Of All The Stars

by Ally B

  “See you later!”

  “Have fun!”

  “Love you!” I shout.

  “Love you, too!”

  The drive to my dads’ feels longer than usual. I decide to take the interstate and end up fifteen minutes further away than I would’ve if I’d gone the other way, of course. All of the lights in his little suburb are green in direct contrast to the yellow and orange leaves littering the ground.

  The car I typically parallel park behind isn’t there, so I just pull up to the curb. I grab the little white box with the Ursa Minor necklace in it out of my glove compartment and put the necklace on, making sure it’s hanging on the outside of my sweatshirt.

  I knock on the door a few times, but there’s no answer. I try to turn the handle, and it’s unlocked, so I open the door.

  “Hello?” I call as I close the door behind me. I poke my head around the corner into the kitchen before walking up the unfamiliar staircase. The first door I come to is a bathroom. It’s a near-sparkling all-white room with only a few toiletries in it, but there’s no sign of him.

  I walk to the end of the short hallway and knock on the other door, but again, there’s no answer.

  “Hello?” I say loudly, banging on the door with the palm of my hand before opening it.

  Shocked and feeling numbness take over as I look at the sight before me.

  My father is lying on top of unkempt grey sheets in a button-down shirt and dress pants, an empty bottle of whiskey beside him.

  I don’t know what to do. My first instinct is to check and see if he’s alive. Why wouldn’t he be alive? That doesn’t make sense. It’s just alcohol. Can alcohol kill you? Tears blur my vision, but with them, the numbness begins to dissipate.

  Am I supposed to call 911? Is this a violation of his parole? They can’t arrest you for just drinking, can they? No 911. No cops. No arrests.

  “Dad?” I ask softly.

  Not Dad, he doesn’t deserve that title. He’s not your Dad. He’s your father.

  “Thomas?” I speak louder and become agitated.

  “Thomas!” I shout, startling myself.

  He stirs. He’s alive. He’s alive and nearly killed me, yet he clearly didn’t learn his lesson.

  More tears fall, numbness gone, clearing the way for anger.

  His eyes still squinted shut as he struggles while attempting to sit up. I walk to the other side of his room, flinging open the black-out curtains and grazing my knuckles on the exposed brick.

  “What the hell?” He mutters, his words are muddy as he attempts again to get himself into a sitting position, his supporting arm slipping and dropping him back into a heap on the bed.

  “Get up,” I demand.

  “Phoebe?” His eyes grow wide. “What are you doing here?”

  “Dinner. It’s Thursday, but you probably don’t remember that.” I plant myself next to the door.

  “Phoe-be, I…”

  “You almost killed me.” I blurt out the words, the truth for the first time to the man who was responsible. “You got behind the wheel of a car with your twelve-year-old daughter when you were shitfaced. You made that decision.” My voice breaks, but I continue before I can sound weak.

  I’m not weak.

  “I almost died!” I pause. “You got to ride in the back of a cop car, uninjured, while I laid on a gurney fighting for my life. You ruined everything! I had to learn how to walk again as you sat in a prison cell all because you couldn’t make a good fucking decision. You still can’t!”

  “Phoebe I…”

  “No. You don’t get to talk.” I cut him off. “I had to pretend I liked you through two of three therapists in the past four years of my life! I had to listen to therapists and listen to them say you were sick and needed help. I wasn’t allowed to be angry. I had to pity you like they pitied me.”

  “Phoebe, I was sick.”

  “Bull-fucking-shit.” I shout, tears pouring from my eyes. “You are sick. And you pretended you changed! You didn’t. You couldn’t even take the help you were offered! It took you two fucking weeks to blow it again!”

  “Phoebe, language.”

  “Did you really just fucking say ‘language’ to me? Like you’re some kind of fucking parent?” I laugh.

  “I’m your father, Phoebe.”

