Page 82 of Everything We Give

Through the phone receiver came the flare of a match. The short, rapid puffs igniting a cigarette. A long, deep inhale. “She sounds like a nice girl,” my dad said through a tight throat, his words carried on smoke.

Ripping a page from Pop’s get-straight-to-the-point playbook, I asked, “What’s going on with Mom?”

“How the hell would I know?” he said, irritated.

“You haven’t heard from her?” Disappointment nose-dived into my gut. I’d had hopes he would have come to his senses after I left him in Vegas and he sobered up. “Have you even tried looking for her?”

“She’s gone. She left us. End of story.”

“She’s sick, Dad. She doesn’t realize it, but she needs us.”

“I’m not discussing her with you. Come to think of it, you bring her up again, I’m hanging up.”

I beat him to it. I hung up, and other than leaving a brief message that I was getting married and to give him my cell number, I hadn’t called him since. He texted a reply, twice. First, his congrats on marriage, and second, on fatherhood, after I messaged him that Aimee had given birth to Sarah Catherine.

I never understood why he gave up on my mom—hiswife—so easily. Or me, for that matter. He discarded me like an overexposed, blurry image. But I’d done the same, I think as I drive with Aimee toward the old farmhouse I haven’t seen since my early twenties. My last visit had been the summer before my final year at ASU.

It’s midmorning Tuesday. Aimee sits beside me, her gaze on passing storefronts. Old, run-down Americana. The town hasn’t changed and surprisingly, I don’t miss it. Aside from my dad, I can’t think of anyone here worth keeping in touch with. Mrs.Killion passed a few years ago and Mr.Killion sold their farm soon after. Like me, Marshall left after he graduated from Boston College. There isn’t much to do around here unless you go into ranching or farming. Last I heard, Marshall was married with three kids and living in the Boston suburbs as a financial adviser.

“I’m nervous about meeting your father,” Aimee says for the second time this morning.

I rest a hand on her thigh. “He’ll be fine,” I say to reassure her and myself. I’m feeling apprehensive. A growing sense of concern keeps me rigid in the driver’s seat. It kept me up all night. “I doubt he’ll be home, though. It’s football season.”

“Lacy seems to think he will be.”

I see the roofline of the house above crumpled stalks of corn, dried out from the sun. The front fields still haven’t been plowed. Flipping on the signal, I slow and turn into the driveway, and then I brake, coming to a full stop. I reverse the car and stop again. “I think we have our answer.” I nod at the mailbox. The flap is open, exposing the overstuffed interior. Random-size letters and circulars scatter the ground like fallen leaves.

Putting the car in park, I get out and Aimee joins me. She collects the mail strewn along the roadside while I clean out the box.

“I’ll take those,” she offers, and I hand over the mail.

“Thanks.” I look around, lifting my face to the wind. Barn manure, wet grass, and the acerbic tang of nutrients. “I forgot how strong fertilizer can smell.”

Aimee’s nose crinkles. “That’s really unpleasant.”

“Welcome to farmland. Let’s go see if my dad’s home, and if Lacy’s there.” I hold the door open until she’s settled in her seat. She balances the mail on her lap. I close the door and walk around the car and sink into my seat. I take in the house at the end of the drive, the white siding sun faded and dusty from the fields. The rain gutter upstairs has pulled away from the roof. Screens on some of the windows are ripped. One of the porch columns leans precariously off to the side, causing the overhang to sag.

“Did the house always look like this?”

“Not this bad.” I coast slowly up the gravel drive and bring the car to a stop beside my dad’s old Chevy truck. He sold the station wagon when I was sixteen, exchanging it for a beat-up Toyota 4Runner, which I used to get around.

Folded, dried-up newspapers litter the front porch, spilling down the steps like coffee beans poured from a canister. I kick aside the papers so Aimee doesn’t trip, and walk the length of the porch, which wraps around the side of the house. My boots leave prints in the dust, fine soil carried by the winds that come through here. I peer into the parlor and dining room windows. The interior is cast in gray light. “I don’t think he’s home.”

Aimee looks around the front yard. “Lacy isn’t here either. There’s no car. Think she’ll show?”

“No clue,” I say, nudging boards along the porch edge with the toe of my boot. Bending over, I try lifting a few.

Aimee comes to stand over me. “What are you doing?”

“When I was ten, Jackie locked me out of the house one night. It was storming and the rain was pouring by the bucketload. I was too scared to run to Marshall’s house, and I couldn’t see. I didn’t want to risk twisting my ankle running across the fields, so I slept on the porch. Curled up right there on the doormat like a dog.” I lift my chin in the direction of the front door.

“Ian.” Emotion weighs down my name.

“Hmm.” I look up at Aimee. Anger hardens her features. Her blue eyes smolder. “I can’t believe your mother—”

“Ancient history, darling. Mom couldn’t help what she did when she shifted. And Jackie can’t hurt me now.”

I tug a board. It doesn’t budge. I move to the next one and pry it open. “Jackpot.” Reaching inside, I fumble around the porch framework until I find what I’m looking for. My fingers touch metal. Grinning, I show Aimee a weather-tarnished key. “I stashed this inside here after that night. Never said a word about it to my parents.”

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