The Impossible Knife of Memory (9 page)

I woke to the sound of chain saws rumbling in the living room: soldiers snoring loud enough to rattle the windows. I stretched, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and found my phone buried in the blankets. No new messages. I reread what Finn had sent the night before to make sure he said what I thought he said.

He did.
My stomach went squirmy. I wanted to text Gracie and ask what I was supposed to do next, but what if he didn’t mean it? What if the whole thing was a setup, you know, humiliate the new girl and scar her for life? Plus, if I told Gracie, she’d tell Topher and he liked to exaggerate, so by Monday morning the whole school would think that me and Finn had slept together and Finn would think that I had started the rumor and he’d never talk to me again.
And I’d definitely flunk math.
I read his text a third time. My stomach clenched. I had to find out the truth: Was he messing with me, was I blowing this out of proportion, or . . . or something else?
Deep voices in the hall and the slamming of the bathroom door meant that some of the soldiers were up. If I could get them to stay for the whole weekend, that would distract Dad and give me time to track down Finn and . . .
And what?
Okay, I’d figure that out later. Step One—enlist military babysitters for Captain Andrew Kincain.

The gamers I’d seen the night before had fallen asleep on the couch with the controllers still in their hands. The pause scene looped on the screen, a monster slicing off the head of a green-skinned warrior whose body crumpled to the ground spurting fountains of blood from his neck stump, over and over and over again. I hurried into the kitchen.

“Morning, princess,” Dad said.

He stood in front of the stove, watching four fry pans of sizzling bacon, his face tense. The bags under his eyes were swollen, but it didn’t look like he’d been crying. He probably hadn’t slept at all.

“Morning,” I said.
“Perfect timing!” Roy came in from the garage and headed for the coffeepot. “Help me out, Hayley,” he said, pouring himself a cup. “I’m trying to convince your old man to come with us to the mountains.”
Dad frowned and turned up the heat under the pan. “Knock it off, Roy.”
“Cabin, lake, trees,” Roy said. “Two days, one night. Time of your life.”
Two days and one night?
Me with a chance to be on my own, Dad with a chance to get his head straight?
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “It sounds awesome. You have to go.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.” Dad flipped the bacon. “End of story.”
“I’ll stay at Gracie’s.”
“I said no,” Dad growled.
“Just for tonight,” Roy said. “Hell, you could go home after dinner, the drive only takes a couple hours. Bring Hayley if you want.”
Dad shook his head.
I plucked a piece of cooked bacon from the plate next to the stove. I’d seen a glimpse of the old Dad the night before, the guy who was funny and sweet, but he’d gone back into hiding and New Dad, Damaged Dad was cooking the bacon. As much as I wanted some space to think about Finn (and possibly hang out with him), getting Dad to spend more time with Roy was more important.
“I’ve never seen the Adirondacks,” I said. “Might be fun.”
“See?” Roy grinned. “Come on, Andy. You know you want to. Man up and get your sorry ass out of this place for a day.”
“I’m not going!” Dad snapped. “End of discussion!”
The smoke from the bacon curled toward the ceiling. He stared at the pan. The darkness had settled on his face again. He didn’t move when hot grease splattered on his arms.
“It’s cool, Andy,” Roy said quietly. He reached in front of Dad to shut off the burners, then he turned to me and nodded toward the door.

I was sitting on the tailgate of Dad’s pickup watching two soldiers load their duffel bags into a Jeep when Roy came outside. Cold wind gusted from the north.

“Make sure everyone’s awake,” Roy called to them. “Get all the gear packed and stowed, and make sure the house and yard are cleaned up.”

“Yes, sir,” they said, trotting toward the backyard. “When do you have to leave?” I asked.
“After breakfast. We don’t have much time to talk.” He

pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and shook one out. “Is Andy seeing a counselor or a shrink?”

