30 EVIE
E VIE
I know I haven’t talked much about my parents over the years.
I think there comes a point when it’s best to leave things in the past rather than dwelling on them.
A few thousand dollars’ worth of solid therapy taught me that.
Still, they come to me sometimes, especially at night.
Sometimes I’ll catch a hint of my mother’s Shalimar perfume.
I’ll remember her silhouette in the orange glow of a nightlight and settle back in to sleep beneath warm, safe covers in a room decorated in gingham pink and yellow. Small flowers dotting white wallpaper.
It was early February when her car skidded across a spot of black ice on the way home from her hospital shift one wintry night somewhere after two in the morning.
Funny thing about that night is that when I awoke the next morning to the confusing sound of my aunt Kitty’s voice in the living room instead of the smell of Saturday-morning french toast, I could swear I remembered the scent of Shalimar and the good-night kiss just hours earlier, and I still had the faint hint of perfume on my pajamas to prove it.
I remember my aunt dismissing it, telling me in her gravelly voice that it was impossible, because my mother had never made it home, of course.
Just my imagination, she said. “Poor thing.” But to this day, I’m sure it was real.
It had been her last ghostly goodbye, I suppose.
My aunt Kitty wasn’t the “kid type,” she’d proclaimed as they scrambled to sort out what to do with me in the aftermath.
“All the mothering genes went to Leigh Ann,” she’d said, referring to my mom.
I’d had a babysitter—a neighbor from next door—but she had her own family.
I had no grandparents. No anyone, really.
It had just been my mom and me in our little house. Until it was just me.
A week later, I was deposited on the front step of my father’s place in a small trailer park on the edge of town, carrying all my belongings in a small red suitcase with Strawberry Shortcake on the outside.
I’d met him only a few times early on and had nothing but uncertain memories of it.
I begged and cried to go anywhere else, but even at eight years old, you’re smart enough to know when to give up.
I was given a small room in the back with wood paneling that was peeling in the top right corner beneath a yellow water stain on the ceiling.
After throwing a bit of a tantrum, I’d managed to convince the adults, I don’t remember who now, to allow me to bring one small box of my mother’s things.
Her cassette tapes, a bottle of her perfume, a silver bangle bracelet and a pair of earrings, along with one small framed painting of a daisy from our kitchen that I’d snatched at the last minute for some reason.
Those sorts of things. I often wonder what happened to the rest of our stuff from our little house on Wellesley Street. Flea market, I suppose.
Someone had thought to bring my bedspread, which was placed on the mattress in the dark little room. I set the painting of the daisy on a bedside table and began what would become the rest of my childhood, if you could really call it that.
“Well, pumpkin? Aren’t you going to say hello to your own dad?” my father said, now standing in front of my apartment door.
I felt the familiar feeling of weight, causing my shoulders to sag a little. “Hey, Dad,” I said, mustering some sort of smile for a reason I’m not quite sure of. People-pleasing, I guess. It’s always been a problem. Still hoping for some sort of approval from him.
He leaned against the door, holding a menthol cigarette that smelled like my old home. “I told the super that I was your dad, but he wouldn’t let me in.”
I’d have to remember to thank the super, Mr. Wallace, for that later.
He looked down at the two coffees I held in my hand. “You got company?”
I stammered a little. “I ... What are you doing here?”
“What? I can’t come and see my little girl?”
Carter rounded the corner then, and I looked up at him. “Okay, so I’ve got exactly 7.25 hours to ...,” he started. I clenched my teeth, determined to keep the tears from forming. He stopped short when he saw me. “Everything okay here, Ev?” he asked.
My dad laughed then. “Evie? But here I thought it was Cameron now.” He drew the word out long, mocking.
“Um ... could you give me a minute, please?” I looked at Carter, feigning a smile, practically begging him to leave. I didn’t want him to be a part of this.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us? I brought you up better than that.” My father dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and crushed it with the sole of his boot.
I reached out to give the coffees to Carter, and he looked down at my trembling hand. “Can you just put these inside, please? I’ll be there in a minute.” I started to hand him my keys, but he remained firmly standing in place.
“Who is this, Ev?” Carter asked.
