3. Chapter 3 #2
Not him, though. He has my mom consumed with legal topics and crime scene investigation. If she had it her way, that’s what she would do—hunt him. Find killers, kidnappers, and people who do harm to the innocent—to girls like me. Uncle Lucien really messed us up, and it shows in her obsession.
Leaving her to be nosy, I return to the garage and exit the exterior door on the opposite side of the incandescent-lit space. Both of their daily drivers are parked here: clean, tires oiled, and unnecessary for the size of our small family.
I could get lost between the garage and the shop.
It’s so pretty; the flowers and trees sit in beautiful clusters of colors and the negative space is filled with even more foliage.
It’s funny, because when it’s dark outside, it creeps me out.
It’s so eerily calm; the birds are asleep while the crickets die out as if someone’s watching and the forest is hiding something or someone.
The forest puts me on edge, thus why I chose to move into the city for school. I need the noise to muffle the screams in my head; if I’m out here for too long, Kate begins to squirm under my skin just like my baby brother.
A brick path, lined with arches reaching to the heavens and covered with moon flowers, leads to Dad’s shop.
Mom’s worked hard to keep the garden up, attempting to hide the ‘ugly’ humans bring to the landscape—so she says.
Full disclosure, it’s romantic and heartbreakingly beautiful under the right light.
Once upon a time, Dad promised the cosmos to her and has since delivered. She has suns, moons, stars, and an unending mass of colored flowers scattered throughout the backyard. If there’s one thing my dad does, it’s deliver, and he brought the universe directly to our home.
At the end of the path, the shop door is cracked, evidence of his engine-grimy hands smeared in black swipes and smudges on the white metal. You can see exactly where he grabs everywhere except the door handle to close it behind him. He could, you know, use the knob but doesn’t.
The filth makes me smile, knowing his touch is everywhere even on the most mundane things. It’s his mark, his roots never straying too far from where they rose up and broke free from the cold, dead earth.
Opening the door, I slide in and shift through the mess he’s gathered inside.
Both wooden and cardboard boxes litter the concrete slab around a car that was beat to shit when they brought it home.
Others are stacked neatly, with their multi-colored packages still intact and waiting for use.
Then there’s the smell of motor oil, engine grime, metal, and sweat lingering.
Sounds atrocious, but it’s relaxing—I’d go so far as to say they are some of my favorite scents.
This car showed up in pieces about a year ago.
The frame was bent, the window caved in, and the remnants of a door had been bitten into two by the jaws of life.
My mom was torn up that day, her eyes red-rimmed and utterly broken once she rounded the driver side.
I was confused initially, but the underlying stench of blood clued me in.
Someone died in that car, someone important.
Mom wouldn’t come in here for a long time, but she refused to let it sit and rot—seeing her love for a car, and Dad’s dedication to restore it has made me love it too.
It looks amazing now—black on black, with a black interior that’s too hot in the summer.
I effortlessly slide over the leather seats once dad finishes smearing orange leather balm on them.
I can see myself sitting in the driver seat as I zoom down the highway.
It’s small, fast, sporty; everything I’d ever want in my own car—minus the racing stuff.
I don’t particularly need that. Speeding isn’t my thing, but the rest of it is striking.
Rounding the backside, I see Dad lying on his creeper under the bumper—his left leg is bent, the right stretched as his foot bobs in time with the music pumping through the hidden surround sound.
He’s wearing his dirty shop jeans today—years of wiping his filthy hands on them has almost altered their atomic makeup, giving them an undeniable character.
Aware of my steps, I tiptoe to his right and clear my throat.
He stills, then the warmth of his chuckle fills my chest cavity, sinking deeper into the hollow of my bones.
I love him so much, as much as a broken girl can.
I don’t know why; I’ve had more contact with Mom, but there’s something about being my Dad’s mini-me…
about being his little girl, that I can’t explain.
The wheels of his creeper roll along the concrete with an obnoxious scratch as he slides out from under the car.
Smirking with grease smeared across his jaw, his bright blue eye—mirroring mine—clock me instantly.
Much like when we first met, he keeps his hair cropped short on the sides and longer on the top.
Only now, there’s more gray, giving him an edge he didn’t have before.
“You know, I’d never complain about you visiting, Wild Side, but a heads up would have been nice. I might have put this project down for the day and met you somewhere instead of this damn garage.” His voice is teasing, as he stands from the cold floor and heads to his work bench.
“It’s alright, Daddy. If I had to choose between this and being around a bunch of insufferable shits, I’d pick engine gunk and sweat every time. Besides, we have a date tonight, remember?”
At his tool box he slows, searching for a shop rag to wipe off the filth—hesitating. He forgot. Methodically, he cleans one digit at a time, peering at his hands as if they’re the most interesting things on planet Earth.
If there was a clear window to his brain, I bet you the gears inside would be sticking together or snapping their metal teeth in effort to find the best lie.
To my surprise, he owns up to it. Not that he’s ever gone out of his way to lie to me and tarnish our relationship; that’s just my demons talking.
“Sorry, baby. I forgot. Let’s get to the house and I’ll clean up real fast. Your mom’s in the middle of nesting, threatening to cut off body parts if we dirty up her kitchen—I’ve been hiding all day.”
Tossing the rag into the uppermost compartment, he shuts and locks it with a key that quickly disappears into his front right pocket.
The low music dies, bathing the both of us in tense silence and the scuff of his work boots as he crosses to me.
His height forces me to crane my neck to look at him.
I’m surprised when he pulls me in for a rib-crushing hug.
I can’t help curling around him like a sly snake then resting my chin on his chest and faking one of my many smiles.
“Truly sorry. Let me hold you for a moment then we’ll get lost. What are you thinking for our date? Go-karts again, museum, fishing?”
My nose scrunches at the idea of fishing.
When Mr. Wilson was alive, my adopted father, he spoke a lot about going fishing with his friends.
They would get drunk and have ‘guy time.’ At first, I’d beg to tag along, wanting to spend more time with him, then things got weird.
He’d tell me being alone with men is dangerous but never explained.
It made me feel strange, unseen for not having the correct anatomy.
But when I got older, I learned why. Now?
Knowing what sleazy things men like, and what they do while out and about makes me sick.
Mom has seen the worst of those kinds of men, and I hate them for it.
They hurt her, they’ve destroyed innocent people.
It makes me understand why the Investigator does what he does—even if he hurts innocents, too.
If I were him, it’d be my personal mission to force-feed rapists their entrails, and I wouldn’t stop there.
After being tortured by my uncle, maybe I’d hunt him down and ask him for pointers on making an example out of society's worst.
I guess I’m more like him than I give myself credit for.
“Actually, I was thinking of a tattoo.”
“A tattoo…are you sure? Hell, don’t answer that, I know you’re serious. Once you set your mind on something, it’s full steam ahead. Do you have a design in mind?”
“Hmm…, something pretty without harsh lines, like paintings, muted colors to cover my scars.”
Dad tenses before he leans in and presses a kiss to the top of my head, likely getting that residual grime all over my platinum hair.
“What kind of flowers?”
“The unique ones you don’t see all the time. Blue puya, cowslip, jasmine possibly. Do you think they would look pretty together?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely, baby. I’m excited to see it. Come on, let’s go. Quick shower for me, then we can finish the night by avoiding your dragon-mother. She told me the other day she’d eat us with an entire bottle of ketchup if we’re not careful.”