I shook my head. “He won’t go. If I bring it up, he yells at me. And he drinks a lot. Too much.”
Roy swore and lit the cigarette, his hand cupping the thin flame to protect it from the wind.
I brushed the hair out of my face. “Are you afraid of overpasses?”
He blew the smoke to one side, away from me. “Come again?”
“Bridge overpasses. Do you turn around if you see one so you don’t have to drive underneath it?”
“No.” He studied the burning end of the cigarette. “But I’m guessing Andy does. Why?”
“Snipers,” I said. “First it was overpasses, then toll booths. He’ll take huge detours around Dumpsters or trash cans ’cause they could be hiding an IED. He knows that’s stupid, but knowing doesn’t stop the panic attacks. Sometimes, he won’t leave the house for days.”
“What about a job?” Roy asked.
“When we first got here he worked for an insurance company, then the post office hired him. That didn’t last long. A couple weeks ago, the cable company fired him, too.”
“What’s the problem?”
“His temper. He blows up about stupid things and then he has a hard time calming down.”
“Does he get any disability money?”
“A little.”
“This was your grandmother’s house, right? Is it paid for?”
In a flash, I saw myself
. . . standing on a chair at the kitchen table, helping Gramma put packs of gum in a brown box. We fill it up with gum and cigarettes and books and a picture of the sky filled with birds that I drew with my crayons. Gramma tapes it up and we take it to the post office and mail it to Daddy. . . .
I dug my nails into the palms of my hands until the memory disappeared. “I think so.”
Dad’s voice boomed across the backyard, but with the wind, I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
Roy took another drag of the cigarette. “What’s the story with this Michael dude?”
“They went to school together. He’s the only friend Dad has around here. I think he’s a dealer.”
“Shit,” Roy said.
“Why is he getting worse?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense. He’s been back for years.”
“The blood is still flowing.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “Everything’s healed up, even his leg. Has been for a long time.”
“How old are you now?”
“Eighteen,” I said. “Well, I will be. In April.”
“His soul is still bleeding. That’s a lot harder to fix than a busted-up leg or traumatic brain injury.”
“But it can be fixed, right? People can get better.”
“Not always,” he said. “I probably should sugarcoat it a little, but you’re old enough for the truth. Andy needs to take charge of this. He needs to get help.”
I hopped off the tailgate. “Make him go with you. Talk to him. He’ll listen to you.”
“That’s the hardest part.” Roy frowned. “If he doesn’t want to go, there’s nothing I can do.”
“So stay here with him,” I said. “I’ll go to my friend’s house.”
“I wish I could, Hayley, but I made a commitment to the guys.”
“Just for one night?” I hated whining, but couldn’t help it. “Please?”
“I’m sorry.” Roy stubbed out his cigarette on the bumper and carefully put what was left of it back in the pack. “I’ll talk to some people when I get back to base, make sure that someone from the VA checks in with him. This shouldn’t be on your shoulders.”
He looked like he was going to say more, but we were interrupted by a skinny, acne-scarred soldier. “Everyone’s awake, sir, and cleaning up.”
“Make sure they put out the fire completely,” Roy said.
“Captain Kincain just built it up again, sir. He told me to leave it alone. And, ah . . .” he hesitated.
“What is it?”
“Sir, Captain Kincain wants us leave ASAP. He was pretty loud about it.”

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33
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Dad emerged from his room after they left and joined me at the bonfire, carrying a six-pack of beer. He threw on a couple sticks of wood and sat on a folding chair without a word.

“It was nice of them to stop by,” I said carefully.