“I’m Evie’s dad, Raymond, but you can call me Ray.” He gave a jaunty smile. “Can’t you see the resemblance? She got her good looks from me.” When neither of us said anything, he continued. “Are you going to tell me your name, son?”
Carter narrowed his eyes, seeming to size up the situation. “I’m—”
“He’s nobody, Dad,” I said quickly, glancing at Carter, but just barely met his eyes. “Just a guy from work. You know what, actually?” I turned to Carter. “I know you’re in a hurry. You can go, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Carter watched me carefully but didn’t move. “Uh. Like hell.”
“Ooh, fiery one you’ve got here, pumpkin. I like him.” He winked at Carter.
I gave Carter a look, my eyes filling, begging him to leave. “I’m fine. Just wait inside. Please.”
“You don’t have to rush him off on my account,” my father said. “Let’s all go inside together and get to know each other. It’s been a while.” He pointed a thumb at me. “You know this one hasn’t been home to see me in what ... seven years? Isn’t that right, Ev?”
“It’s not really a good time, Dad.”
“Now, Evie, don’t be like that. I drove a long way to see you.”
I sighed. “How did you know how to find me?” There was a reason why I used a pen name.
“Oh, come on, give me some credit. I figured you would still be in New York after college. And I heard bits and pieces and that you were trying to be some fancy journalist or something.” He looked at Carter.
“She used to write in these little notebooks for hours, this one. Always writing something with her head in the clouds.” He rolled his eyes.
When neither of us said anything, he continued. “Anyway, word gets around. Cameron Leigh, huh? Pretty good, I’ve got to say. Using the combination of your mother’s name that way.”
“I know you didn’t drive all the way out here just to see me.”
He looked a little sheepish. “Well, I was in the Big Apple to meet up with some of the guys, and one of ’em has a cousin out this way, so I figured, might as well stop and visit my little girl. I looked up your new name and, sure enough, found your address, and here we are.”
“What about work, Dad? They gave you time off?”
“Eh, not exactly. More like an extended leave of absence.”
I sighed. “You got fired again.”
“It’s just temporary.”
“I don’t have any money, Dad.”
His cheeks flushed, and he glanced at Carter.
He leaned over toward me. “You’re a working girl now, aren’t you?
I read a few of your stories. They’re not bad.
I bet they pay you pretty well. Even though there’s no good music out there anymore.
Shame.” He raised his chin, putting his arm around me.
“You know, she learned all about music from me. She used to steal my magazines. Sit around and listen to us practicing for a gig. I had to drag her everywhere we played.” He laughed.
“You didn’t take me anywhere, Dad. You just left me at home.”
“Now, that’s just not true. You loved coming to shows.”
“I was nine. I had no business being in the back of dive bars after midnight.”
“Eh.” He waved a hand. “You loved watching us play.”
I didn’t love it. Sometimes I just couldn’t take being at home all night alone anymore. It was a choice between two evils. Carter’s eyes darted to mine, this new information processing heavily.
“After her mom died, I carted her around, taking care of her. Did you know that? I raised this one all by myself. Isn’t that right, pumpkin? Just you and me.” And he made sure I never forgot it. Even though he often forgot all about me for hours, sometimes more, at a time.
I nodded somberly. “Yeah. That’s right, Dad.”
“Family looks after family,” he said pointedly.
Ten minutes earlier, I had been smiling and joyful and felt light as air. And then, just like that, it was like I woke up from a dream to find myself in the fourth grade again, trying to make myself invisible. So he wouldn’t see me. So no one would see me.
“Just a bit to tide me over, pumpkin. I’ll pay you back. I promise,” he said in the saccharine-laced, gravelly tone I knew well.
“They don’t pay me much, Dad. I just earn enough to get by.” I could barely meet Carter’s eyes, wanting the sidewalk to swallow me whole.
“Look, Evie, I’ll tell you what, let’s go out and talk. Get some lunch. Maybe get to know your new boyfriend here.”
Carter stepped beside me and took my hand. “I don’t think so. You heard her. She asked you to go.”
My father puffed out his chest. “Look at you. Big man with your fancy accent. This is family business. Between my girl and me. You need to step aside.”
“If she wants to talk to you, she’ll call. But right now, you need to leave.” Carter stepped forward, placing himself between my father and me. “Now.”