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I count this as my first memory, but I know it can’t be. I am too old, too mature. There is a near-decade of memories, yet I hold this one to my heart because it is the first time I realize I want something I don’t have. May never have had, but I didn’t know that until I saw them pulling out of the driveway and going on their way. I don’t ask my mom’s sister why her dad, my grandpa, isn’t like the one across the street. It wouldn’t do any good. She said her father went to war one day, and he never returned. It was just a body in his place, but Grandpa had lost his soul.
My aunt has a few kids, all younger than me, but her oldest daughter is two years younger than me. I know I am really here to mainly babysit, so my mom and aunt can relive their glory days of being single and free from obligations of motherhood. Sometimes, my father joins them; sometimes, he is the reason she needs to find other men to fill the gap of what he can’t give her, full-time attention.
I wouldn’t say I was lonely, but I think from the beginning, I was sad. I was depressed before I knew what depression was. But I kept quiet; it was easier than asking for anything or explaining why I wanted them. I didn’t rebel as a teenager; I didn’t even make a peep. Once I was old enough to leave, I figured I would, and I would never practice the dance of coming back just to run away again.
It was the summer I was fourteen when the grandpa across the street stopped picking up his beloved granddaughter. I think I knew before the family gathered to mourn him. The granddaughter was crying on the steps; it was Thursday.
My heart was breaking for her; I cried genuine tears at a loss. It was like a part of me was starting to accept we did not earn immortality simply by loving those we are supposed to.
Lacey was two different people in front of her father and my father. My grandpa always said I was half of something. But the other half was nothing. My mother, on the other hand, rarely said much to me, just that I was a surprise, an accident even. But I don’t know if she was happy or upset about it.
“Can’t trust men like that, Phoebe.” My mother said it as we watched my dad walk away for the last time.
My mom used to pick up hitchhikers.
But as I got older, I realized it was just one, the same person repeatedly. My father would be on country roads, highways, and my mother no matter what would find him.
I wondered what she meant for a long time. In a few months, I expected to see my dad, Niko, like we always did when Niko got low on friends and love.
But I remember each step he took, as my mother called him a wandering soul. He was lost to the world but always searching for something he could never find.
I didn’t want to tell her, but I think I had it in me, the wandering soul. I don’t remember why; when he left, I tried to follow in his footsteps because I hoped wherever he was going, whatever he was trying to discover, maybe it would heal me too.
Sometimes, I write Niko letters. Most of the time, I understand why he never stayed around. The fresh start, not to be king to anything from the past. A new person, a chance to be exactly who you want to be, and no one can say you are right or wrong. They have to take you as you are.
I remember leaving home for the first time at sixteen and never having the urge to go back. Because when you are raised to believe you are the enemy in your home, you find out the world doesn’t have the same beliefs as a Vietnam vet with a broken mind.
Chapter 1
Phoebe
28.2096° N, 83.9856° E Pokhara, Nepal
Itburnsdownthere.
Not in a good earthshattering way, I impulsively clench my thighs together; with a snap, I let out a slow but painful squeak. I am lying next to the magnificent Phewa Lake. The sun seemed to have taken pity on my upper half when I decided to sunbathe in the nude.
My vagina has a sunburn; at least it feels like the sun pointed all its 9, 941° degrees right at my coochie without any apologies. I even think I hear it giggle. But here I am, trying to tiptoe and waddle into the kitchen without rubbing my thighs together. As I reach the freezer, I am welcomed with the first burst of relief to hit the heat. It looks like I am all out of ice from the melted margarita I made earlier, still sitting on the counter.
I find a freezer-burned fish wrapped in newspaper. “Super neat, Phoebe.” I make the statement out loud, thankful not a soul has to witness this epic embarrassment.
How desperate am I?Enough to take it, hold it between my legs, and softly let out a sigh.
“Tell me you aren’t humping a frozen fish, Phoebe?” Enzo thinks he is funny, hilarious even. “I mean seriously, I thought that was beneath you.”
“We are out of ice,” I grumble, still trying to stick my body inside the freezer. I wonder if dead bodies are glad they are stuffed in a freezer instead of someone’s smelly trunk.
“I went out to get some.” This man is a blessing from God. I have never met the imaginary person in the clouds, but I swear he sent Enzo to me. Enzo pulls open the bag and takes a solo ice cube between his fingers. “Want a hand?”
“Not if you will continue to make fun of me.” I look over my shoulder, and he is a glorious combination of life and smoldering happiness. The handsome smile on his face grows to one side. “Want to tell me what happened?”
“What do you mean?” I was still scrunching my nose at my naked body, clenching a frozen fish against her sun-scorched pussy.
“Why are you trying to mate with the dead fish, Pheebs?” Enzo chucks the ice cube melting in his fingers into his mouth, licking off the drops from his fingers.
“I fell asleep outside.” I glare at him.
“So?” Likes to make this as hard as possible for me.
