Autumn-
I had hope to go to the park first thing in the morning and have fun for my last day of Thanksgiving Break. But Mrs. Camden has other plans for me today.
“You need to go see him, Autumn,” she says, nearly giving me a heart-attack as I stumble–creep out of the pantry with a Pop Tart sticking out of my mouth. Unfortunately, between the force of my teeth and my sudden startled jolt, a good chunk of it breaks off and falls to the ground in a mess of crumbles, pink frosting, and rainbow sprinkles.
I stare down at it, dejectedly.
Mrs. Camden moves from her seat at the bar counter top. She’s wearing her dark hair in a super loose ponytail, fastened with a coral scrunchie that is the same shade as her bathrobe and slippers. Kneeling down in front of me, she begins to clean up the Pop Tart mess. Because she is the reason it fell in the first place, I decide to let her.
It’s only when she dusts the last rainbow sprinkle into the garbage can that I ask, “Who should I go see?”
“Your father.”
My injured leg wobbles underneath me, causing a pang of dizziness to rush to my head. Spots try to eat away my vision, but I cannot let them. I can’t.
“He’s in jail,” I reply, ruder than I meant to. But now that I’ve said it like that, I have no desire to take it back.
“He has visitation,” Mrs. Camden says, unfazed by my disrespect.
“Oh.” Because that’s the only word my mind can think of. But visiting my father...Yes I know I should go to see him. I miss him. I am his daughter. But he’s a different person now, right? An inmate. He’s your dad, a tiny voice in my heart whispers. And he was trying to help you. He was. No matter what has happened, he’s still my dad. And I still love him.
“I’m sorry for being rude,” I tell Mrs. Camden. “I’ll go.”
••••••••••••••••••••
My first thought when I see my dad is: orange is not his color.
My second is: What have they done to my dad?
Dad’s eyes—like mine—are almond–shaped and brown. Usually, they’d never be bloodshot. Usually, his dark circles are very faint. I’ve never seen his dark brown hair so long and unkempt. Or a route of stubble tracing down the sides of his face, over his top lip, coating his chin.
“Hey, Pumpkin,” he says, a smile glowing on his tired face. His nickname almost brings tears to my eyes. He used to say that his favorite thing about autumn—the season—was pumpkins. When I was little, we used to pick them out together and make all kinds of pumpkin treats. Pancakes, pie, muffins, and lattes. Mom didn’t like me to have coffee, but Dad would give it to me anyway and call it our Father–Daughter Secret. It’s not right to have a favorite child or a favorite parent. But I was his favorite and he was mine.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, ordering my voice not to tremble as I sit at the desk in front of him.
“How’re things going?”
“Oh, they’re fine. The Camden’s are nice, just like always. Um, I made a new friend. Everyone’s just been hanging out a ton.”
“That’s great, Pumpkin. How’s school?”
“It’s okay.”
“How’s your, um, leg?”
I am struck silent. The realization that I haven’t seen Dad since before the...accident strikes me hard, like a blow to the gut. If he’s even seen the damage done to his daughter, it’s only been in pictures. Pictures that can never do its horror justice. Nervously, I glance around and stand up.
“Wait, don’t leave,” Dad begs.
“I’m not leaving.” I force my right leg onto the desk in front of me, the barrier between my dad and me. I have to grit my teeth against the pain of bending my leg like this, but I have to show him. Ignoring the mud on my Converse, I pull up the ankle of my jeans and bunch up the denim around my knee to show him what exactly he robbed a bank to save.
He stands up abruptly. Reaching over the glass panel that separates us, he clutches my face between his hands. I don’t even care that my cheeks are all smushed and that it’s slightly painful.
“Pumpkin,” he says hoarsely. “You’re gonna be okay.”
“Dad,” I choke, wrapping my hands around his, trying to stop my own from shaking. Can he feel me? Can he feel how terrified I am? “Dad, I can’t do this. I’ve been trying, I promise. I really have. I’ve been trying to pretend it’s all normal.”
“I know, Pumpkin, I know. I’m so sorry. I never wanted this for you. For us.”
“I want you to come back. I don’t belong with the Camdens. I don’t belong at that school. Daddy, I belong with you. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending.”
With his thumbs, he brushes away my tears. Glittering in his eyes just like mine are tears that are his own. He isn’t supposed to cry. Not my dad. He’s supposed to cuddle his little girl on his lap and whisper into her hair, or sing goofy songs, or share a whole tub of rocky road ice cream. He’s supposed to promise me that I am strong and things will be fine.
