ENEMY DEAREST has sent you a video.
I mute the volume, dim the screen, and hit play.
It’s a thirty-second clip from the MUNRO concert he invited me to.
ENEMY DEAREST—Wish you were here.
I darken my screen and power my phone down. I don’t have the energy for this right now.
Dad mumbles along to an old Clint Black song. Whether or not he knows it, he’s white-knuckling the steering wheel. I don’t want to think about what would happen to him if he lost Mom. With me going off to college next month, he’d be truly alone.
“I was thinking …” I say after clearing my throat. “Maybe I should wait another year?”
He dials the volume to nothing. “What are you talking about, Sheridan? School?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I can put it off one more year. Stick around and take care of Mom.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not.”
“Who’s going to take care of her when I’m gone? You have weird work hours. She sometimes gets spacey when she’s on her meds. What if she forgets a dose? What if she has another spell and falls and no one’s home to help her? What if she has one of those days when she needs help washing her hair? Making a bowl of soup?”
Reaching across the console, he gives my hand a squeeze. His fingers are ice-cold from the blasting AC. “We’ll figure it out, kiddo.”
“Will we?”
“No,” he says. “Not we. Your mother and I will figure it out. That’s what parents do. If you put your life on hold for our sake, we’ll have failed you. All we want is for you to be happy, kiddo. To live the life you were intended. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Resting my cheek against the cool glass of the passenger window, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and tell myself everything will be okay … even if I don’t believe it.
My world is tilted, wobbling on its axis.
Funny how a person can be floating through life, thinking everything is always going to be a certain way, and then the bottom drops out.
We ride in silence, and I think of that memento mori album from the other night; specifically the articles and how my father was falsely implicated in Cynthia’s murder. I need to talk to him about it, get some answers.
But not tonight.
The exhaustion weighing down the day is already too heavy, no sense in adding anything else to the pile.
The house is dark when we pull into the driveway. And our footsteps echo when we shuffle inside. This isn’t the first time Mom’s been hospitalized, but her absence is always a palpable, lingering silence in our home.
It’s never something we get used to.
“Goodnight, Dad.” I head to my room.
“’Night, kiddo.”
I turn my phone on and place it on my nightstand before switching on my box fan. It’s cooler tonight, but the stuffiness of the past two weeks loiters in the air.
I’m almost asleep when my phone screen lights the room.
ENEMY DEAREST—You awake, Rose girl?
ME—Leave me alone. Please!!!
Rolling to my side, I tuck my pillow in half and shove it under my head before wrestling with the sheets for the next several minutes.
Fidgety and hot with a mind that won’t stop conjuring up worst case scenarios, I can’t get comfortable.
I drag myself out of bed and trek to the kitchen for a glass of ice water. My parents’ door is closed but my father is sawing logs so loud I’m sure the neighbors two houses down can hear.
I grab my favorite glass, an old Flintstones jelly jar, and drop three ice cubes in, one at a time, so as not to wake him. I’m halfway to the sink when his phone illuminates the dark space with a text.
Normally I wouldn’t read my father’s text messages, but with Mama being in the hospital and him out cold in the bedroom, the urge comes over me to make sure it’s nothing. Just in case. His screen turns dark before I have a chance to read it, but it comes back to life as soon as I pluck it off the charger and give it a tap.
KT—Just checking on you …
KT—Just remember, it’ll all be over soon. Mary Beth isn’t going to suffer forever. And neither are you. Soon this will all be in the past.
KT—Keep your head up and know that I’m here for you. It’s going to get better. You’re on the right track. Too late to give up now after everything we’ve worked so hard for. We’re so close …
I re-read the messages through squinting eyes.
What does this mean? My mother isn’t going to suffer forever? It’ll be in the past? Last I checked, the doctors said they could treat her Guillain-Barre, but that she’d have the nerve disorder and heart defect the rest of her life. She’ll always be sick or suffering in some capacity.
My stomach drops.
Nausea steals my thirst, so I abandon my cup of ice by the sink.
With shaky hands, I plug the phone in, leaving it exactly where I found it, and return to my room. And for the rest of the night, I wrack my brain in an attempt to figure out who “KT” is or why my father would have someone’s name stored in his phone as simply their initials or why they’d be talking about ending my mother’s suffering.
For hours, my mind wanders down the darkest alleys and the most unspeakable paths.
What if the accusations against him are true? What if he did kill his sister? What if he did cause Mrs. Monreaux’s death? What if the man who raised me and sacrificed for me and taught me everything I believe to be true … is nothing more than a self-serving liar?
By morning, the sunrise paints my curtains shades of orange and pink. I still haven’t slept—and I’m not going to sleep. I can’t rest until I know what’s going on.
I slip into a pair of jean shorts from the floor and dig a t-shirt from my dresser. After freshening up, I leave a note by the stove and head to the hospital—alone—before my father wakes.
I can’t tell Mama what I saw because I’ve yet to make sense of it.
But I can’t take another minute of being under the same roof as my father…not until I get some answers.
Chapter Eleven
August
* * *
“Hey, hey. What brings you in?” Adriana sidles up to me at the cell store the instant I walk in the door Sunday afternoon.
My head throbs from last night’s concert, and I haven’t slept a fucking ounce after partying all night on the tour bus just to make Soren feel like I give a shit about our “relationship.” But I’m here on a mission. Unfortunately, a quick perusal of my surroundings tells me Sheridan isn’t working today.
“Need a new charger,” I say, handing her the broken one I brought in. Or rather the one I destroyed this morning with the help of a pair of pliers.
“Oh.” She examines the frayed wires. “How’d this happen?”
“Does it matter?”
“Um, I mean. Yeah. Sort of. I can warranty-it-out for you if it’s from the phone you just bought the other week?”
“It’s not.” I’m in an honest mood today.
“Okay. Do you want to go with a six foot cord or ten?” She leads me to a wall covered in an endless assortment of phone chargers. “Sometimes ten can be a little much. Six is standard.”