Page 44 of Too Old for This
By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. Trying to explain myself—and what I want—has become a chore on so many levels. I take out my phone, place it on the kitchen counter, and write a sticky note:
Phone
A reminder to leave it here.
Finally, I sit down in my chair and check the news online. It’s something I’ve done several times a day since Friday night, a near obsession I hate myself for, but that doesn’t stop me. Surrender only goes so far. There are some things you can’t let go of no matter how hard you try. Mine is wondering if I’m going to be arrested for my latest murder.
Three days after I left Kelsie in the shower, she shows up.
Local Woman Found Dead
Authorities say a 29-year-old woman was found dead at her home in Salem on Saturday night. Kelsie Harlow was discovered when police did a welfare check on behalf of a concerned family member. Officers found Harlow in her bathtub, where she had apparently slipped and hit her head, causing the fatal injury. The death has been ruled an accident.
The article says exactly what I’d hoped for: It was an accident.
But this is only the first shoe to drop.
I close my laptop, push myself up and out of the recliner. Time to clean up the mess I’ve made. That might be the real secret to life. Stop trying to clean up everybody else’s mess,and concentrate on your own. Neither one of my parents ever learned it.
CHAPTER 24
When I was eight years old, my schedule was pretty much set. School Monday through Friday. Saturdays and Sundays were for chores and playing. I also slept later and ate big bowls of sugary cereal. The kind that turned the milk sweet.
But one Saturday, my mother woke me up earlier than usual. She yanked open the curtains and pulled back the bedcovers.
“You have to get up,” she said.
No further explanation. I got up without asking for one.
My mother was a brisk, efficient woman who didn’t have time for questions. She had lots of schedules—cleaning, cooking, shopping, paying the bills. The problem always came at the end of the month, when there wasn’t enough money to pay all the bills, which in turn screwed up the shopping schedule, then the cooking schedule, and so on. But theoretically, her lists had our house running smooth.
This morning, I knew something was wrong when she threw my clothes on the bed. The socks didn’t match.
She didn’t tolerate things like that, but I kept my mouth shut. She wasn’t in the mood to answer questions.
A few minutes later, we were in the car. Our town was small, and there weren’t too many places to go. One of them was the police station.
I couldn’t think of anything I had done wrong, exceptsneak a few extra cookies after school and not keep my room clean. But, honest to God, I was positive she was bringing me to jail. I thought about refusing to get out of the car but figured that would make everything worse.
The windows of the station were covered in dust. Some kid was cleaning them with a bucket and squeegee. Not unusual for our town, which was basically in the desert. It just depended on the wind.
My mother walked right in and up to the counter. She announced her name and said she was there to pick up Ray Lansdale.
My father.
I watched everything from a bench in the lobby. A big man in a uniform came over and talked to my mother like he knew her. They spoke in low voices, and I couldn’t hear everything, but I knew it wasn’t good. None of this was. The mismatched socks had already told me that.
But we didn’t get my father right away. First, a trip across the street to the bail bondsman. Another man I didn’t know but my mother did. A fast and furious conversation took place; it almost reminded me of the arguments she and my father had. This one was about money. Eventually, she pulled out her checkbook.
It took most of the morning to get my father back, and he didn’t look good. His shirt was ripped, he had a big red eye, and he smelled like sweat and booze. I already knew those odors.
Nobody explained to me what was happening. All I knew was that my father had been arrested and we had to pay to get him back. I didn’t know he had gotten into a bar fight, didn’tknow he had been so drunk and so angry that it took half the customers to calm him down until the police arrived. I learned all that in school.
My best friend was a girl named Molly. A couple of days later, when I asked if she wanted to come over after school, she shook her head. Her springy curls bounced against her shoulders.
“Can’t.”
“What about tomorrow?” I asked.
