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“Fuck … you’re breaking up too …listen to me … don’t go there … Vay … your dad …at the house …” more inaudible noises. “… so sorry… explain everything later …”
“Explainwhat?” I snap.
I hit the gas as traffic moves forward and I press the phone harder to my ear as Rigger keeps shouting. I can’t understand a single word of it.
The wind picks up, sharp and seemingly out of nowhere. The cars in front of me come to a stop again and I peer around them as much as I can. Ahead, a pinkish brown sheet hangs from the sky, looming in the distance.
What the hell? We’re a good two months past the monsoon.
“Vay … listen to me … King …I wish I could tell … dad … in person … rather hear it … me.”
I hit the brakes when the car in front of me comes to a dead stop. What is he saying? “You’d rather me hear what? I’m in my car. I can’t hear you. There’s a dust storm.”
“Your … Vay … don’t go to his house … go to … pull over for a few … I can call you in twenty…all the cops…”
Did he just sayallthe cops orcallthe cops?
The cars move forward slowly but the wind and dirt has hit and now covers us like an underground fog. All I can see is the soft, red glow of the brake lights in front of me. Everything else is a hazy blur.
And all I can feel is the chill of Rigger’s words as he says …
“don’t go home …”
Well, I fucking can’t right now. I’m being buried alive in this windstorm.
And when the line goes dead, I don’t know whether to be grateful or become more fearful for my life.
Don’t go home …
Which home?
I look through my contacts. At least those that have downloaded from the cloud.
I dial Ben’s number as I sit and wait for the storm to pass.
Raindrops pelt against my windshield.
Ben’s phone goes right to voicemail. Meaning his battery is dead or he declined my call before it started ringing.
My gut twists.
I stare at my phone again. I can call Daddy. He’ll answer and tell me everything is fine. That he doesn’t know what Rigger is talking about.
Orange and brown dirt swirls around my windows. The wind shakes my car with such force I imagine being pulled into the sky. I put it in park, watching lightning flicker in the distance.
I dial my dad’s number, put him on speaker. It rings several times before I hear his voice, prompting the caller to please leave a message.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, worry sinking deeper into my bones. But I console myself with the knowledge that it is 2:30 am right now in Stockholm.
He’s asleep, Tove. Get a grip, I tell myself after I hear the beep.
I almost hang up but I figure I’ll leave a message so he can call me, just in case he’s staying up to get Greer from the airport. Or he’s dealing with insomnia.
But what do I say?
“Hey, Daddy. It’s me. I know you’re probably asleep but I just wanted to call and say … I’m sorry for earlier. For snapping at you about Greer. It’s not your fault you didn’t know.” I pause, look out the window. “I also wanted to be sure you hadn’t gotten a call about something unusual going on at the house. I’ve been out running errands and now I’m stuck in traffic in this insane monsoon. Can you believe it?” I laugh but my throat feels tight, like I want to cry. “Well, Ben and Rigger both had to leave town too. So I guess I’ll be spending Thanksgiving alone. Gonna be weird. But it’s probably good for me. I hope you and Greer enjoy yourselves. And …that’s all for now. I love you, Daddy.”
I end the call. And I sit in the road for another two minutes, my mind as hazy as the air around me.