  “Yeah, you’re my father.” I pause. “But you mean as much to me as a fucking sperm donor. That’s what you are. You’re a father in the worst way a father could be. Fucking Darth Vader’s got you beat.” I laugh again. I can’t even imagine what I look like right now, but I don’t care. “Take your stupid fucking necklace.” I try to rip it off of my neck like they do in movies, but it just digs into my skin. I fumble with the clasp for a bit before throwing it to the ground. “My favorite constellation is Cygnus. Yours is Ursa Minor, you self-centered prick.” I wipe tears from my face. “That’s the one fucking thing I told you about! For four fucking years!”

  “Phoebe, I…”

  “You really had me fooled for a while there.” I laugh. “Well, good-fucking-game you sicko. You better hope and pray that Jack forgives you because there’s no way in hell I ever will.”

  “Phoebe, I relapsed.” He tries to defend himself. “This is a serious addiction.”

  “I was pretty fucking serious about staying alive at the age of twelve, too! You took everything away from me! You’ve taken away every little bit of normalcy I could possibly cling onto! What if you hurt someone else? Killed someone!”

  “I would never do that.” He’s so calm. How is he calm?

  “But you’re sitting here with an empty bottle, and you said you’d never do that again, either.”

  “Phoebe, you don’t understand.” He shakes his head.

  “And I never will. Don’t try to contact me.” I slam his bedroom door behind me, running down the stairs and driving half-way down the block before pulling into a long-abandoned parking lot.

  Crying harder than I ever remember, I think about how long I’ve avoided admitting I hate him for what he did to me. Therapist after therapist tried to convince me he was sick, somehow making me think I should pity him, feel sorry for him. Hate for them now mixes with hate for him, and I feel angry, yet fueled with something I haven’t ever felt before, power.

  I should call them all, I should call them all and tell them they suck and that I found the cure all by myself. Hate, anger, letting go, and never looking back.

  They were so wrong.

  Batting my tears away, I grab my phone, ready to call Dr. Hines and tell him that his sessions are bullshit.

  I scroll through my contacts until I find Dr. Brit, and I hit call.

  I’m shocked when he answers, “Is everything all right, Phoebe?”

  Laughing angrily, I say, “Cancel my sessions, I’m all better now.”

  “Are you in a safe place?”

  “Am I in a safe place,” I laugh.

  “Do you need me to come see you?” I swear I hear a door slam and an engine start.

  “No house call necessary,” I laugh again. “I just wanted to let you know, I told him. He was drunk, and I told him I hate him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I laugh, “you all keep telling me he’s sick, that I should forgive him. I just wanted you to know. You suck at what you do.”

  “Okay,” he says again.

  “Okay?” I spat. “Okay? Is that all you have to say?”

  “At the moment, I’m choosing to listen to you, Phoebe, and learn from you. Tell me what happened.”

  I tell him everything, all the gory details, and when I’m done, I realize I’m no longer crying.

  After a few moments of silence, he says, “I’m proud of you.”

  “Proud of me for telling a sick man that he’s basically dead to me?” I huff

  “Proud of you for letting go of the burden he placed on you. Proud of you for being ready to heal.”

  “All I’ve wanted to ever do is heal,” I snap.

  “Sometim
es, you have to cut off a toe to save a foot.”

  “What?” I almost laugh… almost.

  Pissed, I recall our conversation

  ‘Forgiveness is a gift you gave not only him but for yourself, Phoebe. Holding anger and hate for him inside your heart hurts you as well. You’ve worked tremendously hard to overcome that, and I know it has to be frustrating to feel like you have to do it all over again, but you and your future are worth it.’

  “I’ve seen him a few times. I’ve yet to be disrespectful, or carry any of that with me when I left him. Hell, I even stuck up for him when his family treated him like shit.”

  I have no idea why he sounds more relaxed now when I feel like I’m losing my shit, but he does.

  “I’m sure he appreciates it. But he’s not your responsibility. He’s your father. You were his responsibility.”

  “Do you recall me saying it’s okay to be angry at him and admit it. It’s okay to stop feeling responsible for him?”

