted family? It’s not easy, which is why I want to avoid it as long as I can, possibly forever.

  After all, David isn’t a fan of my father; I didn’t exactly paint a pretty picture. He’ll probably be shocked to know we’ve been in touch at all, let alone that I’ve had dinner with him. I know he’ll think I’m crazy on one hand and want to protect me on the other. Alex will feel the same—and I can’t blame either of them. I’m not sure what I’m doing.

  I’ve seen my father a couple of times since our dinner—once for coffee at the student union, where Lucy met him briefly and a little sternly. But he managed to charm her with his new, easygoing smile and even bought her a mocha. We met again for lunch a couple days later, and that was when he asked about meeting David and Alex. I want to be a part of your life, Katie, he said, and I told him there was plenty of time to meet everyone. I didn’t tell him that Lucy was the only one who even knew he was in town.

  Then it happens: I’m in the back of the store ordering new shoes when I hear laughter coming from the sales floor. I know that laugh immediately, though I’d certainly witnessed it only rarely growing up: My dad has an infectious, booming laugh that used to make the living room walls shake when I was a kid. I could always tell when he was watching his favorite sitcom because I would be upstairs in my room and thought I could feel the floor tremble with each roar. I welcomed the noise because it meant he was happy and occupied with something that wasn’t alcohol or fighting with my mom. But his laughter didn’t come often, and he rarely shared it with Mom and me.

  Still, I recognize it right away—and I can’t believe he has shown up at the
store uninvited. I rush out to the floor, and there he is, standing with David near the register, yukking it up as if they’re two old college buddies.

  “Hey, Scooter,” Dad says when he sees me.

  My childhood nickname. I must’ve liked it back when I was young, but right now it grates on my nerves like the gnashing of teeth.

  I see David’s confused expression, and I insert myself between them. “Dad … what are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d stop by and see my girl at work.”

  “So you two have met?” I look from my father to David and back again.

  “Well, as they say in Texas, we’ve howdied but we haven’t shook yet,” my father says.

  I roll my eyes. “David, this is my dad. He’s in town visiting.”

  My father holds out a hand. “Jack Healy. Damn glad to meet you, David.”

  “Likewise, Jack.” David looks toward me, confused, and I just shake my head as if to say: I’ll explain later.

  I change the subject by asking, “So, what was so funny?” I hope Dad hasn’t been telling childhood stories about me. Having these two in the same room together doesn’t feel right.

  “Your dad was telling me that this store used to be a bar, years ago,” David says.

  “The Rusty Nail,” my dad adds. “And, boy, did I lose many a night here.”

  I take Dad’s arm and try to maneuver him out of the store. “Thanks for stopping by,” I say, “but we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Sure, no problem. How about us three grab a meal sometime? What do you say, David? I’d love to thank you for all you’ve done for Katie here.”

  “I’d like that,” David says.

  I steer Dad toward the doors and outside. “You shouldn’t have come here without asking me first,” I say. “You can’t just show up where I work like this.”

  “It wasn’t planned,” he says. “I was just walking down the street, and here it was. David seems like a great guy.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Isn’t there someone else I still need to meet? Alex, perhaps?” Dad asks with a grin.

  “No.”

  The grin widens. “You know what? I’m feeling kinda hungry. I hear the Lithia Food Co-Op has a killer deli.” He turns and starts walking.

  “Wait!” I call him back. “Listen, if this is your way of being a part of my life, it’s not working. You can’t go around stalking all my friends. It’s weird.”

  He looks genuinely surprised. “Sorry, Katie, I didn’t realize. I know you’re busy and just thought I’d break the ice, you know? I’m still looking for work and may not be here long. I just want to get to know you and the people you spend time with, that’s all.”

  “Well, stop it. You’ll meet Alex when I’m ready for you to meet Alex.”

  He holds up his hands. “Whatever you say, Scooter, whatever you say.”

  “And don’t call me that.”

  “Got it.”

  He flashes me another grin and heads up the street, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. I’m left standing stunned on the sidewalk. A year ago, my tone of voice would’ve earned me a slap across the face, if not a punch. Now, he’s not only letting me express my opinion but he’s apparently respecting it. I don’t know what to make of it.

  Back in the store, David is at the computer behind the front desk. “Your dad doesn’t seem all that bad,” he says.

  “I guess I painted a rather dark portrait,” I say.

  “Well, people do change,” he says. “Maybe he has.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t blame you for having doubts,” David says, “but he seems to be trying. And count me in for dinner. I’d like to get to know him a bit myself.”

  “To keep an eye on me?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow toward him.

  “To keep an eye on him.”

  I feel my shoulders relax a bit. “Thanks, David.”

  He smiles at me—a warm, genuine smile that’s so different from my dad’s cheeky, what-is-he-up-to-now grin. “Oh, I almost forgot.” David grabs a business card from the counter and hands it to me. It’s a formal-looking card that reads Michael Stover, Esq.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I don’t know. He dropped by yesterday, said he needs to talk to you about something.”

  My mind starts to race. What would a lawyer want from me? Though I know I should probably just call the man and find out, instead I put the card in my pocket and get back to work. If he wants to talk to me badly enough, he’ll find me. Besides, I’ve got way too many other things going on in my life to worry about this.