But I guess the laws of “Supposed To” aren’t in my favor. Because Dad doesn’t do any of those things. He just kisses my forehead and says, “I love you. I love you.”
I was right. He is different.
But so am I. We all are. We’ve had to accommodate to our situations. Situations I can’t fix.
The security guard tells me that my time is up. But I can’t leave. Not when Dad is still trapped here.
“No,” I say. “I’m not leaving until you let him out.”
“Miss, your father is a criminal and he must serve his sentence.”
Rage boils inside of me. “He is not a criminal! He was trying to help me! He was trying to help this!” I show him my injury. To his credit, he doesn’t recoil, but his eyes do widen slightly.
“Surely you can understand that!” I snap.
“It doesn’t matter why he did it,” the guard says calmly. “I’m afraid that he’ll still have to serve his sentence of five years.”
Five years. Five years.
It barely registers with me that the guard is dragging me away until I see Dad waving goodbye.
“Wait!” my voice doesn’t sound like my own. “Wait!”
“Miss, please keep it down. It’s time to go.”
I struggle under his grip. Stomping on his foot startles him, and he loosens his grip enough for me to break free and then I run, tripping, to Dad. Banging my fists on the glass, I beg. “Don’t let them take me. I’m not going to leave you!”
“Autumn,” Dad says firmly. “You need to follow the rules. You can come and see me next week.”
“Follow the rules? What, follow the rules like you did?” I challenge. I’m so angry. All I want is him to help me stay. Doesn’t he see? Doesn’t he see how much I need him? He’s the only one who cares. He didn’t give up his parental rights. I need him.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please, Daddy.”
“It’s time to go, Pumpkin.”
“NO!” I scream as the guard grabs me and starts to drag me away. “DON’T YOU CARE?” I scream at my dad. “I NEED YOU!”
Dad holds my gaze as I’m taken away. “PLEASE, DAD!”
When he turns away I know for certain. He does care. This is breaking him as much as it’s breaking me.
Mrs. Camden looks worried when I return to the lobby with a security guard.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
The guard eyes me warily. “This one has a bit of a stubborn streak. Miss,” he turns to me. “If I have to escort you out like that again, visitations will be over. Do you understand?”
I stare at the ground, shocked at everything that has just happened; appalled at my behavior. “Yes,” I whisper, ashamed. “I’m really sorry.”
His face softens. “I know you are. I have a little girl of my own, and I can’t imagine what this must be like.”
“Please,” I say. “He’s a good Christian man. He was only trying to help me. He meant no harm. Please.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. Laws are laws and must be abided by. I really am sorry.” And I can tell that he is.
If I could go back in time, I would. I would not go to the Youth Conference, not injure my leg, not make my dad rob a bank, and still be a Hathaway.
I stare out the window as Mrs. Camden drives in silence. Thankfully, she doesn’t try to talk.
Once we pull into the driveway, I ask if I can go to the park.
“Sure, sweetie,” she says. “Do you want me to take you?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s okay. I have a friend coming to pick me up.”
She nods and then pulls me in for a hug. “You’re a brave girl.”
But she is wrong. I am so very afraid.
I find Mia in her bedroom floor, painting her toenails a shade of green. She looks up and smiles when I come in.
“Hey,” she says by way of greeting. “How was it?”
“Miserable,” I say. “But also good.”
She nods understandingly. “If you ever need someone to talk to…”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Mia nudges her nailpolish bin towards me. “Go crazy,” she says and then pauses. “Well, not too crazy. If you get nailpolish on the carpet I’m dead to Mom and then you’re dead to me.” she fixes me with a not–at–all–serious glare that has me smiling. Mia is the cure for sadness.
I choose an orangey-red that is metallic and swipe it across my toes, admiring the way that it makes my tan skin seem evern tanner.
Mia finally asks, breaking the silence that makes it hard to breathe. “Will you play something?”
I tighten the lid on the bottle of nail polish. “What?”
“On your guitar. Will you play?”
“Sure,” I say slowly. I reach for where it rests on it’s guitar stand. A few seconds go by as I practice a few chords and tune it. Mia hands me my orange binder and I flip through song after songs, unable to decide.
“You pick,” I relent, handing the binder back.
She opens to a Christian song that we perform at church. “This is probably my favorite one we do in Youth.”
“Yeah, it’s good,” I agree, running over the song in my head. I place the capo on the correct fret and play a practice chord. “Okay.”
“A five–six–seven–eight!” Mia flips her head around, her hair whirling around her head like a halo of insanity.