  I say nothing.

  “You needed to be ready to do that, cut off the figurative toe, him, to save the foot, you. No one can force that, no parent, no doctor, not even you, until you were ready. So yes, I’m so very proud of you, Phoebe.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Don’t you dare be sorry for healing. Not ever.” He laughs, and it’s a sincere and kind laugh.

  “I have one question.”

  “I’ll lead you to find your own answer because that’s the only way this works.”

  “Will I ever be able to wear flip flops again?”

  “Excuse me?” he laughs.

  “The toe I cut off, will I—”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he laughs.

  “Are you going to call my Mom?”

  “You’re my patient, Phoebe. When you’re ready to talk to your Mom, then you talk to her, I just need you to tell me you’re in a safe place for my own sanity.”

  I look around the empty parking lot, “I am.”

  “There are not many teenage patients I would trust when saying that, but you’re not the average teenager, you’re stronger than that. Don’t let me make a mistake of mistrusting you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I will ask that you contact me, even just shoot me a text when you have time, even if it’s in a couple of days.”

  “Will do.”

  I don’t cry anymore. I’m not sad.

  I don’t have any more tears for that man, and I don’t think I ever will.

  Graham

  Wyd? - Phoebe

  @ the football game w/gabby, you? - Graham

  Nevermind - Phoebe

  Vi and Kendall

  Are you guys at the soccer game? - Phoebe

  I am, ken has a game - Vi

  U coming? - Vi

  I open my messages with Max but quickly close them out. I don’t need to bother him.

  Mom

  Are you at work? - Phoebe

  I wait for an answer until exactly 4:29 before I pull out of the parking lot and continue down the road.

  Away from Emerson, away from that stupid apartment and away from everything—and I breathe,

  It’s 9:34 when I finally look down at the time.

  Shit.

  I look around at my surroundings in a desperate attempt to be able to identify something, but the dirt roads surrounded by pine forests are no different than any other small town in the region.

  Five hours is a long time to drive. I don’t even know if I’m in New York anymore, and there’s no way to tell.

  I drive until I finally spot a sign for a dingy little diner. The half-functional lights remind me of the beginning of a bad horror movie, but without any service, I don’t really have an option.

  I park next to an old red pick-up truck, even though every bit of information I’ve ever taken from an episode of Criminal Minds I’ve watched with Violet is screaming for me not to.

  I have one bar of service and no internet.

  Fuck.

  Then, I decide to make the worst decision any defenseless teenage girl who doesn’t know where she is with no cellphone service could possibly do.

  I get out of my car and go into the creepy, run-down diner.

  The bell on the door jingles as I push it open, my keys between my fingers and my phone in my other hand.

  I look around wearily. There are a few people in the diner. An old man in a flannel and a trucker hat sits on a stool at the counter, talking to someone in a near-identical uniform, sans hat. There’s a middle-aged couple in a booth. I make a note of the woman, remembering what my mom told me about trusting them over any man. There’s another pair in a booth in the corner, but I can’t see them as well.

  “How can I help you, honey?” The red-haired woman behind the counter asks.

  “I was wondering if you guys have Wi-Fi? My GPS cut out.” A lie, but at least it’s a good one. Foolproof. No way I could mess it up.

  She lets out a light laugh, filling the quiet room. “No Wi-Fi here. I’d be more than happy to point you on your way, though. Where are you headed?”

  “Emerson,” I tell her.

  She pauses for a moment, clearly thinking something through. “Links, you know how to get to Emerson?” Both halves of the couple in the booth end their conversation abruptly, turning their attention to me.

  “The highway is just a right about half a mile up the road and then a left two miles from that. There are signs after that first right.” The salt-and-pepper man speaks up.

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  “You all right, honey?” The blonde woman sitting across from him asks.

  “Fine.” I give her a reassuring smile.

