“Why did his owners give him up?”
“It was a divorce. The husband moved down to the States and the wife had to get a new job, so she didn’t have time for him anymore. He’s a good family dog. Loves women.”
I touch my palm to his paw and he licks my hand. “Can I take him for a walk?”
We hike around the nearby trails and he nearly pulls my arm out of the socket, but I feel safer just having this big animal beside me, his shoulders brushing against my thigh. I’m trying to talk myself out of it, thinking about his food bills, how much he probably sheds. Every once in a while he turns back to look at me, his mouth open in a smile, his tongue lolling. We see a man in the distance running through the forest, and Angus pauses, body alert, tail high. He glances back at me. “It’s okay, Angus,” I say. “Good boy.” He relaxes and we keep walking. For the first time in days, I feel myself relaxing too. Back at the shelter I fill out an application, confirm I have permission from my landlord and a fenced yard. I thought it would take a couple of days to hear anything, but the shelter calls me that night. I give Sophie the good news.
“For real? What kind of dog is he?” Her eyes are shining and it makes my stomach flip with relief. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to make her smile again.
“I’m not sure. He’s a mix. Maybe a Labrador or rottweiler crossed with shepherd.” I show her a few photos I’ve taken with my phone. “We can pick him up in the morning.”
“God, Mom. He’s a beast.”
“I know. Now I have Beauty and the Beast.”
She laughs, then her smile fades. “Did you get him for protection? You have the peace bond now. Are you still scared?” I was surprised at how easily Andrew had accepted the terms of the bond. I never thought he’d willingly sign anything that would keep him away from me. I want to be happy about this, but it’s just given me something else to worry about.
“Partly for protection, and with you going away to school I’m going to need company.”
“I’m being replaced by a big hairy monster!”
“He’s probably cleaner than you.”
She pretends to swat my arm. “Well, he better not sleep in my bed.”
“No guarantees.” I smile. “I’ll probably keep him in my room. He’ll help me sleep.”
She’s been scrolling through the photos of Angus on my phone, but now she pauses with a thoughtful expression on her face. “Do you still think it was my dad who was in the house?”
Alarm bells go off in my head, sudden and shrill. Why is she questioning this? And when did she start calling Andrew “my” dad? Maybe she’s always done it, maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but somehow it sounds possessive this time. It’s as though she’s claiming him.
“It was definitely him.”
“But sometimes you forget things. Like where you put your keys, or when you gave away that box of your books and then you thought I had them all.”
My keys. I stare at the side of her face. Does she remember it was one of the things Andrew was always after me about? No. She wouldn’t hurt me deliberately like that, but it scares me, this desperate grasping of hers. She still doesn’t want to accept the facts.
“It was him,” I say. “I know how he works.”
She meets my gaze. “Don’t you remember anything good about him?”
My breath catches in my throat. I lean over, take the phone back from her and flip through the pictures of Angus while I try to think how to answer. “Yes,” I say. “But it doesn’t take away from all the horrible things he did and all the pain he caused me—and others.”
“It’s the anniversary of the accident soon.”
“I know.”
“Do you ever think about that night?”
“What do you mean?”
“If we hadn’t run away, he wouldn’t have been driving. It’s like the butterfly effect. You change one thing, it all changes. What would you do differently?”
I can see the pill bottle so clearly, the amber-colored plastic, the feel of those small blue pills in my hand. They should have felt heavier. They should have felt like the weight of the world.
“That’s an impossible question.” I stand up. “I’m really tired. I’m going to have a bath.” I know she’s watching me as I walk away and is probably confused by my abruptly ending the conversation, but I’m too close to tears, too close to telling her everything.
The butterfly effect.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SOPHIE
Delaney drops me off at Andrew’s new place in the south end of town on Thursday. He’s making me dinner. He offered to pick me up at school, but I was worried about a teacher or someone who knows my mom seeing us together. Plus, it felt too strange. I hate lying to my mom (she thinks I’m at Delaney’s, celebrating winter break), but I have to give him a chance. Maybe she can’t forget what he did, but he never hurt me, and the more I think about it, the more I know she’s wrong about him breaking into our house. He never did tell me everything he did that week, but he doesn’t have to—I can feel the truth in my bones. It’s like some sort of genetic thing. If I tell Mom it’s not Andrew, she’ll know I’ve talked to him again. She’s so sure it’s him, she’s not even considering anyone else. I’ll have to be extra-careful with setting the alarm.
