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bunching up as he crosses his arms.
“This isn’t about her happiness,” I snap at him. “Answer the question.” “I just did,” he says. “I asked you if she was happy, and you implied by
deflection that she was. If she is happy, who are you to say she’s not how God
wanted her to be?”
“She doesn’t know any better!”
“And how can you? Do you think you know better than she? Than God? That is
a sin, to presume the will of my Father. For all you know, she’s exactly the person
she is supposed to be, even if she is different. You of all people should know that,
Benji.”
Tears sting my eyes. This is too much. All of this is too much. “Don’t you dare
talk to me like you know me, you bastard.” He takes a step toward me, but I shake
my head and take a step back. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, aside from your
creepy-stalker bullshit. I want to go to bed so I can open my eyes tomorrow and see
that this was all a dream, because it is a dream. I’m going to wake up and I’ll still be
at the station, or I’ll be lying by the river, but you will be gone, because you’re just a fucking figment of my imagination. Things like this don’t happen. Things like this
aren’t real. You’re not fucking real.”
“And yet, I’m here. Because you called me,” he says, his voice hard. It sounds
like an accusation.
“Don’t you dare put this on me. I don’t fucking know you!”
A memory, rising: Oh, someone please help me. I can’t do this on my own. Not
anymore.
“You’re lying,” he says, dawning comprehension lighting up his eyes. “This is
you lying.”
“Get the fuck out of my house.”
“But—”
“Get the fuck out of my house!” I bellow at him. Without waiting to see what he
does, I go into my room and slam the door behind me.
Memory.
My earliest memory is from when I was three years old. My father had taken me to the park, affectionately named the Blue Park, given the color of all the equipment. It sat on the edge of the Umpqua about ten miles upriver from where he would drown thirteen years later. I don’t remember going there. I don’t remember getting out of the car or walking to the park. I don’t remember what happened after we left. I can’t even be sure what my next real memory is. What I can be sure of is my father sat me on his lap on the merry-go-round, kicking his feet in the sand, causing us to spin slowly. In his other hand, he held a paper cup that was orange and white, containing a vanilla milkshake. He put the straw to my lips as we spun in a lazy circle and I took a deep drink. Cold flooded my mouth and a sharp pain pierced my head, a brain freeze from the ice cream. I cried out. My father whispered soft words that I can no longer remember, then pressed a large hand against the top of my head and rubbed the pain away.
We kept on spinning.