He picked a thin stick off the ground and threw it into the fire. “Yep.”
I pulled the buzzing phone out of my pocket. It was Finn:
“Friend from school.” I quickly typed:
yes plz
later
and put the phone away.
“Not what’s-her-name up the street?” Dad asked, cracking open a can of ten-o’clock-in-the-morning beer.
“Not Gracie.” I said. “A new kid. New to me, I mean.”
He grunted, beer can on his right knee, left leg jiggling like he was listening to fast music I couldn’t hear. He leaned forward and poked the fire with an old broom handle. “Thought you had homework.”
That was my signal to leave him alone. I couldn’t, even though I knew I should. Beer for breakfast was freaking me out. The wind rattled the dried cornstalks in the field next door. I tossed a stick onto the fire, sending up sparks, and tried for a safe path through the minefields of Dad’s mood.
“He said I looked like Mom.” I cleared my throat. “Roy did. It was weird to hear him say that.”
Dad grunted.
“So was he like a best friend or something back then? I mean, if he remembers what Rebecca looked like.”
He poked at the fire again. “He and his girlfriend lived in the apartment below us when you were born. I don’t remember her name. She and your mom were friends.”
“You never said I looked like her.”
“You don’t.” He drained the can and popped open another one. “You look like yourself. Nobody else. Trust me, that’s a good thing.”
I picked up a rock the size of my thumb and tossed it in the fire. “You don’t think I look like you? Not even around the eyes?”
He stretched his neck to the right until the bones popped. “Don’t do that.”
I threw in another rock. “What?”
“Sedimentary rocks can explode in a fire. The moisture in them turns to steam, then
boom
.”
“You’re not my teacher anymore.”
He poked at the fire again, lifting the logs to get some air underneath them. “Why are you in such a crappy mood?”
There was no way to answer that without getting into trouble. He was the one with the mood, with the crazy demands, chasing his friends out before they could eat the breakfast he’d cooked. He was the one acting like a kid, making me figure everything out on my own. Roy handed him the perfect opportunity to get his head straight and Dad basically spat on it. Made me wonder if he liked being a miserable hermit, if he enjoyed screwing up my life as much as he was screwing up his own.
“Are you gonna answer me or what?” he asked, daring me to mouth off.
All of his stupid anger about Roy was being aimed at me. I didn’t deserve it, not this time. I pitched another rock into the flames, trying to stay calm because this was dangerous, my heart beating this fast, my mouth bitter and dry. I’d been angry at my father before, but this was different. I’d leveled up without realizing it. This new landscape was cave-dark.
“Did you hear what I said about the rocks?” he demanded.
I scooped up a handful of pebbles. “Yep.”
“Ah,” he said as if enlightened. “You’re pissed, is that it? Have a crush on one of the soldier boys? You’re crazy if you think I’d let any of them near you.”
The north wind gusted again, stoking the fire and sending my hair writhing in all directions. A loud
pop
came from inside the flames. Dad flinched. A rock had reached its boiling point.
“How come you didn’t go with them?” I asked.
“Didn’t want to.”
My phone buzzed. I didn’t answer it.
“Talking to Roy might have helped,” I said.
Smoke billowed.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said.
“Roy thinks you should talk to someone from the VA.”
“They’re the ones who did this to me.”
“Dad—”
“Enough, Hayley. I don’t want their help.”
“Okay, so don’t go to the VA, but at least go up to the camp.” My phone buzzed again. “You were actually laughing last night, Roy—”
Dad roared, “I don’t like the woods, damn it!”
Oxygen swooped into the gap he’d opened under the logs. The bonfire flared. For a second, I wished the grass was still long and dry so that the fire would catch and burn everything—the house, the truck, everything—and force him to see what a jerk he was being.
I started to walk away.
“Get back here,” Dad ordered.
“Why?”
He cold-stared at me without answering until I walked back and sat on an upturned log. The phone vibrated again. Either Finn was texting me an entire novel, or Topher and Gracie had just broken up.
“You looked like you were having fun last night,” I said quietly.
“I was,” he admitted. “But when I went to sleep, the nightmares were still there, bigger and badder than ever.”
He sipped from the can and stared into the fire as if he’d forgotten me entirely. I took a chance and checked my phone. The messages were from Finn, asking if I wanted to go skydiving, if I wanted to hunt for gold, if I wanted to ski down Mount Everest. Part of me wanted to go in the house, call him, gossip, flirt, do anything except talk to my father. I wrote back quickly, told him I’d call when I could.
Dad put out his hand. “Give that to me.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m tired of listening to it buzz.”
The fire crackled. I fought to keep my mouth shut because if I said what I wanted to say, the nuclear fallout would kill everything for hundreds of miles.
I put the phone on the ground. “I won’t answer it. I promise.”
“I want to see who you’re talking to. I’m your father. Give me the phone.”
“You?” I stared at him through the shimmering waves of heat. “Act like a father?”
He stood up. “What did you say?”
Something inside me boiled. “You’re a mess, Daddy,” I blurted out. “No job. No friends. No life. Half the time you can’t even take the dog for a walk without freaking out.”
“That’s enough, Hayley. Shut it.”
“No!” I stood up. “And now you’re all ‘I’m the dad’ but it doesn’t mean anything because all you do is sit on your ass and drink. You’re not a father, you’re—”
He grabbed the front of my sweatshirt. I gasped. His jaw was clenched tight. The bonfire danced in his eyes. I had to say something to calm him down, but he looked so far gone I wasn’t sure he’d hear me. He tightened his grip, pulling me up on my tiptoes. His free hand was balled into a fist. He had never hit me before, not once.
The wind shifted, swirling the smoke around us.
I braced myself.
The smoke made him blink. He swallowed and cleared his throat. He opened his hand, let go of my shirt, and started to cough.
I let out a shaky breath but didn’t move, afraid to set him off again. He turned his back to me, bent over with his hands on his knees and coughed hard, then spit in the dirt and stood up. The smoke shifted direction and I breathed in. Breathed out. On the inhale I was angry. On the exhale . . . there it was again. Fear. The fear made me angry and the anger made me afraid and I wasn’t sure who he was anymore. Or who I was.
High above his head, an arrowed flock of geese was flying south. The sound of their honking moved slower than their bodies, floating down to the bonfire a few heartbeats after they moved out of range. A cloud moved in front of the sun, dimming the light and shrinking the shadows.
My phone rang and Dad jumped up as if it had given him an electric shock. Without a word he grabbed it and pitched it into the fire.