I tug my backpack higher onto my shoulder as I walk down his driveway. It’s below freezing and the top of last night’s snow crunches under my feet. The house is nice, way bigger than ours, but tucked in tight with all the neighbors like its shoulders are squished up. The front yard is decorated with a snowman and a few plastic reindeer with lights. They look a little lost, like they don’t belong there and aren’t sure where they should stand.
Christmas is in a few days. I wandered the mall at lunch on Tuesday, doing the last of my shopping for Mom, Uncle Chris and his girlfriend, and Delaney. I thought about what it would be like to shop for my father. What would I even get him? I always know what to get Mom. I know the brand of coffee she buys, books she likes, what colors she looks the best in (blue and lavender), her favorite bubble bath and lotions (anything from Lush cosmetics), and all her shows, like Outlander or Downton Abbey. But Andrew is a total mystery.
Last night, with Angus snoring at my feet, I stenciled designs on the wrapping paper, and thought about what it might be like in the future if my dad stuck around. I laugh at the idea of Mom having him over for Christmas dinner—as if that would ever happen.
Angus woke up and yawned noisily. I wiggled my toes against his belly. It’s fun having a dog in the house, even if he did chew up a couple of my pens already and wants to go outside every ten minutes and woofs at everything and tries to steal food off the counter. He’s snuggly and always looks happy and bumps his head into my hand and flops down across my legs. During the night he took turns sleeping with me and Mom, like he isn’t sure who he belongs with or where he was supposed to be, but it was his first night. I think he’ll figure it out.
Andrew answers my knock with a smile and an overly cheerful, “Come in!”
I follow him inside, take off my boots at the door, placing them next to his work boots. The sight of them throws me for a moment. I remember his boots always sitting by our door at home, covered in dust or mud or snow and ice depending on the time of year. I’d forgotten about that, how I used to like wearing them around the house and he’d laugh.
I sit at the kitchen table, where I can see most of the upstairs living area. On the phone he sounded really excited because he’d lucked out and found this place at short notice and was able to move in by the middle of the month. It’s all happening so fast that when I stop to think about it, my head spins. Then I remember how Mom and he got married in six months. Is this just what my dad is like? He makes quick decisions? I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
The kitchen is large, with modern appliances and granite counters, but he looks comfortable, like he was always meant to be in a kitchen like this.
“Can I get you something to drin
k?” he says, reaching into the fridge.
“Maybe just water, thanks.”
He places a glass in front of me, then goes back to the stove. I take a sip of the water, noticing the geometric frosted design on the side of the glass. I imagine him at the department store, loading up his cart with whatever caught his eye. He’s put a tablecloth on the kitchen table, but I can tell by the legs, dark espresso wood, that it must be expensive. In the living room he has a chocolate leather couch and a cedar-plank coffee table. There’s no art yet. No framed photos or any of those things that make a house a home, but he’s arranged a couple of big plants in the corner, look like fig trees. One of them has white Christmas lights strung around it.
“You like plants?” I say. He turns around from the stove, where he’s stirring a pot of thick chili. The air smells spicy and sweet.
“My landlady gave them to me. I think she thought my decorating was depressing.” He gives his crooked smile. He’s showered and shaved, his hair still a little wet, and a few hairs are sticking up in the back. His jeans look clean and he’s tucked in his shirt and is wearing a belt. I can tell he also cleaned the place—the cream throw blanket on the couch is perfectly straight and everything is set out nicely on the table, a cloth napkin folded beside my place mat, a knife, fork, and spoon all lined up on the napkin. In the center of the table he’s arranged a few small bowls with cheddar cheese, sliced green onions, guacamole, and a big bowl full of tortilla chips. It makes me think of the Mexican dinner we had with Marcus and I feel another wave of guilt.
