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Tess
June 2009
School’s beenout for two weeks now and I’ve fallen into my summer routine. Without essays to write or history tests to study for, I get to put in twelve hour days at the garage. Which, really isn’t any different than my regular schedule, except that I can get to bed at a decent hour and knock off every once and a while.
We’re knee deep in pre-vacation rush. From the beginning of May to mid-June, we’re backed up with tune-ups and tire rotations. Minivans and station wagons. SUVs and cross-overs. Family cars that are going to carry moms and dads, kids and dogs, on cross-country trips. Down to Florida to Disneyworld. To summer cottages on the cape.
We haven’t been on a vacation since my mother died.
I try not to think about that when I’m changing spark plugs and fuses. Swapping out fuel filters and airing up tires. I try not to think about how we used to be a family. How my dad used to sing to my mom on long car rides. He has a great voice. A Soothing, rich tenor carrying the lyrics to Sainta Lucia Luntana perfectly.
He hasn’t sung in years.
He doesn’t have a reason to.
We aren’t a family anymore.
I’m his daughter.
His employee.
He feeds me. Shelters me.
I work on his cars. Keep my mouth shut about everything else.
I know that he loves me.
But I also know that having me around hurts.
That he has a hard time looking at me.
Because I look like her.
Because I know the truth.
Because I’m the one who found my mother and when he looks at me, he can’t lie to himself about what really happened.
That she killed herself.
Conner has become our buffer.
He comes over almost every day and hangs out. If there’s time, my dad will show him how to do an oil change or how to change a spark plug.
It’s good for both of them.
Keeps them occupied.
Sometimes, I wonder if my dad regrets never having a son. He’s never said as much, but watching him with Con makes it easy to believe.
When I hear the fast slap of sneakers against concrete, growing louder and louder, I assume it’s him, showing up for the day. Looking up from the carburetor I’m cleaning, it isn’t Conner I see standing in the doorway.
It’s Ryan. He looks like he’s about to throw-up and it has nothing to do with the fact that he just ran five blocks.
“What’s wrong?” Something prickles along my scale. “Ryan, What’s—”
“Something’s happening.” He shakes his head. “My mom—I think she’s leaving. Taking Henley.”
I’m peeled out of my coveralls and running down the street in a matter of seconds. Not toward Henley’s.