IAN
Five months or so after the Ian Collins installment of The Hangover when I’d married Reese under the influence, I’d downshifted from the hostile and infuriated stages of anger and was revving in frustration over my father’s lack of Find Sarah ambition. I figured I should give the old man a call and give our relationship one more shot.
Unlike the years I lived under his roof where he had two defined seasons, baseball and football, with schedules that informed me what hotel he’d be at and in what city, my dad was then doing freelance assignments between games. His work kept him out of state and in a perpetual state of movement. He lived in hotels and socialized at airport bars. I had no idea where he was or when he’d be home. Mobile phones weren’t as commonplace then. He might have had one, but I didn’t have the number.
It took him ten days to return the message I’d left on the dated machine at the farmhouse that still played the greeting I recorded my freshman year in high school. You’ve reached the Collinses’ house. Leave a message. I’d copied the greeting my mother had recorded when she purchased the machine, except I replaced “family” with “house” because we weren’t a family. Not anymore.
When I answered the phone, my dad had said hello, heavily cleared his throat, and asked, “You’re moving to Europe?”
“We’re thinking about it.” Reese and I had been planning an eight-week trip. We’d travel through Italy and France, working odd jobs in between her writing and my photography, earning money to extend our time overseas. Should we fall in love with the vibrancy of the big cities or the intimate pace of a quaint village, we’d consider staying. Perhaps indefinitely. At that age, life was about adventure. We’d live it one day at a time at maximum capacity.
“You’re going with that girl you’ve been dating?”
“Her name’s Reese. Yes, we’re traveling together.”
“She come from a good family? No funny business?”
No one slammed it into the outfield like Stu. I caught his meaning like a fly ball landing smack in the middle of my glove. He wondered if Reese had a normal upbringing, nothing sick happening between family members that might have left her with a screwed-up head. I reassured him there weren’t any skeletons in her closet except the one she brought out on Halloween. That was one scary mother. It looked more like a medical school study aid than a holiday prop.
Through the phone receiver came the flare of a match. The short, rapid puffs igniting a cigarette. A long, deep inhale. “She sounds like a nice girl,” my dad said through a tight throat, his words carried on smoke.
Ripping a page from Pop’s get-straight-to-the-point playbook, I asked, “What’s going on with Mom?”
“How the hell would I know?” he said, irritated.
“You haven’t heard from her?” Disappointment nose-dived into my gut. I’d had hopes he would have come to his senses after I left him in Vegas and he sobered up. “Have you even tried looking for her?”
“She’s gone. She left us. End of story.”
“She’s sick, Dad. She doesn’t realize it, but she needs us.”
“I’m not discussing her with you. Come to think of it, you bring her up again, I’m hanging up.”
I beat him to it. I hung up, and other than leaving a brief message that I was getting married and to give him my cell number, I hadn’t called him since. He texted a reply, twice. First, his congrats on marriage, and second, on fatherhood, after I messaged him that Aimee had given birth to Sarah Catherine.
I never understood why he gave up on my mom—his wife—so easily. Or me, for that matter. He discarded me like an overexposed, blurry image. But I’d done the same, I think as I drive with Aimee toward the old farmhouse I haven’t seen since my early twenties. My last visit had been the summer before my final year at ASU.
It’s midmorning Tuesday. Aimee sits beside me, her gaze on passing storefronts. Old, run-down Americana. The town hasn’t changed and surprisingly, I don’t miss it. Aside from my dad, I can’t think of anyone here worth keeping in touch with. Mrs. Killion passed a few years ago and Mr. Killion sold their farm soon after. Like me, Marshall left after he graduated from Boston College. There isn’t much to do around here unless you go into ranching or farming. Last I heard, Marshall was married with three kids and living in the Boston suburbs as a financial adviser.
“I’m nervous about meeting your father,” Aimee says for the second time this morning.
I rest a hand on her thigh. “He’ll be fine,” I say to reassure her and myself. I’m feeling apprehensive. A growing sense of concern keeps me rigid in the driver’s seat. It kept me up all night. “I doubt he’ll be home, though. It’s football season.”
“Lacy seems to think he will be.”
I see the roofline of the house above crumpled stalks of corn, dried out from the sun. The front fields still haven’t been plowed. Flipping on the signal, I slow and turn into the driveway, and then I brake, coming to a full stop. I reverse the car and stop again. “I think we have our answer.” I nod at the mailbox. The flap is open, exposing the overstuffed interior. Random-size letters and circulars scatter the ground like fallen leaves.