  ~

  My father is taking the lead on the hiking trail, followed by me, then Alex. I look back at Alex, but he doesn’t notice. He has his eyes to the ground.

  I stop to let him catch up. “Alex,” I say quietly. “Everything okay?”

  He looks up. “Sure.”

  “We’re almost to the clearing,” Dad calls.

  “Come on,” I tell Alex.

  Because David was so accepting of my father, I thought Alex would be as well. So the next day, when I saw Dad and he kept asking about Alex, I finally agreed that we could all get together. I had to admit that I wanted to bring Alex into this new, if strange, part of my life—it didn’t seem right that Lucy and David had both met my dad but Alex hadn’t.

  And maybe, because I still didn’t quite trust my father, I wanted another person who would have my back. I just didn’t expect Alex to have my back to such an extreme.

  He doesn’t seem to like my dad at all.

  At first I wondered whether it was because I’d delayed telling him. When I finally mentioned it, Alex said, What took you so long? I hadn’t realized David had already told him—but Alex only smiled at me and agreed to go on a hike with us. And because my dad has been bending over backward these days to be the exact opposite of the dad I used to know—the judgmental, mean-spirited dad—I figured they’d get along great.

  But Alex has been curt with him, and he’s been treating our hike as if it’s a chore rather than a chance to spend time in the woods he loves. As we approach the clearing, I remind myself that Alex knows only the bad stuff about my father—the shooting, my fleeing, my fear of him in the past. But that’s just it—this is not the man of my past. But Alex doesn’t seem to see that. At least not yet.

  I’d suggested a hike because I thought sitting at a table with the two of them might be too intense—all the up-close talking and inevitable moments of silence—but I didn’t realize just how right I was about the awkwardness. Now, I’m grateful that my dad is out of breath, that Alex is behind us both—grateful that we can get through this without having to make too much small talk or, worse, discuss anything else. The two of them don’t exactly have a lot in common.

  I’m surprised how well Dad remembers the trails here, and I wonder if perhaps Alex is unresponsive because he’s not the one in charge. After all, the forest is literally his lifeblood, and here’s some former logger, a killer of trees, leading him on a hike. And now Dad is splitting us off from the more heavily traveled Moss Reservoir trail onto a smaller path I’ve never encountered.

  I’m not disappointed to leave the Moss Reservoir trail, which Alex and I jog on from time to time—a gentle, sloping gravel road five miles to the main reservoir that supplies Lithia. It made me sad and a little worried the last time we went to the reservoir, two weeks ago, when Alex told me the waterline had never been so low. Coming from Texas, I know all about conserving water: keeping the water off as I brush my teeth, reusing the shower water on the plants, never wasting a drop. But in Houston I never saw the main water supply. I never really thought about where the water came from. Here, the town relies on Lithia Creek and only Lithia Creek. If the creek runs light, the reservoir doesn’t fill up, and the town goes into water conservation mode—like now.

  But while I’m excited to try a new trail, Alex seems surprised when Dad pushes aside some bushes to reveal the remnants of an
old path.

  “C’mon,” Dad says. “Follow me.”

  “You sure, Mr. Healy?”

  “Of course. I used to take this trail in the old days.”

  “There’s a lot of poison oak on this path.”

  “So? Our legs are covered,” Dad says. “Just be careful what bushes you push out of the way.” He laughs and plunges into the brush. I look at Alex, whose brow is bunched up in worry lines.

  “It’s okay, Alex,” I say. “Dad knows the forest.”

  We continue, climbing a steep hill. Soon the brush clears so that Alex and I can walk side by side, covered by the shade of soaring pine trees.

  “Where are we headed?” I call ahead to my father.

  “You’ll see,” Dad says. “It’s right up here.”

  The ground turns to rocks, and soon we come upon a cluster of large boulders. I follow Dad; we climb over them slowly. Dad extends a hand and pulls me up onto a large rock. I turn to watch Alex, who climbs up easily.

  “Here we are,” Dad says.

  I turn and realize that the boulders have taken us above the tree line. We have an unobstructed view of Moss Reservoir and the top of Mount Lithia. Early in the summer I’d gotten into the habit of glancing up at the mountain and watching as the snow melted away. Today, the peak of the mountain has no white at all.

  “The snow is gone,” I say.

  “Do you remember it?” Dad asks.

  “Remember what?” I ask.

  “This overlook. Your mother and I brought you here when you were a kid. She loved coming up here. You both did.”

  I stare across the valley below, at the trees and the still water of the reservoir. Two hawks catch my eye, and I watch them glide on the thermal currents, like two dancers circling each other. I try to remember coming up here, but being out with the two of them had happened mostly when I was very young, so my memories are vague. I remember my dad picking at the ground with a sharp hammer—looking for gold, he used to say. He turned it into a game, and I would help. I tended to pick up chunks of crystal because of the way they captured the light, and then Dad would inspect them for gold locked within. Back then, the crystal seemed far more precious to me than any rocks that might’ve contained gold; those were dull and drab by comparison. Maybe this was where my mother’s serpentine had come from. I put my hand to my neck, where her necklace rests just below my collarbone. I’ve worn it every day since my father gave it to me. Because of her, not him.