and the commercial happens

  to feature my least favorite

  Christmas song ever:

  “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

  I hate this song, always have,

  and somewhere I’ve forever

  understood it had something

  to do with my mother. Mom.

  Trying that one on for size, too.

  Maya McCabe. I think she used

  to sing that song to me, back

  when she and I shared Christmases.

  Were there only two?

  Every December when Dad

  and I stopped long enough

  to notice, I’d see other kids

  and their moms singing

  Christmas carols together.

  Only I didn’t have a mom.

  I wanted one then.

  Wanted one more than anything,

  as long as she wasn’t a dyke

  whore who tried to fool me

  into believing she loved me

  by doing regular mom stuff

  like singing “Santa Claus Is Coming

  to Town” and decorating

  a cut-down-dead tree with

  cheap homemade ornaments.

  That, according to Dad.

  How the hell could he do

  what he did? To Maya McCabe,

  who I don’t even know,

  but, more, to me? The life he built—

  all that running, all those women,

  every shredded chapter—

  was pure fiction.

  What am I supposed to think

  now? Is it even remotely possible

  that my mother—mom?—

  will be here for this and future

  Christmases? What am I supposed

  to do? Go shopping with her?

  Bake cookies together?

  Talk about lesbian love?

  Musing

  I drive toward town

  well under the limit,

  unsure about wildlife

  and my ability to miss it.

  A vehicle approaches

  from the opposite direction.

  Fast. Too fast.

  And swerving,

  zigzagging side to side

  across the white line.

  As it nears, I recognize

  Garrett’s pickup truck,

  and a stray thought

  dashes through my head—

  is that bottle still rolling

  around in the back?

  He passes now,

  and his head rotates

  toward the window.

  Even though I can’t see

  his face, an outbreak

  of anxiety strikes well

  before I notice his brake

  lights in my mirror.

  Holy hell,

  he’s turning

  around.

  Whatever he’s got

  in mind can’t be good.

  What does

  he have in mind?

  I grab my phone

  to keep it in close

  reach, go ahead

  and give the Focus

  a big shot of gas.

  Come on, baby.

  Once I get off this road

  and onto the highway,

  mayhem will be less likely,

  and I’ve got a decent lead.

  Still, before long

  here he comes,

  screaming up over

  a slight rise, bright lights

  on and blinding.

  I pick up speed,

  but he’s right on

  my bumper and

  and I don’t know

  what to do or how

  to quiet the loud

  percussion of my heart

  thudding in my veins.

  Flashback

  Dad’s driving.

  It’s a strange car.

  I’m in the backseat.

  With a dog.

  Dog?

  No, puppy.

  No, somewhere

  in between.

  A young dog

  with a silky golden coat.

  I’m scared.

  Crying.

  The dog whines

  at the lights in the rear

  window. Bright lights.

  I plant my face

  into the dog’s shoulder.

  “Boo,” I whisper.

  Boo?

  Dad cusses.

  The car behind us honks.

  Rides our bumper.

  Starts to pass.

  Dad swerves.

  Slams on the brakes.

  The other car goes sideways,

  trying to avoid us.

  Crashes.

  Dad laughs.

  Real Time

  A vehicle starts to pass.

  Close. Too close.

  We’re almost touching.

  Only when I glance

  to my left it isn’t the hulk

  of a pickup.

  It’s a car.

  A familiar car.

  Dad’s LeSabre.

  And it isn’t Garrett

  behind the wheel.

  “Dad?”

  I say it out loud,

  but I don’t know why.

  He can’t hear me.

  Can he see me?

  Surely he knows

  it’s me.

  I honk once.

  His head doesn’t turn.

  I honk again,

  longer.

  Still he stares

  straight ahead.

  Pass already, would you?

  Suddenly,

  he cuts me off.

  I swerve.

  Slam on the brakes.

  Only this time

  it’s me who overcorrects.

  Goes sideways.

  Manages to avoid the ditch

  on my right.

  Barely.

  Skids left.

  Manages to avoid

  the LeSabre’s rear bumper.

  Barely.

  The Focus hits

  the left-hand shoulder.

  Sideways.

  The Focus stops suddenly,

  slams my forehead

  against the steering wheel.

