and the commercial happens
to feature my least favorite
Christmas song ever:
“Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
I hate this song, always have,
and somewhere I’ve forever
understood it had something
to do with my mother. Mom.
Trying that one on for size, too.
Maya McCabe. I think she used
to sing that song to me, back
when she and I shared Christmases.
Were there only two?
Every December when Dad
and I stopped long enough
to notice, I’d see other kids
and their moms singing
Christmas carols together.
Only I didn’t have a mom.
I wanted one then.
Wanted one more than anything,
as long as she wasn’t a dyke
whore who tried to fool me
into believing she loved me
by doing regular mom stuff
like singing “Santa Claus Is Coming
to Town” and decorating
a cut-down-dead tree with
cheap homemade ornaments.
That, according to Dad.
How the hell could he do
what he did? To Maya McCabe,
who I don’t even know,
but, more, to me? The life he built—
all that running, all those women,
every shredded chapter—
was pure fiction.
What am I supposed to think
now? Is it even remotely possible
that my mother—mom?—
will be here for this and future
Christmases? What am I supposed
to do? Go shopping with her?
Bake cookies together?
Talk about lesbian love?
Musing
I drive toward town
well under the limit,
unsure about wildlife
and my ability to miss it.
A vehicle approaches
from the opposite direction.
Fast. Too fast.
And swerving,
zigzagging side to side
across the white line.
As it nears, I recognize
Garrett’s pickup truck,
and a stray thought
dashes through my head—
is that bottle still rolling
around in the back?
He passes now,
and his head rotates
toward the window.
Even though I can’t see
his face, an outbreak
of anxiety strikes well
before I notice his brake
lights in my mirror.
Holy hell,
he’s turning
around.
Whatever he’s got
in mind can’t be good.
What does
he have in mind?
I grab my phone
to keep it in close
reach, go ahead
and give the Focus
a big shot of gas.
Come on, baby.
Once I get off this road
and onto the highway,
mayhem will be less likely,
and I’ve got a decent lead.
Still, before long
here he comes,
screaming up over
a slight rise, bright lights
on and blinding.
I pick up speed,
but he’s right on
my bumper and
and I don’t know
what to do or how
to quiet the loud
percussion of my heart
thudding in my veins.
Flashback
Dad’s driving.
It’s a strange car.
I’m in the backseat.
With a dog.
Dog?
No, puppy.
No, somewhere
in between.
A young dog
with a silky golden coat.
I’m scared.
Crying.
The dog whines
at the lights in the rear
window. Bright lights.
I plant my face
into the dog’s shoulder.
“Boo,” I whisper.
Boo?
Dad cusses.
The car behind us honks.
Rides our bumper.
Starts to pass.
Dad swerves.
Slams on the brakes.
The other car goes sideways,
trying to avoid us.
Crashes.
Dad laughs.
Real Time
A vehicle starts to pass.
Close. Too close.
We’re almost touching.
Only when I glance
to my left it isn’t the hulk
of a pickup.
It’s a car.
A familiar car.
Dad’s LeSabre.
And it isn’t Garrett
behind the wheel.
“Dad?”
I say it out loud,
but I don’t know why.
He can’t hear me.
Can he see me?
Surely he knows
it’s me.
I honk once.
His head doesn’t turn.
I honk again,
longer.
Still he stares
straight ahead.
Pass already, would you?
Suddenly,
he cuts me off.
I swerve.
Slam on the brakes.
Only this time
it’s me who overcorrects.
Goes sideways.
Manages to avoid the ditch
on my right.
Barely.
Skids left.
Manages to avoid
the LeSabre’s rear bumper.
Barely.
The Focus hits
the left-hand shoulder.
Sideways.
The Focus stops suddenly,
slams my forehead
against the steering wheel.
Brain spinning
inside my skull, I reach
for my phone—still
there on the seat.
Hit the first number
in memory. “Help me.”
Dark Out Here
Dark.
But where is here?
Cold out here.
Cold.
But where is here?
I open my eyes.
Work hard to remember.
Car.
In my car.
Stopped.
Something’s wrong.
Why am I sideways?
Ditch.
What ditch?
And why is my car
tilted into it?
Most of all,
why does my head hurt?
I reach up, touch
the spot above my eyes
that has swollen into
an awful knot.
Oh my God.
I remember.
Dad.
Headlights appear.
Approach.
Quickly.
Slower.
What if it’s Dad?
Did he come back?
I should move my car.
I reach for the key.
The engine starts easily.
But the tires spin
uselessly.
I think I need
a tow truck.
The other car
brakes to a stop.
It’s an old GTO with
a new paint job.
Gabe hurries over,
takes a good look
at the position of the car.
Opens the passenger door.
Ariel. Are you okay?
Does anything feel broken
?
Everything but bones.
Holy shit. Look at your head!
That Cracks Me Up
Not that anything’s funny.
Not my head.
Not that I’m not okay.
“I’m great. How are you?”
Lame humor. Guess I’m not dying.
You don’t look great.
What happened?
“Garrett was having
a little fun with me.
Except it wasn’t Garrett.
Turned out it was my dad.”
Garrett? Your dad?
What are you talking about?
Wait. Let’s get you out of there.
Can you unbuckle your seat belt?
I fumble, but manage it,
and Gabe tugs me gently
across the seat and out
the door. He sits me
next to the car, wraps
me in the warmth
of his jacket to fight
the cold, and possible
shock. Uses a flashlight
to assess potential injuries.
“Hey. How did you know
to come looking for me?”
You called. Asked for help.
