Page 92 of Charlie and Her Sweet Escape
BENNETT
Ifollowed the tracks the ATV had made in the mud until it was too dark to see anymore, grateful it hadn’t rained yet. Dad stayed close the entire time. He, thankfully, kept quiet, because I didn’t know what I would have done if he had continued to talk.
My entire focus had to be on finding Charlie.
“We need to stop for the night,” Dad said.
I kept pushing forward as though I hadn’t heard him.
“Ben.” Dad grabbed my arm and held me back with a firm grip. “We’re going to lose her trail and have to backtrack once it’s light. It’s better to go to sleep now and start fresh in the morning.”
“I don’t want her alone longer than she needs to be.”
Dad hesitated, and then said, “She’s a resourceful woman. She’ll be fine.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and I shook his hand off my arm.
“You know something.” I narrowed my eyes.
“The tarp’s in my bag,” Dad said. “Let’s tie it between two trees in case of rain. Getting soaked doesn’t sound pleasant.”
“What do you know?” I pressed while Dad tried to go on pretending that everything was fine and normal.
“I can’t really talk about this right now.” He pointedly tipped his head toward the camera on his chest. “Let’s get some rest. Everything will look clearer in the morning.”
I stormed toward him and helped tie up the tarp. I hadn’t brought the sleeping bag, because I hadn’t realized this challenge would be so intense. The other challenges had all lasted maybe two or three hours. Never this long.
“Remember how we used to go hunting when you were a kid? I loved all those trips.” Dad monologued about several of our early hunts while I tried to get comfortable. “Those were great times, weren’t they? I was a good dad to you then.”
“Except for the time you broke my bow. Or made me stay quiet for days on end. Or when you left us,” I said, my voice flat. I wanted to be happy that he’d come. This was exactly what I’d longed for as a kid, to have one more trip with my dad. But maybe the dad I’d dreamed up in my memories wasn’t one who’d ever actually existed.
Or, maybe he did—parts of that dad, at least. It was all too confusing.
“Well…” Dad’s cheer faded out.
The silence stretched until I sighed and sat up. Sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon.
“You used to sigh like that when you were a kid,” Dad said, quieter this time. “When you were sad. Your brothers would both shut down and go silent, but you were always quick to sigh or cry.”
“Guess I haven’t changed that much.”
“When I left, you weighed a buck twenty and were five inches shorter than you are now.” He leaned his elbows on his folded legs and clasped his hands in front of him.
We sat a foot from each other, but the emotional distance might as well have been as far as me and Charlie were from each other now. I didn’t know how to cross it—or if I even wanted to anymore.
Dad fiddled with our fire, watching the flames. “What can I do to earn your forgiveness?”
“It’s not about forgiveness. It’s about trust.” Which wasn’t entirely true. It was about figuring out how to hold two opposing ideas in one space. How to reconcile the trauma he had caused with the fun we’d had. “Trust is earned, and it takes time.”
“And desire to give it,” Dad said so quietly, I almost didn’t hear him. He threw a stick onto the fire he’d made, and a burst of sparks flew up into the dark night.
Had Charlie made a fire? Of course she did. She was our expert fire maker. I hated the idea of her out here, all alone. But she was capable, and I was confident in her abilities to take care of herself. She didn’t need me to survive, but I ached for her anyway. Did she miss me too?
“I knew you’d be okay,” Dad continued. “When I left. You’re the most sensitive of the kids, but you’re also the most resilient. You know how to survive hard things, and how to turn them into an advantage. I raised you to be tough in any situation.” Dad was doing the thing where he was winding up, enjoying the sound of his own voice, thrilled to be giving out wisdom. Out of habit, I shut my mouth and turned inward.Listen and don’t speak.
At one point, I’d soaked up everything he’d said. I’d idolized him. Dad was the arbiter of truth, and I was his eager follower.
Now, I recognized his hubris. He was trying to convince us both he’d done the right thing by leaving, and that he’d known all along we’d turn out alright. That he’d designed it,could take creditfor our success in the wake of his abandonment. That his cruelty had been a gift.
“Mom used to cry,” I said, interrupting him, to both of our surprise. “Every night after you left. Do you remember how thin the walls were in that house? All four of us could hear it.”