  Brain spinning

  inside my skull, I reach

  for my phone—still

  there on the seat.

  Hit the first number

  in memory. “Help me.”

  Dark Out Here

  Dark.

  But where is here?

  Cold out here.

  Cold.

  But where is here?

  I open my eyes.

  Work hard to remember.

  Car.

  In my car.

  Stopped.

  Something’s wrong.

  Why am I sideways?

  Ditch.

  What ditch?

  And why is my car

  tilted into it?

  Most of all,

  why does my head hurt?

  I reach up, touch

  the spot above my eyes

  that has swollen into

  an awful knot.

  Oh my God.

  I remember.

  Dad.

  Headlights appear.

  Approach.

  Quickly.

  Slower.

  What if it’s Dad?

  Did he come back?

  I should move my car.

  I reach for the key.

  The engine starts easily.

  But the tires spin

  uselessly.

  I think I need

  a tow truck.

  The other car

  brakes to a stop.

  It’s an old GTO with

  a new paint job.

  Gabe hurries over,

  takes a good look

  at the position of the car.

  Opens the passenger door.

  Ariel. Are you okay?

  Does anything feel broken
?

  Everything but bones.

  Holy shit. Look at your head!

  That Cracks Me Up

  Not that anything’s funny.

  Not my head.

  Not that I’m not okay.

  “I’m great. How are you?”

  Lame humor. Guess I’m not dying.

  You don’t look great.

  What happened?

  “Garrett was having

  a little fun with me.

  Except it wasn’t Garrett.

  Turned out it was my dad.”

  Garrett? Your dad?

  What are you talking about?

  Wait. Let’s get you out of there.

  Can you unbuckle your seat belt?

  I fumble, but manage it,

  and Gabe tugs me gently

  across the seat and out

  the door. He sits me

  next to the car, wraps

  me in the warmth

  of his jacket to fight

  the cold, and possible

  shock. Uses a flashlight

  to assess potential injuries.

  “Hey. How did you know

  to come looking for me?”

  You called. Asked for help.

  I didn’t know you were

  out here, though. I was on

  my way to your house, and

  to tell you the truth, I was

  preparing myself to kick

  your dad’s ass. He studies

  my face closer. Looks like

  I should’ve gotten there

  sooner. Bastard. Listen.

  We should probably take

  you into the ER. You could

  have a concussion.

  “Nope. Huh-uh. I’ve had

  a shitty enough day. Not

  going to deal with doctors,

  too. Anyway, what would

  they do for a concussion?

  Keep me warm and make

  me rest, right? I can do

  that anywhere.”

  Ariel, I really think—

  “No hospital! Other than

  a headache, I feel okay.

  I could probably even drive.”

  Yeah, Except

  The Focus can’t go anywhere,

  and even if it could, Gabe

  isn’t about to let me behind the wheel.

  Take care of your car tomorrow.

  I’ll drive you wherever you want.

  Can you stand up okay?

  He helps me to my feet and into

  the GTO, carefully, tenderly,

  as if I might shatter. Maybe I will.

  “Will you take me to Monica’s?

  She’s probably worried about me.

  That’s where I was going when . . .”

  I give him the lowdown,

  at least what I can remember.

  Everything’s a little foggy.

  Your dad did this? Ran you

  off the road? On purpose?

  He could’ve killed you.

  “I think that’s what he had

  in mind.” The words exit

  my mouth without conscious

  thought. I can’t quite believe

  he’d hurt me, but what he did

  was definitely deliberate.

  Deliberate

  De

  Dad

  li

  has

  be

  many

  rate.

  faults

  but

  Oh

  he

  my

  isn’t

  serious

  capable

  God.

  of

  homicide.

  My

  dad

  But now

  tried

  his words

  to

  come back

  kill

  to me.

  me.

  I

  Did he?

  should

  Maybe.

  have

  Maybe not.

  killed

  Maybe

  the

  it was

  bitch

  an accident

  when

  after all.

  I

  had

  So

  the

  why

  chance.

  didn’t

  he stop?

  No.

  No way.

  I Jerk the Door Open

  Lean out as far as I can

  before my stomach empties

  itself of what little I’ve eaten

  today. Gut clenching and

  releasing, I heave and heave.

