Chapter 27 Sydney
Sydney
“Of course, a storm rolled in,” I mutter to myself.
The weather is the equivalent of wearing a belt and suspenders. After this evening’s conversation with McRae about his alcoholism, Dad is already front and center in my mind. I don’t need another reminder.
Standing in front of our bedroom windows, I watch lightning fork across the night sky. The boom of thunder follows immediately.
Shivering, I rub my arms. It’s long past the time we normally turn in, but there’s no way I can get into our bed. If I do, I’ll fall asleep, and the nightmare will come. I can feel it, crouching and ready to pounce.
Of all the memories I lost, I’d have happily tossed my childhood into the abyss. Give me Switzerland with McRae back, dammit. But no. I get to keep this one.
I close the curtains and turn away, but the sound of rainwater striking the glass continues to assault my ears. Even the humidity reminds me why I promised myself never to get involved with a man like Dad. I betrayed that vow.
McRae enters from the hallway, dressed for bed and carrying a tray containing two mugs, fresh fruit, and a huge bowl of popcorn.
He stops short when he sees me. “The storm is loud.”
I barely nod, but he sees the movement because he responds with a firming of his mouth and a matching head bob of his own. Then, without a word, he heads for the huge walk-in closet. When he doesn’t return after a few minutes, I drift to the open door to peek inside.
Frowning in confusion, I lean against the doorframe and watch as McRae removes the rolled-up foam mattress topper from one of the tall wardrobes.
He slides it under a makeshift tent constructed of three flat sheets.
Then he pulls out string lights from a drawer and secures them with small clamps to drape inside.
The moment he plugs in the lights, the scene becomes magic, the ivory sheets glowing with warm light. He layers blankets on top of the mattress. Finally, he fills the tent with colorful pillows.
He climbs back out to get the tray of snacks. “Do you want to get Rufus?”
“What is happening right now?”
“Closet camping. We can watch a few movies. We could do an audiobook. Or we could read with music playing until the storm is over.”
To cover the sound.
“Aren’t you tired?” I ask.
“Nah. If I accidentally zonk out though, wake me up if you want company,” he says.
I scan the scene, my chest aching. “I told you about the nightmares?”
“No.”
“I woke you up with my screaming,” I guess.
“Scared the piss out of me the first time,” he admits.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve returned the favor with a couple of my own.”
“You have bad dreams?”
“They don’t happen often.”
Rufus noses curiously inside and rubs against my ankles.
“Perfect timing. Can you close the door and hit the lights?” he asks.
The rain and thunder muffle to something I could almost ignore when I follow his instructions. McRae climbs into the tent with the tray, and I crawl in after him, my knees sinking into the layers of flannel and foam.
“Would you think I was ridiculous if I wanted to watch Howl’s Moving Castle?” I ask.
He props pillows behind us, then reaches for his tablet. “I love that movie. It’s good when you’re a kid, but it’s even better when you’re an adult.”
He starts the movie on his iPad, then passes me a mug of chamomile tea. I hesitate for two seconds, then take a sip. He made it for me, along with the popcorn. It’s safe.
Rufus gets comfortable at our feet. I dig into the bowl of popcorn, and McRae drops his arm around my shoulders. I lean on him, contentment wrapping me in a warm embrace on a night when I’d have said it was impossible to feel anything but pain and fear.
He has no responsibility to disrupt his own sleep to hang out inside a closet with me. I could have popped some earbuds in and read a book all night on my own.
Closet camping is silly. It’s immature. It’s the kindest thing I can remember anyone ever doing for me. And he already held the record.
We finish the movie and popcorn, then turn on another movie. Halfway through Kiki’s Delivery Service, McRae’s arm relaxes. I look over to find him sleeping half reclined with his neck bent in an uncomfortable-looking position.
I move the tablet out of the way and ease him down. He rolls toward me, tugging me close, his face pressed into my shoulder.
The sound of the movie continues, though I can’t see it while I’m lying on my side. That’s more than okay with me.
The night is the kind of sticky hot that makes breathing about as comfortable as sucking air through a wet blanket.
Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. But I never can once it starts.
Rain pounds on the car windows like Big Mitch looking for rent money. Not to get confused with Little Mitch, who ain’t little at all.
Little Mitch and Dad are inside the Sportsmen’s Club celebrating me coming home. But Dad forgot MaryBeth works on Tuesdays, and she don’t allow no kids inside after dark.