Putting the car in park, I get out and Aimee joins me. She collects the mail strewn along the roadside while I clean out the box.
“I’ll take those,” she offers, and I hand over the mail.
“Thanks.” I look around, lifting my face to the wind. Barn manure, wet grass, and the acerbic tang of nutrients. “I forgot how strong fertilizer can smell.”
Aimee’s nose crinkles. “That’s really unpleasant.”
“Welcome to farmland. Let’s go see if my dad’s home, and if Lacy’s there.” I hold the door open until she’s settled in her seat. She balances the mail on her lap. I close the door and walk around the car and sink into my seat. I take in the house at the end of the drive, the white siding sun faded and dusty from the fields. The rain gutter upstairs has pulled away from the roof. Screens on some of the windows are ripped. One of the porch columns leans precariously off to the side, causing the overhang to sag.
“Did the house always look like this?”
“Not this bad.” I coast slowly up the gravel drive and bring the car to a stop beside my dad’s old Chevy truck. He sold the station wagon when I was sixteen, exchanging it for a beat-up Toyota 4Runner, which I used to get around.
Folded, dried-up newspapers litter the front porch, spilling down the steps like coffee beans poured from a canister. I kick aside the papers so Aimee doesn’t trip, and walk the length of the porch, which wraps around the side of the house. My boots leave prints in the dust, fine soil carried by the winds that come through here. I peer into the parlor and dining room windows. The interior is cast in gray light. “I don’t think he’s home.”
Aimee looks around the front yard. “Lacy isn’t here either. There’s no car. Think she’ll show?”
“No clue,” I say, nudging boards along the porch edge with the toe of my boot. Bending over, I try lifting a few.
Aimee comes to stand over me. “What are you doing?”
“When I was ten, Jackie locked me out of the house one night. It was storming and the rain was pouring by the bucketload. I was too scared to run to Marshall’s house, and I couldn’t see. I didn’t want to risk twisting my ankle running across the fields, so I slept on the porch. Curled up right there on the doormat like a dog.” I lift my chin in the direction of the front door.
“Ian.” Emotion weighs down my name.
“Hmm.” I look up at Aimee. Anger hardens her features. Her blue eyes smolder. “I can’t believe your mother—”
“Ancient history, darling. Mom couldn’t help what she did when she shifted. And Jackie can’t hurt me now.”
I tug a board. It doesn’t budge. I move to the next one and pry it open. “Jackpot.” Reaching inside, I fumble around the porch framework until I find what I’m looking for. My fingers touch metal. Grinning, I show Aimee a weather-tarnished key. “I stashed this inside here after that night. Never said a word about it to my parents.”
“Let’s hope your dad hasn’t changed the locks.”
I straighten and look around. “He hasn’t changed a thing.” The porch furniture is still in the exact spot it was when I left for college. Sarah’s pots bookend the front steps, partially filled with hard dirt left over from the plants she once cherished. Even the heap of a truck my dad refused to give up and continued to drive was in its usual spot.
Sliding the key into the lock, I turn it and the tumblers release. The door creaks open. I nudge it farther. Aimee comes up next to me, her side pressing into mine. Her warmth soaks into me. I rest my hand on her lower back as we stand in the doorway and stare down the narrow foyer that opens up to a wider hallway running the length of the house. It ends at the kitchen in the rear. Dust particles dance in ribbons of sunlight. The rest of the house drowns in sepia, like an old, faded photo. I cross the threshold and Aimee follows. Floorboards give way, creaking through the house’s quiet solitude. On our left is the front parlor, the bookshelves empty. At some point, my dad must have packed away my mom’s books. The dining room on our right is also void of her belongings. The embroidery machine that had been left untouched throughout her prison term is no longer there.
The house is warm from being sealed up, the air stale. Aimee lifts her chin and her nose twitches. She makes a noise in the back of her throat and looks at me. Our gazes meet and hold. Worry clouds her brilliant blues.
I grimace. “Yeah, I smell it, too.”
The putrid, foul odor of a decomposing body is unavoidable. My heart pounds and my mouth suddenly goes dry. There might be another reason the mail has piled and the newspapers have collected. Given the smell, the way it clings to the walls and seeps through the house, whoever died has been deceased for a while.
Wouldn’t someone have come looking for him? Surely Josh Lansbury would have been by at some point during the last month to check in with my dad.
I should have come.
I should have visited years ago.
Guilt is a vicious beast in the land of retrospect and hindsight. I scrub my face with both hands and pinch away the unexpected burn in the corners of my eyes. I blink rapidly.