  Finally, the nausea subsides

  and I chance sitting up again,

  shaky and, I’m sure, pale.

  “Sorry. I think I managed to miss

  your new leather seat, though.”

  Don’t apologize! But thanks

  for avoiding the seat. I’ll go

  put a note on your car. Do you

  have your phone, or did you

  leave it in the Focus?

  Phone? I called Gabe, at least

  he says I did. . . . “I think it’s on

  the seat, or maybe the floor. Can you

  grab it and both my backpacks, please?”

  Most of my earthly possessions

  are inside them. I’ll have to go back

  for what’s left. But then what?

  Because whatever Dad did

  or didn’t do tonight, he’s gone.

  He’ll vanish like he did before

  with one notable exception.

  He Left Me Behind

  Just like I always worried

  he would when I was little.

  Now, at least, I’m old enough

  to take care of myself. Maybe.

  Gabe returns, tosses my stuff

  onto the backseat. All but my phone.

  That, he hands to me. You can

  call the cops on the way to town.

  My head begins a slow right-

  left motion. “Can’t call the cops.”

  Run into the alfalfa fields. Hide.

  No police ever. Programming.

  But Gabe’s having none of it.

  Why not? You can’t let that bastard

  get away with this, Ariel. Who

  knows what he might do next?

  He’s right. I’m wrong. As usual.

  “But he’s still my dad, Gabe.

  If I call the cops and they catch

  him, he’ll probably go to jail.”

  Which is exactly where he belongs.

  Look, either you call 9-1-1 or I will.

  He Starts the Car

  But waits for me to dial,

  and I realize he’s totally serious

  about me doing this, so I comply.

  “Hello? I’ve been in an accident.”

  The cop on duty asks

  if I’m injured, and do I require

  an ambulance, but when

  I tell him I’m mostly okay,

  he informs me that

  this isn’t really an emergency.

  “What if I told you someone

  purposely cut me off?”

  He inquires if anyone else

  saw what happened,

  and when I say no,

  he invites me to come in

  and file a police report,

  but without witnesses

  it’s my word

  versus the other guy’s.

  Now he asks a series

  of questions designed,

  I think, to shift the blame

  onto my shoulders.

  He sounds like he thinks

  I’m making it all up.

  Have you been drinking tonight?

  “Nope.”

  Are you sure another car was involved?

  “Positive.”

  Could this be a domestic dispute?

  “In a manne
r of speaking.”

  Were you fighting with your boyfriend?

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  But you know the other driver?

  “Yes.”

  Okay, who was it then?

  Damn. Mistake. Can’t say.

  Hello? Are you still there?

  “Uh-huh.”

  So, who cut you off?

  “Never mind.”

  I Hang Up

  Gabe shoots me

  a what just happened?

  kind of look.

  I shrug.

  “He said I need a witness.”

  It strikes me I might

  have an unreliable one,

  if I actually want

  one, not that Garrett

  would be likely to testify

  even if he did see

  Dad rocket by.

  “Can we just go now,

  please?”

  They really won’t do

  something about this?

  “Apparently not.

  But I don’t really care.

  The last thing I want

  right now is to confront

  Dad, with or without

  the police involved.”

  As Gabe eases the GTO

  onto the highway, I realize

  how true that is. And . . .

  I’m crying. Damn.

  “I can’t believe any of this.”

  Gabe Reaches Across

  The console, takes my hand.

  I’m grateful for his touch. Remember

  suddenly his touch is no longer mine.

  I knew your dad was irrational.

  The look in his eyes when he went

  after your mother . . .

  And just now, when I saw your

  face, I realized he was abusive.

  I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.

  “Abusive?” Does running

  me off the road count

  as abuse? “What do you mean?”

  I mean, I don’t think that mark

  on your cheek came from your steering

  wheel. It looks like a fresh handprint.

  Beneath both forming bruises,

  my face ignites embarrassment.

  “It’s nothing. He was upset.”

  Upset? You’re kidding, right?

  You can’t possibly be defending him.

  Ariel, that man is dangerous.

  It’s true. He is. Maybe even

  psychopathic. But then again,

  “You’re dangerous, too.”

  That Stops Him Cold