  The bell rings from the kitchen, and the waitress whips around. She’s at their table in a split-second “Your turkey burger, Lucas.” She hands the man his plate, which he’s clearly not very pleased with. “And your chicken salad.”

  I approach the counter and grab a saran-wrapped cookie from a wicker basket, knowing I should buy something.

  “A dollar fifty, sweetie.” The woman says. I hand her three dollars from my wallet before walking toward the door.

  “Right in half a mile?” I turn back toward the booth.

  “You got it.” The man smiles.

  “Drive safe, honey.” The blonde woman speaks up.

  “Thanks.” I smile before pushing the door open and being greeted by ice-cold rain. I make it to my car while the bells on the door are still ringing, locking my door behind me.

  Murder averted.

  I make it to a familiar spot on the highway before realizing I was only in Blue Valley.

  My windshield wipers move rhythmically as I carefully drive home, being passed what feels like a million times as I drive cautiously through the downpour.

  Finally, my exit appears. I slow down as I get off of the highway, navigating the streets I know like the back of my hand.

  When I pull into my driveway, there’s a shadowy figure standing under the cover provided by my porch.

  I hold my keys between my fingers as I slowly approach the door.

  “Fuck you,” Max mutters, letting out a breath of relief before pulling me into his chest. “Answer your fucking phone.”

  “I was driving.”

  “If you’re going to break fucking laws, then at least tell me first.” His fingers entangle themselves in my hair as he pulls my head to his chest. “It’s ten, Pheebs.”

  “I know,” I say softly.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Did you win?” I ask.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “Did you win?” I repeat.

  “Yeah,” he scoffs, shaking his head.

  “Who took your spot?”

  “What happened?”

  “Who took your spot,” I repeat.

  “Riley. He killed it,” he explains, pulling away from me. “Hey, no, no, no.” He wipes away tears I didn’t even know were there. “You’re going to come with me, oka
y?” He takes my hand, stepping toward the rain.

  “Your cast.” I pull back.

  “What?” He shakes his head.

  “It can’t get wet.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not.” I object.

  He pulls at the lanyard in my hand, but my fingers are clenched around it. “Pheebs, what happened?”

  “Can we just go inside?” I shakily push keys aside before unlocking the door.

  Max follows me in, flipping his hood off of his head as I turn the light on.

  “Why don’t we go upstairs?” He speaks softly. I feel like a little kid as he turns the light off behind me, flipping the switch to the one on the stairwell.

  “You can’t slide on your ass up the stairs,” I mumble.

  “It’s fine, Pheebs.” He sighs. “You go up and get in the shower, and I’ll meet you up there?”

  “Shower?” I ask.

  “You’re soaked.”

  I reach for the sleeve of my hoodie, almost grateful the goosebumps covering my body aren’t just from an attack.

  I move slowly up the stairs, turning back to see Max slowly working his way up them. He gives me a reassuring smile before I close the door, pulling off my rain-soaked glasses.

  I stare at myself in the mirror as I pull off my wet clothes.

  I look like a drowned rat.

  My bun has flopped to one side, and remnants of mascara I didn’t even know I had on have done a great job at making me look like Johnny Depp in ‘Pirates of the Caribbean.’

  I turn on the water, not bothering to check the temperature before climbing in. The water is scalding, but I don’t bother to turn it down as I robotically rub shampoo into my hair, then conditioner, and cover my loofa in body wash. It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s what I know.

  “Pheebs, you good?” Max calls as I wrap a towel around my body.

  “Yeah,” I answer, opening the bathroom door and walking into my bedroom. “You have a good swim?” I joke as I approach him. He’s almost as soaked as I was.

  “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not looking much better.”

  “Go steal Jack’s clothes,” I instruct.

  He sighs, reluctantly leaving my room and opening the door to my brother’s. Before Jack moved to New York and became a hipster, he dressed like every other white boy in America, so he has plenty of Nike joggers and sport-related T-shirts in his room that he traded for beanies and vintage button-downs the second he moved downstate.