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My mom waves her hand at me, her way of telling me to be quiet. She hates talking about money. Probably because it reminds her that we’ve never had any. “I’m going in to finish up supper,” she says. “Won’t be long now—don’t stand out here yappin’ too long.” She heads back into the house, leaving my dad and me alone, Molly clambering for attention between us. I know what’s coming. All I can do is stand here and wait for it.
“You should’ve called, Cari,” my dad lectures me while swinging Molly up in the air, her high-pitched squeals punctuating his stern words.
“I did call,” I say, collecting my bag off the ground and slinging it over my shoulder.
“Don’t get cute, little girl.” He tries to glare at me but doesn’t quite pull it off. Between the two of them, Mom is the one with the iron fist. But dad has his moments. “You know what I mean.”
I do know what he means. If I’d called and told them I was coming, he would’ve insisted on taking a bus to Boston and driving back with me. It would’ve taken days neither one of us could afford. “You can’t take that kind of time off work, Dad.” I say it as gently as I can. He’s always been sensitive about his job. Almost bitter about the fact that he has to work so hard, even with my mom’s job at the post office, to make ends meet.
He glares at me again, and this time he manages it just fine. “I’ve got some vacation time saved up.”
“And I want you to use it when you, Mom and Gracie come to Boston for my show,” I smile at him until he finally lets it go.
Swinging Molly onto his back, he gives me a rueful grin while she climbs onto his shoulders. “Well, at least you had sense enough to put new tires on that hunk of junk before you drove it to hell and gone.”
To hell and gone.
The same thing Patrick said to me last night.
You can run to hell and gone—I’m still going to be here, and I’m still going to love you.
I look at my tires. They’re brand new. I hadn’t even noticed.
He must be able to tell from the look on my face that I had nothing to do with putting new tires on my car. He laughs at me while Molly uses her sticky, chubby fingers to smoosh his hair into a mohawk. “I suppose I have your fella to thank for that,” he says, shaking his head at me. He’s met Patrick a few times over the years and likes him. Who wouldn’t?
“I don’t have a fella.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction that has my dad laughing.
“He beat-up the sack of shit who put hands on you and put new tires on your car,” he says. Anchoring Molly’s legs to his chest with one arm, he throws the other around my shoulder and walks me across the yard, toward the house. “Sorry to be the one to break it to you, little girl—but you’ve got yourself a fella.”