Aimee adjusts the load of mail in her arms and reaches for my hand. I clasp hers in a tight grip.
“Do you think Lacy knew?” she asks.
“I don’t know what that woman thinks.” Let alone what I think of her at the moment. How thoroughly morbid and disrespectful to get me back to the house this way. Why not tell me over the phone? Why not warn me, soften the blow?
I can’t believe this is how it ends with my dad, my calling the morgue to pick up his remains. All the time I thought we had, when one of us would see past our thick heads and apologize, to forgive and forget, lost.
I draw my gaze up the staircase. “Wait here. I’ll have a look around.”
“I’ll put these on the dining table.”
I watch her go into the room and set the mail on the table. The pile slides to the side and Aimee grabs it before envelopes spill to the floor.
Moving down the hallway, I follow the stench into the kitchen. Countertops are clear of dishes and food. A thin layer of dust drapes the furniture and surface tops like a bride’s veil. I turn to the closed laundry room door where the odor is the strongest and pull up my shirt collar over my nose and mouth. Bile thickens in my throat and my gag reflex wakes up with a nice stretch. I grip the doorknob, reluctant to find what’s on the other side, but understanding I don’t have a choice. It doesn’t matter what age or the dynamics of the relationship, no kid should have to come across a parent’s dead body.
“This is fucked.”
Heart pulse thumping in my throat and sweat drenching my armpits, I shove open the door where it stops halfway, blocked by whoever is on the floor. Forcing myself to look behind the door, my gaze drops to the floor.
“Oh shit.” I jump back, my shirt pulling off my face, and bend over, gasping, hands on my knees. “Oh shit, oh shit. Oh thank fuck.”
Aimee comes running into the room. “Are you OK?” She rests her hand on my back. “Ian, talk to me,” she urges when I don’t respond right away.
Straightening, I turn to her, cupping my palms over my mouth and nose. A sick laugh escapes, muffled in my hands. I lower my arms. “Dead possum.”
She tries to peer around me. I grasp her shoulders, backing her away from the laundry room. “It’s not pretty.”
Aimee presses a hand to her chest. “For a moment . . .”
“Me, too.” I briefly close my eyes, urging my insanely beating heart to chill out.
She hugs me, resting her cheek on my chest. My eyes burn. I turn my face up to the ceiling and squeeze my eyes, staunching the flow of tears I don’t want to deal with, because right now, I need to deal with the mess in the other room.
Aimee releases me. “Let me help you clean up.”
I shake my head. “I’ll take care of it.” Opening the lower cabinets, I search for garbage bags.
“I’ll go sort the mail, then.”
She turns to leave and I stop her with her name. “Thank you for coming.”
We share a sad smile and she leaves the room.
Locating the bags, I pluck out a few, using one as a makeshift glove. The animal doesn’t go neatly into the trash bag and I have to stop every minute or so to leave the room and gulp fresh air.
This is not how I expected to spend the day. Al sent an e-mail this morning, confirming the new deadline Reese told me about. He wants my photos by tomorrow morning. I’ve narrowed ten thousand down by three. Seven thousand more to go and I’m beyond exhausted, thanks to jet lag and the lack of sleep. Lacy better get here soon.
I dump the remains in the outside trash and mop the floor.
Aimee returns and glances around the small room. “How did the possum get in here?”
“I’m not sure.” I inspect the walls, looking behind the washer and dryer, and find a hole. “Back here.” I show Aimee. “He must have chewed his way through and couldn’t figure how to get back out.”
“Poor guy.”
I put away the cleaning supplies and wash my hands.
“I tossed the newspapers and swept the porch,” Aimee says.
I close the supply-closet door. “Any word on Lacy?”
She shakes her head. “I just got the answering machine at her house. What now?”
I glance at my watch. “I guess we wait.”
Raking both hands through my hair, I walk down the hallway and out the front door. The screen door slams behind me, banging against the frame before it settles. Planting hands on hips, I stare down the empty drive. A random car passes on the road every couple of minutes, but none slow and turn down the drive.
I might as well make use of the time and fire up my laptop. There are images to edit and an essay to write. I turn back to the house.
“Hello, Ian.”
I jump. “Shit.”
Sitting on the old wicker chair is Lacy Saunders. I blow out a long stream of air. She scared the bejesus out of me. Where did she come from and how did she get here?
She smiles and her lavender eyes sparkle. “Lovely day for a chat, isn’t it?”