Page 81 of The Words We Lost

The pedals are lightning under my feet until the terrain morphsfrom taxpayers’ asphalt to a narrow dirt path most locals wouldn’t even look twice at. The fir trees are taller now, their branches fuller, but the stench of decay and rot is very much the same. This has never been a shore for seashell hunts and day-long frolics with friends.

This is the shore where hope comes to die.

As soon as the bow of the weathered vessel comes into view, heat licks my insides. It’s still here, still anchored to a life that no longer exists.

In a different world, I might have been the kind of daughter who would pay her respects at a cemetery. The kind who would mournfully run her fingers along a generous epitaph etched in a smooth, marble headstone. Maybe even the kind who’d leave a vase of white lilies behind when she left. But Captain Hal wouldn’t have known what to do with a fresh bouquet of flowers any more than I would have known what to do with a predictable parent.

I leave the bike at the same fir tree where I used to park my old ten-speed before the night Joel and Cece stumbled upon a truth I’d managed to keep hidden for years. The closer I get to the bow, the quicker my pulse kicks against my ribs, as if it’s already anticipating my need for escape.

But I have no desire to take the coward’s way out this time.

My dad did enough of that for the both of us.

When my mother was still alive, we used to go through a stack of outdatedHighlightsmagazines piled on the side of her bed.“Can you spot the differences between these two pictures, Ingrid?”And while she’d brush my long hair, I’d scrunch up my nose and narrow my eyes on the side-by-side images of playgrounds and classrooms and ice cream parlors. At first glance, they always seemed to be identical, but then slowly, surely, the differences would reveal themselves and I’d scratch them off on the finder’s key one at a time.

But as I stare now at this ugly scar of my youth and recall its lack of warmth and protection, the differences in its appearance aren’t enough to scratch off any of the feelings that go along with them.

The grooved indent the hull has made into the rocky shore makesit appear as if it’s been dragged against its will into the murky waters behind it. The vessel slumps unevenly to one side, the cabin door warped and exposed to the elements as it is to whatever rodents and wildlife nest inside it. Shattered windows and extensive rust tell of storms I never weathered, and yet the corrosion inside me speaks of the ones I did.

Something feral and merciless begins to chew its way through the core of me as I picture myself inside that back cabin bedroom. I remember the unwashed blankets and piles of children’s books that kept me company through the long, isolated nights when my dad was too gone from drink or out buying more. I hear my childlike voice crying out for him in the darkness, begging him toplease stay awake, toplease keep me safeas wind and rain ravaged the black waters beyond my portside window. And then I feel the caged helplessness of loving a man whose actions rarely aligned with his promises.

But I’m not helpless anymore.

I bend at the waist and dig into the wet, pebbled earth at my feet. My nails scratch into the grainy sand as I pluck out the weightiest rocks and release the rest. Accusations wrapped in rage rush to greet me, and for the first time, I invite them in.

I line up my aim on the window nearest the galley, the cracked one Cece must have peered through the night my inebriated father threatened to pull anchor from the only home I’d ever known, and from the only people who’d ever really known me. It takes three strikes for the far side of the window to break under the strength of my pitch, and the sound of it is so addicting, I refill my ammunition and go at it again.Harder.

With each hit, the offenses grow, as does my ability to voice them.

“Where were you going that night, Dad?” I bellow into the forest as I pitch another rock at the rusted stern. “Why were you in that storm after dark?”

Pitch. Hit. “Why didn’t you tell me about your relapse?”

Pitch. Hit. “How did Cece get your ax?”

Pitch. Hit. “Why didn’t you listen to Joel?”

Pitch. Hit. “Did you even think about me? Even once?”

Exhaustion slows my speed, but my mind still rages ahead as I close my hand around the sharp rocks and rush toward the boat. I pummel my fist into the hard steel until my entire body vibrates with an anger I don’t recognize.

“I’m the one who hid your secrets, Dad! I’m the one who fought your battles! I’m the one who refused to give up on you every time you lost a bet or drank yourself sick! I’m the one who prayed for a miracle when you were lost at sea!” A cry rips from my throat. “And still, you left!You left me!”

I collapse against the cold wall, my head bowed low. “Why wasn’t I enough for you?”

But even as my chest heaves with the ache for truth, I know I won’t find it here. My questions have never been confined to this boat. Or even to the man who anchored it here. They are bigger, deeper, weightier. And unlike the foolish girl I was for so many years, hoping for a cure that would never come, trusting in a rescue plan that would arrive too late, believing in a love that was never meant to last ... this time, I don’t have it in me to hope.

With a tired breath, I unfurl my fist and watch the last of the rocks fall to the ground. I wasn’t able to protect my father, but I still have time to protect Wendy. Even if doing so means I can no longer protect myself.

It’s just before seven when I text Joel.

Ingrid

I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from tonight, but can we talk? Please.

He responds within five minutes.

Joel

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