by Leanne Davis
“So, on Friday? You need me to drive you?” Mom asks, obviously concerned I’ll flake out on her again. I nod and put my hand on her arm. “I’ll go. Ten o’clock. I promise.”
My word is as good as a charlatan’s. But I am determined to change that. That phrase about hitting your personal bottom? I believe I’ve done so. I suppose I could sink even lower, but this feels pretty low.
Mom ruffles my hair. She keeps doing that, showing me affection with her little maternal pats, hugs, and hand holds, but she’s only trying to reassure herself that I am really okay. Here. Not dead. Not injured. I scared her and also chased Dad away. We haven’t seen him since. I hate to imagine the heavy toll that my presence and former antics have taken on their marriage.
I make it through the day. As I’m leaving the bathroom, I see Emily standing there in flannel pajama bottoms and a blue tank top. Her long, fine, blonde hair is straight as a sheet of paper. I stare at her, then start to pass around her. Entering my room, she follows me and stands in the doorway.
“Dad isn’t back yet. No one’s heard from him.”
“I know.” I sound so cold and huff it out of my mouth like a rude, merciless bullet headed straight towards her heart. I pretend I don’t care. Emily flinches.
“Not the first time, however. Is it? I just learned that today from Christina. I didn’t know my parents were on the verge of a freaking disaster. My dad leaves home and doesn’t return for nights at a time? Dad has never done that, Missy. Never. Ever. He’s never left Mom or stayed mad at her.”
I glance at my sister and scoff. “Dad also never kicked one of his own kids out before. Things change.”
She flinches. Her height is midway between Christina and me. I’m five foot seven, Emily’s five foot four and Christina is even shorter. She rests both of her hands on my door jamb, spreading her arms to hold herself there, and shakes her head. “What have you done to them?”
I ignore her and resume getting ready for bed, still pretending it doesn’t matter to me. I try to belittle what she’s saying despite how my stomach jumps when she says it. Words like loser, stupid, and bitch roll through my brain. What if Emily’s right? What if Mom and Dad really are in trouble? I know they’ve been fighting a lot lately.
And I also know the main subject of their contention: me. It is all about me.
“Do you care if you destroy them? And me too, by default. As well as Christina? This is our family too, Melissa. Not just yours, and I don’t want to see it sacrificed over your selfishness and lack of motivation.”
I work at the zipper on the bag into which I am putting my stuff and hurl it down. “I know. Okay? I know.” My voice quivers. “I can’t think of anything, Em. I don’t know what to do to fix it.”
I flop down on the edge of the bed and glance up. She bites her lip. “Sometimes, you act like you don’t care and then, at other times, it’s like you care too much. So much, you can’t handle it, but it’s real life. I don’t understand you.”
“I don’t either, okay? What I did last night? I don’t know what to say about it. I feel so humiliated that it shocks me…. and yet I realize I’m perfectly capable of doing it. I can’t undo that. But I am going to try… I want to improve and be different and better and keep our family together. I swear, Emily, I’ll do everything I can toward those goals.”
“Mom can’t stand to think of you all alone out in the world, and worries you’ll get hurt. That’s why she allows you to stay here no matter how badly you behave and despite what you do. Dad believes that by enabling you for so long, they’re only contributing to your problem and are not doing you any good. I understand both sides. I just don’t want to lose them because of you, no matter who is right.”
I rarely see Emily doubting anything. But now, she’s doubting our parents. Growing up, our parents shared an intense and obvious connection. We never questioned how wildly in love they were with each other. They aren’t gross about it or anything, and don’t ever go crazy by being all clingy and touchy with each other. No, it’s demonstrated more by the way they talk and interact with each other. They epitomize what I think a relationship should be. They seem almost perfect to me. I wonder if I could ever be like that with anyone. No man could ever measure up to the superhero and almost mythical status I see in Dad. Perhaps I take it too far sometimes. But I know I can’t live up to it either.
“I can’t stand it either. I’m trying. Okay? I need to figure this out and get my shit together before it ruins them.”
“You admit, then, that it is?”
I cringe as I bite my lip. “Yes, I realize it now.”
