It was sweltering in the car. Even with the windows down, the wind whipping my baby thin brown hair around my face, I was dripping sweat. The south was known for its heat, the state motto being famously hot. It was barely May and summer was still nearly two months away, yet it was already pushing ninety degrees. The sun was shining, not a cloud in the perfect blue sky. There hadn’t been a cloud in weeks, nor had there been any rain, and the ground was just as dry and dusty as a desert.
The radio was blasting, Lynyrd Skynyrd singing about their sweet home, Alabama. I sang along, the lyrics tumbling from my lips in my high-pitched child’s voice, a grin plastered across my face. My cheeks, still round with the last remnants of baby fat, ached from the smile I’d been sporting for the last twenty minutes.
But I didn’t care.
My daddy and I were out joyriding.
It was a Sunday afternoon tradition. After sitting through the pastor’s long-winded sermon, we’d go home and strip off our itchy church clothes and trade them in for loose cotton t-shirts and denim shorts and then hop in the car, destination unknown. Mama never came with us, instead she stayed home to cook Sunday supper, and that was fine with me.
This was our time, just Daddy and me. He’d crank up the tunes, reminding me that it didn’t matter what the radio was playing these days, it was all garbage. “Classic rock, baby,” he’d tell me. “Classic rock is the only thing we listen to in this car, you got me?”
I’d giggle, like I did anytime he talked to me, and then nod my head in agreement. “That’s my little bear,” he’d say and then turn his attention back to the road. He’d ask me, “which way?” and then aim the car in the direction that I’d point.
Some Sundays, the drive was just a few minutes. Those were the days when we would come back and supper would be nothing more than cabbage soup with bits of ground meat. Mama wouldn’t say much on those days, her eyes sad and full of unshed tears.
Other days, we’d drive and drive and drive until I fell asleep, the vibration of the car mixed with the wind in my face lulling me to sleep. I’d wake up when Daddy carried me inside, setting me gently on the couch. Those Sundays were the best. Mama was always in a good mood and we’d have pot roast with carrots and potatoes or fried chicken with rice and homemade gravy.
Daddy would kiss Mama on the mouth, something I pretended to find disgusting, and she’d smile and smack him on the arm. He’d wink at me across the table and we’d spend the rest of the night putting a puzzle together and snuggling close on the couch, just the three of us.
I was hopeful that today would be one of the Sundays that we drove until the sun nearly set.
“Daddy?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, bear?”
“I’m thirsty. Can we get a soda?” I asked tentatively. Sometimes he would pull into a gas station and let me pick out a drink and treat. Other times, he’d grit his teeth, his jaw would twitch, and he would shake his head, telling me that I’d ruin supper. I never told him that those were the days I went to bed with my belly still rumbling with hunger.
A grin spread across his handsome face. “Sure thing, baby. You want a treat, too?”
I nodded enthusiastically and he winked. “Next place we come to, I’ll stop and get ya something. Now sit back and close your eyes a bit, bear.”
I gazed into his blue eyes, a perfect replica of my own, and nodded once again. “Okay, Daddy,” I whispered before following his instructions and letting my eyelids drop.
With my eyes closed, the sound of the wind streaming in through the windows was louder, the rumble of the old Chevy magnified. I took in a deep breath through my nose, the pungent smell of the marshes we were driving through offering a comfort only someone that had always lived here could appreciate.
It wasn’t long before the combination of contentment and the din of the music caused sleep to overtake me.
I was in the middle of dreaming about puppies, something Mama and Daddy had promised me but had yet to follow through on, when a bang jolted me back into consciousness.
I was in the car, but it wasn’t moving. I raised my head, my neck sore from sleeping at a strange angle, and looked to the empty driver’s seat. The Chevy was idling, every now and again giving a sharp shake. The music was playing quietly, the windows all still down.
I rubbed my chubby hands over my eyes, trying to physically remove the last bits of sleep from my mind.
I peered through the windshield to see that we were parked right outside the Tasty Stop, a gas station not far from our house. Remembering our conversation before I’d drifted off to sleep, I figured Daddy must have decided to keep his promise, even though I’d fallen asleep.
I unbuckled my seat belt and pulled at the door handle, a groan of frustration escaping my lips when I’d been met with resistance. I pulled at the handle once more before remembering the child safety lock. After I climbed between the front seats and over the center console, I shoved my way out of the driver’s door.
I’d just slammed it behind me and started toward the front door when two more loud bangs erupted from inside the store. A loud yell followed it and then yet another bang.
Fear gripped my heart and I sucked in a breath. “Daddy?” I whispered, frozen with fear, my thumb flying to my mouth, a habit I’d not yet broken, as I huddled beside the car. I didn’t know what the noise was, but somewhere in my five-year-old mind I knew that it wasn’t good.
I stood rooted in place beside the car, my eyes darting back and forth between the doors and the window on the front of the building. I was searching for my daddy—his dark hair, his familiar flannel shirt, his worn work boots.
Any shred of him that I could find to tell me that he was okay, that I was okay.
Suddenly, movement at the door caught my eye and my breath exploded from my lungs when I saw that red plaid print fall to the floor.
“Daddy?” I screamed as my legs began propelling me forward, the pavement hot under my bare feet. Like a bad dream, it felt as though I were trying to run through water, the time it took to get to my destination twice as long as it should have been.
I stumbled over the curb, skinning my knee, but the burning in my chest outweighed the pain in my leg and I scrambled back to my feet. When I reached the front door, I grasped the handle with a shaking hand and yanked, only to find it locked. The fear turned to terror as I pulled on the handle again.
“Daddy!” I screamed again, banging on the window with trembling hands.
I released the hold on the door and grabbed the other one, giving it a tug. It didn’t budge either. Squinting, I peered inside. My heart stopped at the scene before me.
The stands that held my favorite pastries and candies were knocked over, food littering the floor. My gaze roamed the store, but I couldn’t see anything, or anyone, inside. At the end of the counter, the cash register was tipped on its side, the drawer hung open.
I heard a pained moan, and my heart leapt with hope that it was my daddy. But when I looked back to where he was lying, he wasn’t moving.
I looked through the store again, noticing the red liquid that seemed to be everywhere. It looked like someone had taken a bucket of paint and thrown it behind the counter. It dripped down the walls, smeared all over the floor, taking over the entire space.
I held my breath and slowly shifted my gaze back to where my father was. There was a large red puddle under him that seemed to grow larger by the second.
Blood.
It was blood, everywhere. I’d never seen that much blood, not even in the movies that I would watch while hiding in the hallway.
The realization of what it was that was painting the walls caused my knees to buckle and I collapsed into a heap on the ground.
Tears streamed down my face, the stinging in my hand getting worse as I continued to bang on the window from my new position on the ground. I kept staring at my daddy lying lifeless on the floor, my tears willing him to get up, to move, to do something that would let me know everything would be okay.
My throat raw, I screamed until the police arrived. When the policewoman picked me up, I wriggled out of her arms, lunging at the door one last time. I pulled on it frantically, banging on the glass, the need for my daddy to wake up all the more urgent.
As she carried me to the police car, I screamed, my voice nothing more than a whisper, hoping that something would give.
Praying that I would wake up from this nightmare.
Wishing that my daddy would jump up and shout “gotcha.”
But he didn’t.
And he never would.