I laugh, forgetting about my earlier sadness. Mia’s working her magic already. I match her tempo, which results in speeding up the song and adding more—for lack of a better term—“Omph”.
We both sing along to “Life Defined” and then move on to other songs. Mia loses it at “Shut Up and Dance” and has to take a breather because her voice is so scratchy and her face is bright red. She takes deep, gasping breaths that look painful. “You’re turn for a solo,” she huffs, lying on her back on her bed. I smile and run my fingers over the strings to “Little Talks.”
“Don’t listen to a word I say
The screams all sound the same
Though the truth may vary
This ship will carry our bodies
Safe to shore…”
Mia taps my shoulder and I look up. She points towards her door where I see the figure of a teenage boy. A blush streaks across my face and I clear my throat. “Um. Hi.”
“Hi,” Adam says. “Sorry to intrude. Mrs. Camden told me to go ahead upstairs. For, you know, the Park. Oh, and hey, Mia.”
Mia waves and looks at me with a very obnoxious smirk. I shoot her a warning look that says she better not tease or so help me.
“But,” Adam continues, somewhat clumsily, “if now isn’t such a great time, I can come back.”
“No,” I say quickly. “No, that’s okay. Here. Let me just...uh…” I lean my guitar back on the stand and pull on some boots. Adam makes an odd face. “What smells like chemicals in here?”
Mia and I both exchange a look and laugh. “Nail polish,” we both say.
Shaking his head in confusion, Adam follows me downstairs and into the kitchen. I grab my purse and wave goodbye to Mrs. Camden who offers us a kale, avocado, and mango smoothie sweetened with a banana and honey and topped with homemade granola. The granola consists of oats, cranberries, and what looks like lentils, but I can’t be sure. Politely, the two of us decline. We hear Mrs. Camden head upstairs with the cup of green sludge, no doubt going to offer it to Mia. There’s no use, really. By the time we reach the front door, I hear a screeching howl that tells me I was right. Adam glances towards the stairs, alarmed, but I just laugh and pull him outside.
“Walking or biking?” I ask.
He shrugs. “How does you leg feel?”
“I can do either, really. It’s fine. I’m trying to get it stronger.”
“Walking it is,” he concludes, but then his face lights up with a mischievous smile. “Or we can piggyback, if your leg gets too tired.”
“No way!”
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust you not to drop me!”
“I promise I’ll only do it once.”
“Ugh, you!” I shove him and he laughs.
“So,” he says as we walk across the street. Despite my protests that I can walk fine on my own (no, I can’t), he keeps one arm around me for stability.
“So,” I repeat.
“Are you ready to go back to school?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I mean, this break has been good, I feel like. I’ve enjoyed it a lot.”
“So have I.” he’s quiet for a moment. But it’s not the I–don’t–know–what–to–say kind of quiet. It’s the pondering kind. The kind that seems to come before someone says something important. I smile at the pavement, watching my boot and Adam’s tennis shoe step in perfect unison. I reposition my crutch under my arm and let the December wind whip my hair into a frenzy. I can’t believe that today is already December 1st. It’s getting close to Christmas. My stomach lurches.
Christmas.
I won’t be spending it with my family. We’ll all be doing something different. Kyle and Sam will open presents at Aunt Olivia’s. Mom will be chilling somewhere, probably out of the country. Now that she’s got no kids to worry about, she can go wherever. She can spend Christmas in the Bahamas. Dad, well, he’ll be singing “Silent Night” all alone in this cell. I’ll be with the Camden’s. I wonder how they do Christmas. Do they read the Birth of Jesus around their Christmas tree and then hold hands and sing carols? Does Mrs. Camden make hot chocolate and ham and peppermint bark to snack on throughout the day? Does everybody snuggle up in their new winter pajamas and fuzzy socks and watch Christmas movies until everybody has dozed off on the couch.
But no. Those things make a Hathaway Christmas. Not a Camden Christmas. It will be wholly new experience.
Lots of things lately have been new, says the voice in my head and I glance at Adam, who smiles at me. I feel the pressure of his arm around me. New isn’t necessarily bad.
“Someone sure looks serious,” Adam notes.
I shake my head. “Just...lost in thought, I guess.”
He nods like he understand. “Me too. I was just thinking about today.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s like you said. This has been a really good break. So I want to end it well. You know, do something to remember it.”
I nod. “What did you have in mind?”
He squints at a forested area in the distance. “Is that the Park?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Follow me.”
Comments