Her dark eyes shimmer with tears. “I just need to know you’re not oblivious to it. I have never seen them fight like that or felt the kind of tension that I do between them. Christina just blows off my concern. She’s always so sure she’s right when she says Mom and Dad will be fine. But I think she’s just being naive.” Emily walks in and sits down near me, on my bed. We stare at each other. Anger, jealousy, bitterness… all of those emotions flow easily between us. Back and forth. It isn’t just my doing. We actually treat each other about the same, so we are both to blame. But I also can’t deny our love and enduring sense that we are sisters, no matter what. Sometimes, the two of us go up against Christina, especially when she fails to see us as equals or almost adults.
I lean forward and take her hand. “I’m sorry.”
She grips my hand tightly. “You damn idiot. You scared me. Completely and totally terrified me. What if you had—”
“But I didn’t,” I interrupt her.
She nods, and a few tears fall. She wipes them swiftly. “I know. I just don’t get why you do those things. And what could happen. What if you’re simply incredibly lucky until now? What if next time, whatever you decide to do kills you? What then?”
My conversation with Seth echoes in my mind. Seth and Emily are the two most grounded young people I know. They walk the straight and narrow line, never becoming distracted or disillusioned, more than anyone else of that age that I know. They are the shining example parents should use when they tell their kids what they should be like. In the last few hours, I learned both were scared for my welfare.
“It means you fucking like me. Admit it,” I goad her, trying to annoy her and bring some levity into the conversation. I’m trying to make her roll her eyes and shake her head. Which she does eventually, and a small smile brightens the grim expression on her face. We’re finally back on more familiar and firmer ground.
She finally shoulder–taps me and says, “You’re more like a bad rash I have to get used to.”
At last, with so little energy on both our parts, we share a small smile. We don’t hug. We don’t say anything more. She gets up to leave, and I go to bed thinking we finally made some headway towards peace. Or at least, away from total hatred toward one another.
I go to bed, truly exhausted and fall into a deep sleep.
It feels like only seconds later when I am being rudely shaken awake. I try to wrap up in the covers and moan to whomever it is to go away. But the shaking continues. I crack an eye open. My bedroom is pitch black and the clock reads 3:51 a.m. What the hell? I roll over flat.
“Melissa. Get up.”
It’s my dad. I instantly jerk upright to a sitting position. All sleep immediately terminates and vanishes from my head. Dad! What the hell? Is the house on fire? Is he going to drag me out into the cold night? Is he so sick of me that he decided to forget all this sad shit I keep spewing and be done with me once and for all? He clicks my light on. I blink as I stare up at him. He seems impossibly big and imposing in there. He is scowling down at me, his hands on his hips, as if I’m at fault for not being out of bed and dressed by now. But why?
He’s dressed in all black, which is expected when one wears what he’s wearing.
What the hell? He’s wearing his riding clothes, which he only puts on when he intends to ride his motorcycle. He has a Honda dirt bike that can easily do ninety mil
es an hour in a race. And he does it too. My bike is a Yamaha, and isn’t as fast but I can keep up pretty well. I just haven’t touched mine in years. But boys and makeup, as well as just being a teenager, replaced my desire to ride with my dad. He turns from me and starts rifling through my drawers, flinging my underwear, a bra, socks, and long johns at me. I scramble to grab them, surprised he’s handling them at all. What is this? Now he’s into my closet, scrounging around in there. He mutters to himself, and I hear something about “mess” and “ridiculous hoarder” and “How does she find anything?” Dad’s a meticulous neatnik. Yeah, again we are totally opposites.
“Dad?” I finally ask in a timid tone. My voice is completely weak and unsure.
He turns and comes back to my bed. “Get up. Get dressed. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
He dumps my riding clothes into my lap and I stare at them. Will they even fit? I was a lot skinnier at age seventeen when I last wore them, and before I developed the boobs and hips I now have. “Where are we going?”
“Just get dressed. That’s an order.”