I didn’t know you were
out here, though. I was on
my way to your house, and
to tell you the truth, I was
preparing myself to kick
your dad’s ass. He studies
my face closer. Looks like
I should’ve gotten there
sooner. Bastard. Listen.
We should probably take
you into the ER. You could
have a concussion.
“Nope. Huh-uh. I’ve had
a shitty enough day. Not
going to deal with doctors,
too. Anyway, what would
they do for a concussion?
Keep me warm and make
me rest, right? I can do
that anywhere.”
Ariel, I really think—
“No hospital! Other than
a headache, I feel okay.
I could probably even drive.”
Yeah, Except
The Focus can’t go anywhere,
and even if it could, Gabe
isn’t about to let me behind the wheel.
Take care of your car tomorrow.
I’ll drive you wherever you want.
Can you stand up okay?
He helps me to my feet and into
the GTO, carefully, tenderly,
as if I might shatter. Maybe I will.
“Will you take me to Monica’s?
She’s probably worried about me.
That’s where I was going when . . .”
I give him the lowdown,
at least what I can remember.
Everything’s a little foggy.
Your dad did this? Ran you
off the road? On purpose?
He could’ve killed you.
“I think that’s what he had
in mind.” The words exit
my mouth without conscious
thought. I can’t quite believe
he’d hurt me, but what he did
was definitely deliberate.
Deliberate
De
Dad
li
has
be
many
rate.
faults
but
Oh
he
my
isn’t
serious
capable
God.
of
homicide.
My
dad
But now
tried
his words
to
come back
kill
to me.
me.
I
Did he?
should
Maybe.
have
Maybe not.
killed
Maybe
the
it was
bitch
an accident
when
after all.
I
had
So
the
why
chance.
didn’t
he stop?
No.
No way.
I Jerk the Door Open
Lean out as far as I can
before my stomach empties
itself of what little I’ve eaten
today. Gut clenching and
releasing, I heave and heave.
Finally, the nausea subsides
and I chance sitting up again,
shaky and, I’m sure, pale.
“Sorry. I think I managed to miss
your new leather seat, though.”
Don’t apologize! But thanks
for avoiding the seat. I’ll go
put a note on your car. Do you
have your phone, or did you
leave it in the Focus?
Phone? I called Gabe, at least
he says I did. . . . “I think it’s on
the seat, or maybe the floor. Can you
grab it and both my backpacks, please?”
Most of my earthly possessions
for what’s left. But then what?
Because whatever Dad did
or didn’t do tonight, he’s gone.
He’ll vanish like he did before
with one notable exception.
He Left Me Behind
Just like I always worried
he would when I was little.
Now, at least, I’m old enough
to take care of myself. Maybe.
Gabe returns, tosses my stuff
onto the backseat. All but my phone.
That, he hands to me. You can
call the cops on the way to town.
My head begins a slow right-
left motion. “Can’t call the cops.”
Run into the alfalfa fields. Hide.
No police ever. Programming.
But Gabe’s having none of it.
Why not? You can’t let that bastard
get away with this, Ariel. Who
knows what he might do next?
He’s right. I’m wrong. As usual.
“But he’s still my dad, Gabe.
If I call the cops and they catch
him, he’ll probably go to jail.”
Which is exactly where he belongs.
Look, either you call 9-1-1 or I will.
He Starts the Car
But waits for me to dial,
and I realize he’s totally serious
about me doing this, so I comply.
“Hello? I’ve been in an accident.”
The cop on duty asks
if I’m injured, and do I require
an ambulance, but when
I tell him I’m mostly okay,
he informs me that
this isn’t really an emergency.
“What if I told you someone
purposely cut me off?”
He inquires if anyone else
saw what happened,
and when I say no,
he invites me to come in
and file a police report,
but without witnesses
it’s my word
versus the other guy’s.
Now he asks a series
of questions designed,
I think, to shift the blame
onto my shoulders.
He sounds like he thinks
I’m making it all up.
Have you been drinking tonight?
“Nope.”
Are you sure another car was involved?
“Positive.”
Could this be a domestic dispute?
“In a manne
r of speaking.”
Were you fighting with your boyfriend?
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
But you know the other driver?
“Yes.”
Okay, who was it then?
Damn. Mistake. Can’t say.
Hello? Are you still there?
“Uh-huh.”
So, who cut you off?
“Never mind.”
I Hang Up
Gabe shoots me
a what just happened?
kind of look.
I shrug.
“He said I need a witness.”
It strikes me I might
have an unreliable one,
if I actually want
one, not that Garrett
would be likely to testify
even if he did see
Dad rocket by.
“Can we just go now,
please?”
They really won’t do
something about this?
“Apparently not.
But I don’t really care.
The last thing I want
right now is to confront
Dad, with or without
the police involved.”
As Gabe eases the GTO
onto the highway, I realize
how true that is. And . . .
I’m crying. Damn.
“I can’t believe any of this.”
Gabe Reaches Across
The console, takes my hand.
I’m grateful for his touch. Remember
suddenly his touch is no longer mine.
I knew your dad was irrational.
The look in his eyes when he went
after your mother . . .
And just now, when I saw your
face, I realized he was abusive.
I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.
“Abusive?” Does running
me off the road count
as abuse? “What do you mean?”
I mean, I don’t think that mark
on your cheek came from your steering
wheel. It looks like a fresh handprint.
Beneath both forming bruises,
my face ignites embarrassment.
“It’s nothing. He was upset.”
Upset? You’re kidding, right?
You can’t possibly be defending him.
Ariel, that man is dangerous.
It’s true. He is. Maybe even
psychopathic. But then again,
“You’re dangerous, too.”
That Stops Him Cold