It turned dark a long time ago.
On the nights Becky works, I’m allowed to sleep on the cracked sticky red cushion in a corner booth.
She gives me a Sprite with a cherry in it and my own red-and-white-striped paper tray of popcorn.
Sometimes, somebody screws up an order or Dad’s got extra money, and they send me over fried pickles or chicken tenders with honey to dip ’em in and french fries for supper.
I wish Becky was here. My guts are all hollowed out tonight with that pinchy feeling. I had lunch at school, but I sure would like some popcorn or french fries.
I sit up on my knees in the backseat and unzip my Strawberry Shortcake backpack the church people gave me.
I fish out the packet of squished Club Crackers I saved from school lunch. When I rip it open, crumbs go flying, so I shove what I can into my mouth fast as I can. Then I lick my thumb and use it to dab up the crumbs that got on my shirt and legs.
The only drink is water for Dad, but he won’t care if I open the bottle and take sips.
When the social worker makes him stop drinking beer, he’s miserable and mean as a rattlesnake. But if he has beer, he’s nice and funny. Everybody cracks up over his stories, like the one about the time he lost me when I was two.
My mom, who I don’t remember because of the vein blowing up in her head when I was little, came racing home from her job at the hospital to look for me and was screeching, “Call the police. How do you lose a baby? You had one job, Allen!” And Dad was shouting, “My girl! My poor, sweet girl!” Then, I crawled out from under my crib where I was sleeping with my blanket on my head and told them I was hungry, and that was that.
Everybody laughs hard at that story ’cause Dad tells it high-larious.
We lived in West Virginia then, but Dad and I moved here ’cause of Dad’s college friend giving him a “career toonity.” That was a while back and a bunch of jobs ago.
Becky told me she was gonna be my bonus mom, and there’s no such thing as “wicked stepmothers.” Then Dad messed it up by letting some lady with her boobs hanging out sit on his lap right in front of everybody.
Dad was real sorry after, but Becky said, “Take a shit in one hand and say sorry in the other and see which one fills up faster” ’cause she has “self-respect.”
I told her it was an accidental lap-sitting, and he don’t mean nothing by it. She hugged me and cried, and told me never, ever think a man’s gonna change. He is who he is and staying means signing up for more of it the rest of your life.
I twist the cap on the plastic water bottle and take two sips. Then I put the lid on and slide it back in my bag.
Dad shoulda left me the keys. The windows don’t work without them, and I can’t hardly breathe in here.
I crack the door and stick my face outside with my tongue out. The car light comes on, and rain whips inside, so I breathe the outside the same way I drank Dad’s water. In a couple fast, careful sips.
I close the door, wipe off my face with my shirt and lay down in the backseat. Then, I’m choking on gross, wet air again, my arms and legs all stretched out away from each other ’cause it’s so hot I don’t want nothing touching nothing.
Dad says duck down and hide if I see somebody come close in the parking lot. There’s a blanket I can throw over me that smells like our old dog, Howard. He ran away to look for me when the helmet-haired lady took me to foster care, but Dad said Howard might come home now I’m back.
Duane at school said when Dad was in jail, the You Main people took my dog and gave him to somebody better.
Duane’s a liar.
I can still smell him on the blanket. So, if I close my eyes and don’t try to pet him, I can imagine I’m not alone.
Finally, I hear a scraping at the door handle and a thump, then the driver’s door flings open, and Dad half climbs, half falls into his seat.
“Shit.” He laughs, then gives a big burp.
A damp breeze from the open door blows the beery smell back to me. When he leans his head on the steering wheel and blindly scrapes his key around trying to plug it into the car, I sit up in the backseat.
“You have to shut the door. Rain is coming in,” I say.
“Smart as a whip. What would I do without you?” he asks.
“Prolly drown in rain,” I say.
“Good thing I got you, then.” He drags the door closed and manages to turn the car on.
“You said only one beer tonight. You promised.”
“A man can’t turn down a drink from friends, or he won’t have friends for long,” he says like I’m being silly.
“But you just got me back.” I try to say it without sounding like a crybaby, so it comes out mad, instead.
“And I’m keeping my girl. You worry too much,” he says.
I rummage around and find his water, then twist open the plastic cap and hold the bottle out to him. He stares at it like he’s never seen a water bottle before.
I nudge his arm with it. “You gotta drink it so your head don’t hurt too bad for work in the morning.”