He leaves me and I stare after him. Dear God, is he going to take me somewhere and dump me, leaving me to the elements? But his tone, so cool it’s almost lethal, tells me not to mess with him. Mom. Emily. Christina. Max. Seth. They might have listened to my excuses and felt sorry for my fuck–ups, but Dad’s tone tells me he is no longer one of them.
Shaken, I scramble from bed and go pee. I dress in the layers of clothes he tossed to me. I’m slipping my long, ratty hair into a ponytail when I step out into the still dark living room. Just the hood light over the stove illuminates the entire huge, open room. Dad stands at the counter, sipping his coffee. His face tips up when I enter. He’s blond, with a little gray at his temples and peppered throughout his hair. He’s starting to lose some hair around his forehead and has lines around his eyes and mouth, but he’s still got big, wide shoulders, and a broad chest and upper arms that are ridiculous for a guy who is sixty. From what I hear, he’s always been considered quite handsome to other women. But he’s my dad so that’s kinda gross to think about. And now? He looks utterly intimidating. His riding clothes are all black with just a few hints of white on the sleeves, chest, and the stripes down his legs.
“Coffee?”
“Yes,” I nearly whisper. I tiptoe towards him. He turns and pours the pot into two stainless steel travel mugs with lids and grabs two muffins before walking around me. I gather that I must follow him so I do. I have no idea what the hell is going on and my reluctance to find out makes my steps slower. I go out the front door after him and stop dead. His truck is parked in the pull–through, a two–car paved and covered overhang. The truck is idling. The headlights shine on the falling snow. I blink with astonishment. In the back of the truck are both of our motorcycles, all loaded and strapped in. He’s walking around the hood. “Get in.”
I obey him without question, only hesitating when I find my riding coat, gloves and boots. Our helmets are behind the seats in their cloth covers. Dad is settling in, putting the coffee mugs in the console and grabbing his seatbelt.
“What is going on?”
He guns the engine and shifts forward. “We’re going riding.”
I click my seatbelt. Snow keeps falling steadily. “I get that. It’s snowing.”
“Not where we’re going. Which is towards western Washington. It’s not snowing there. Just cold.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” he answers, then his jaw locks and that is all he says.
The heater blares on my feet so I grab the warm mug and hold it between my hands. The smell of coffee and hot steam rise up into my face. I sigh. The memory of being younger and having Dad drag me out of bed so early to go… and do this flashes through my mind.
I glance at him but he says nothing. His jaw is rigid.
“You didn’t sleep at home last night.”
“No.”
“Where were you?”
“On Lindsey and Noah’s couch.”
I flinch. “How’d you get the bikes loaded?”
He glances my way. “I’m not exactly banned from the land. I drove up and loaded them.”
“When? In the dark?”
“No, yesterday afternoon.”
I nearly throw my hands up. What is he doing? And why? He seems reluctant to talk to me. I swallow. I’ve always been more intimidated by him than anyone else. Once, I could talk for hours to him. But when he is like this, being mad or angry or annoyed, I get tongue–tied and don’t know what to say. I don’t want to make it worse so I usually say nothing.
He drives on. It takes hours before daylight finally breaks. After we clear the mountain pass, the snow disappears, replaced by drizzle until finally we enter a dry, cloudy terrain and still, not a word does he speak. I rest my head against the passenger window and pretend to sleep. Except I feel jittery, like I am high on meth. Not just coffee.
Then we park. He shuts the truck down and from there, hell! I know what to do. It is one of the few places where I can be freaking proficient, confident, and capable.
I jump out, pulling out my riding boots and putting them on. They are stiff, reinforced with steel toes, and I lace them up to just below my knees. I grab my helmet. Dad has a backpack, which he throws on. Food and drinks. Like always. I follow him to the back of the truck and tug on the tailgate handle to pull it down. I jump in as Dad still fiddles with his gear. I pull the metal loading ramps out and set one end on the tailgate and the other on the ground. I quickly begin undoing the straps on my bike and gripping its weight, which seems heavier than I remember but only because it’s been so long. I glance over my shoulder to make sure my tire will hit the ramp as I back it up slowly. Walking down the ramp, I maneuver it past my dad’s bike. It slides right down. Grinning to myself, I control the familiar weight with my hands. I stop the machine and set the kickstand. It leans over, ready. I glance up to find Dad watching me with his arms crossed. He nods his head. No smile. No praise. But his simple nod does something weird and big to me, which jolts through my blood. I managed to attain his approval. And I am so glad to have it that my stomach flutters. I nod back at him, but I have to turn my head to hide the huge, glowing smile. When was the last time I pleased him?
