Dahlia

THE IRONY IS NOT LOST on me.  As I try to figure out how to get my newly sized engagement ring off my finger, all I can think about is the rugged guy who came to my rescue in the coffee shop yesterday.  Him putting Cindy and Tiffany in their place was one of the best things that’s happened to me in a long time.

My heart sank when my Dad had texted me and told me the limo was outside the coffee shop way earlier than I’d expected. Seems his afternoon delight cancelled on him and he was in no mood for me to explain that I wanted to stay for a new more minutes and god knows I couldn’t have told him it why.

I struggle with the top of the olive oil can, managing to get the top off.  But trying to pour it over my left hand is proving harder than I’d thought.

“Why do you have to buy the economy size?”  I whine over my shoulder to Sylvia while fighting off the images of that man’s wild green eyes, the ones that have danced in my mind and dreams since I laid eyes on him.

“What are you doing?”  She barks over the sound of the mixer then swears in Ukrainian.  She’s baking a double chocolate torte cake for dinner with the Petrovs, and I’d half considered lacing it with ex-lax but I happen to love her cakes, so my need for chocolate overrode my need to poison my fiancé and future father-in-law.

“I’m trying to put oil on my finger.”

“Stop.”  Sylvia says on a deep sigh. Her dark hair twisted on top of her head in her signature bun.  “You’re going to yank your finger off.  Arranged marriages can work out, you know. Maybe you’ll fall in love with his big wedding night surprise.” Her deep chuckle resonates through the enormous high ceilings of the kitchen as I dump a few glugs of oil onto my hand.

“Me thinks not.”  I grit out as I drop the gallon sized can into the sink and try in vain to get the ring off.  My father had it sized one size too small on purpose, and it’s digging into my finger.  “Dammit!”

Both my hands are slick with the thick oil and the ring still won’t budge.

“My word, you are all about the drama, aren’t you?  Is he that bad?”  She wipes her hands down the uniform black dress she’s worn everyday as far back as I can remember.  She’s tall but thin with hands as strong as any man’s. I know, she’s snatched me up and smacked my behind more times than I can count over the years.  But she loves me with a fierceness I don’t deserve.  I know my father doesn’t treat her well and why she’s stuck around so long I can’t explain. But I’m more grateful than I can express.

“Worse.  The worst.”  I stomp my feet and concede defeat with the ring, hanging my hands over the edge of the sink, letting the oil drip from them, then resting my forehead between them on the cool stainless-steel edge.  “The worst, worst ever.”

I hear Sylvia sigh as she scrapes the batter into the line up of ten pans down the counter.

“Well, then just tell your father no.  Or run away.  That’s what I did.”

“What?”  I lift my forehead, looking back at the woman who basically raised me.  The only person in this world I care about and I know cares about me in return.  “You ran away? You never told me that.”

“Sure did.  When I was sixteen, left home.  Different reasons than you.  My dad, I told you about him.”

She did, he was a drinker, used to disappear for weeks, never could find a job.  Then would hand out whippings to all the kids—sent Sylvia off to work instead of to school when she was twelve.

“Yes.  Mr. Wonderful.”

“Yep.  Well, the day I turned sixteen I came home, he was drunk.  Told me to make him dinner.  I did.  I made him dinner, stuck five sleeping pills into his mashed potatoes. When he went out, I packed up, took all the money from the coffee can he kept hidden under the sink and the rest is history.  A long boat ride later I was in America.  Eventually, I ended up here, with you folks.”

“Wasn’t it scary?  Running away and not knowing where you were going?”

“No scarier than the life I saw for myself.  It all worked out, didn’t it?”

***

I’M THINKING HAVING your Mercedes slide off an icy road out in Middle-of-Nowhere north Texas in a freak ice storm isn’t quite as compelling a drama as Sylvia’s story about running away, but right about now, it feels pretty flippin’ dramatic.

I wince and draw a sharp breath as I touch the knot on my head where the steering wheel and I met a few minutes ago.

“Boy, this was a good idea.”  I mock myself in the review mirror. 

I shift the car into reverse again, make a futile effort as the wheels spin then put it in forward and only manage to drive a few inches farther into the ditch.  Rain and sleet ping on the hood as the headlights make long streams into a pitch-black field off the dirt road.

Leave it to me to run away from home and the first thought I have is to head to an old cabin on some land my family owns up near the Oklahoma border.  I figured I’d make a stop here, stay a few days, then figure out my next steps.  Only, mother nature had a different plan and the weather turned about an hour ago. 

I’ve got my phone, but the only person to really call is my dad.

Or Sylvia.

Dad.  No thanks.  He’s the one I’m running from.

And Sylvia? Well, she doesn’t drive.  I’m beyond out in the center of nowhere, and I’m not even sure where to tell anyone I am.

I’m on an old dirt road that leads onto the family retreat.  Two thousand acres.  We used to come here when I was little.  There’s a cabin back at the end of this road and I know where I am, I just couldn’t tell anyone else.  The road doesn’t even register on the maps app on my phone.  This land has these dirt tracks running all through it.  I know there are some oil wells too, but since I don’t know anything about the family business, I’m not even sure where they are or if they are still operating.

I remember seeing on a show one time, that if you can get a bunch of sticks or branches or whatever under your wheels, they keep them from slipping.  It’s the best I’ve got, and I sure as hell have to get out of here.  So, with a deep breath, I tug the John Deere cap I bought at the last truck stop (just because I knew my father would hate it) down over my head and open the car door, ready to MacGyver the shit out of this situation.

The last thought that flashes through my mind before my feet slide out from under me is how old the guy from the coffee shop was and if it made me a pervert that I want to call him Daddy.

Breaking my fall with the heels of both hands proves futile.  They slip on the slick cover of ice on the edge of the ditch and my forearm catches on something sharp.  My phone arcs out of my hand, the screen reflecting the moon as I hear it make a splashing sound somewhere in front of me.

“Shit. Shit!”  I yell into the freezing rain making sounds on the brim of my new hat.

A bolt of pain shoots up my arm, then it’s my head again smacking down on a rock, and the realization that MacGyver was not a reality show hits me along with a flash of light from across the open field.