Page 25 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

For me.

I have to celebrate his life.

Lacking the guts to drive to the springs,—the town had to get its name somewhere—I drive aimlessly until thirty minutes becomes forty-five. I once read that experiencing a traumatic event at a young age was better than experiencing it when older. Something about children locking up their most disturbing moments into the remotest corner of their memory, therefore allowing themselves to move past the unthinkable.

While that may be true for some… I wasn’t so lucky. I was nine when I found him—not exactly a child but not old enough to be considered a teenager.

But I still remember everything.

Every detail.

Every noise.

But what I remember most vividly is the smell.

Booze, cigarette…

Death.

My father committed suicide in the garage the day after my ninth birthday. Ashley, Mom, and I had gone to a benefit concert for leukemia where Ash was set to sing. We’d made a girls’ day out of it, dropped by the hair salon, then to the mall to snag the perfect dress for Ashley’s big performance. Mom had even agreed, very reluctantly, to let me get the tips of my hair dyed dark pink while my sister got blonde highlights.

It was the perfect day.

Until it wasn’t.

I’d run inside the house ahead of Mom and Ashley to go find Dad. I just couldn’t wait to show him my hair. Ashley was always a mommy’s girl, but I was my father’s daughter all the way. Curtis D’Amour was more than my papa.

He was my best friend and the only person in my life who I felt saw me just as clearly as he saw my sister. The only person who made me feel like I was his favorite. He had a special nickname for me and me only.

Love.

One silly little name.

That’s all I’ve got left from him.

When he was nowhere to be found, I’d made my way to the garage. I knew he liked to hang out in there since the crash. I couldn’t understand why, though. Doesn’t it remind him of what he’s lost? Nine-year-old Aveena asked herself. Doesn’t it make him think about how he’ll never drive one of those fast cars again?

My dad was a race car driver, and a damn good one at that. He loved it more than anything in the world.

Even his family, apparently.

One wrong turn and it was over.

He lost use of his legs, his career, his dream. He landed in a wheelchair and became a completely different person. He went from world’s best dad to shell of a human being overnight. Then he fell into a depression so dark, no one, not even my mom, could pull him out.

And she tried. Lord, did she try. She loved my father more than she ever loved any of us, even Ashley. She forced him to get help. But two years of constant therapy later, here we were.

In a cold, dusty garage that reeked of goodbyes.

He was sitting in an old swinging chair when I came in. At first, I shook his arm. I asked, screamed for him to wake up until my voice was no more. My child brain couldn’t comprehend what the empty bottle of pills in his hand meant.

There was a letter, too.

One my mom refused to let us read.

She claimed it contained the rambles of a broken man and we were too young and fragile to be exposed to such tragedy. She swore it was for the best and the only important thing was that he said he loved us and he was sorry. I cried, begged her for a chance to read it.

She burned the letter a few days later.