Or myself?
I shake it off. Dad leaps into the back and gets his bike out. Meanwhile, I hop on mine and get it off the stand, glad I’m just tall enough to hold it up. The weight feels awkward but I balance it. I kick start the bike but it takes several attempts before it fires up. Dad does too and soon, both bikes are loudly idling. The familiar noise makes me grin. I lift my head to find Dad watching me. I shrug. I’ve always loved this moment: dressed in our gear, the bikes idling, ready to rumble away. The noise feels like it enters my guts and shakes up my insides, while disturbing all the peace and quiet of the dawn. It’s exciting, and the anticipation of going somewhere builds inside me. Then Dad and I release the clutches, sharing a silent nod and let’s go kind of look. He nods at me to go first, so I do. My heart leaps and bursts as my bike accelerates and I hear Dad following close behind me. I grin, even though no one can see. It’s awesome. I always felt so cool doing this. Like one of the guys. Not something I usually wanted to be. Except riding. Yeah. Everywhere we rode were guys, men, boys, and sons. I was the rare girl. Girls often rode behind the guys if they did ride. Especially at trailheads like this. But I was always right alongside my dad.
I aim towards the trail and start going up. Right away, it’s twisting all around and slowly spiraling higher. It’s a skinny path with plenty of big rocks to traverse and tree roots to maneuver around. It takes all my concentration to keep the bike upright, skirting around all the obstacles. Everything else completely falls to the wayside. Every single thing I’ve done wrong in the past or caused simply vanishes. It’s just me living in the present. I’m right there. Concentrating. It’s just me and the machine I’m controlling, speeding up when I sense Dad behind me by gunning his bike a bit,
and egging me on. Faster. Faster. Faster. And I fly. It’s been a while. I start cautiously, but instantly remember, I can freaking do this. I go faster and gun it, leaving Dad nearly in the dust. Hours drift by. My concentration and focus are utterly complete and intense and engaged, something which so rarely happens with me. I feel like laughing out loud with glee. It feels so good to be here in the moment and fully living it and experiencing it. Not zoned out or off in my head or forgetting things or just being… me.
After a matter of hours, the trail opens up. I spot a straightaway through a long field with less trees. We first cross a small, ankle–deep creek that splashes us. Then I glance behind me and sense Dad’s going to make a move. I go faster, and he comes right beside me until we’re tandem, and no longer riding single file. I give my bike more gas, and the engine instantly responds as I nose out ahead of Dad a tire length. Then Dad’s right beside me again. I glance to the side quickly and see that up ahead there’s a long, clear shot. The power of his bike far exceeds mine, but sometimes, I can manage to outmaneuver him. The path ahead twists some more and I let it rip. I release the clutch and let the bike fly. My heart pounds so hard in my chest and a happy laugh escapes from my lips as the wind and speed thrill me to the core. I feel lifted from the earth and Dad’s right there, always beside me. Pushing me. Trying to pass me. Using all–out warfare. Our racing is legendary and totally frowned on by everyone else in the family. Especially my mom. So we rarely do it around anyone else. Just with each other. Or I mean, we used to do it.
I never look straight down or worry when I’m riding. It never occurs to me that one small wrong turn or slip of the handle bars will take me down, and going this fast on the uneven trail of rocks and dirt could cause serious damage. Nope. Thoughts like that never daunt me. It’s strictly about speed. So much speed, now I’m freaking flying. Not like being up on that stupid tower. No. Not that. Now, I’m flying and I can totally control it. I own it, and I alone direct it. Releasing a loud whoop! of glee, I feel like gloating as the trail starts to bottleneck and the huge trees come closer again. Dad is forced to back off… and I freaking win. I beat the great Will Hendricks. A rare accomplishment indeed.