I get up from the table and wander into the living room, finger the leaves on the plant. No dust. The soil is wet. He has a flat-screen TV and a chrome stereo that looks sleek and expensive with blue glowing lights. It took Mom years before we could buy a flat-screen and we found our stereo at Walmart—a marked-down floor model with dents and scratches. A few books are stacked on the coffee table. I pick one up, flip through the pages. It’s a Tom Clancy thriller.
“I read a lot in prison,” he says from the kitchen. I come back and sit at the table, help myself to some of the chips, which make a loud crunching noise when I bite into them.
He glances over his shoulder with a smile. “Those are really good. They’re a new flavor—garlic and black bean. Back in my day, they just had plain.”
“Is it strange?” I say. “Going to stores and seeing new things?”
He nods as he takes a tub of sour cream out of the fridge, places it in the center of the table. “Yeah, but it’s also like I get to live everything over again, which can be fun sometimes.” He spoons chili into bowls and carries them over. “It’s vegetarian.”
I glance up at him. “How did you know I’m vegetarian?”
“When we were having coffee, you were wearing a T-shirt that said I DON’T EAT MY FRIENDS. I figured you either just liked the T-shirt or you were a vegetarian.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
He shrugs. “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s good to have beliefs. Bet you really hated that roast beef sandwich I made you.” He laughs as he sits down across from me.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“Well, hopefully you like this better. Dig in.”
I take a mouthful. “Yum. This is really good.” This time I’m not lying. The chili is sweet and spicy, but not too hot, and he used big chunks of vegetables.
“I’m glad you like it,” he says. “I missed vegetables when I was behind bars. The food they serve is crap. I wouldn’t feed it to a pig.”
We eat in silence for a few moments, then he says, “You excited about Christmas? When you were a kid you couldn’t sleep for days.”
“It’s nice having a week off school.” I don’t want to talk about Mom or our traditions, how it is now that he’s gone. “Are you doing anything for Christmas?”
“I’m going down to Victoria to stay with my sponsor. First Christmas out might be hard. I’ll go to a few AA meetings when I’m there.” He looks at me. “It means a lot, you being here tonight. I was going to get a tree but I didn’t have time.”
“It’s okay. The plant is festive.”
We both take another mouthful, blowing on the spoons at the exact same time to cool the chili off. I study his face.
“Do you look like your dad or your mom?” I say.
“Probably more like my dad.” He takes a handful of chips and crunches them up on top of his bowl. “Try this.” I can tell he wants to change the subject, so we talk about what TV shows he’s been watching and what else he’s been learning to cook.
After dinner we clean up the kitchen. I wash while he dries. I think back to when I was a kid, but I don’t remember him ever cleaning up—he always left it for Mom.
“It’s really nice having you here,” he says. “The nights can be long. I’m used to having a lot of noise around me. I have to sleep with the TV on now.”
“Maybe you could get a dog.”
“I’ll think about that. Might be nice to have the company.”
“We adopted a dog,” I say as I pass him another plate to dry. “His name’s Angus.”
“Yeah? What kind?”
“Don’t know.” I shrug. “He’s just a big shaggy thing.”
“That’s great. Your mom always liked dogs.”
I want to tell him more, want to say that Angus is really protective of Mom, and that he follows her around the house and sleeps with her at night, but he’ll know why I’m telling him and I don’t want to make him mad.
“You guys have anything else weird happen?” he says, reaching up to put a plate away.
“What do you mean?”
He picks up another dish. “Like someone going into your house. That’s why she got the dog, right? What’s her boyfriend like?” His questions are so fast, I don’t have time to think.
“It’s been okay. Greg is nice—he helped her put in a dog door.”
He stops drying. “A dog door? Why the hell would she do that?”
I flinch, startled by his tone, like Mom is the stupidest woman on the planet or something.
“She had to because she works long hours and we figured it would be okay because no one could fit through it. If they did, Angus will bite their head off. He’s really big.”
His shoulders drop, but it’s more like he’s forcing them down, reminding himself to relax. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I went all crazy protective dad there for a moment.”
“Yeah. A little.”
“Sounds like your mom has it covered. I’m glad she has someone who can help her out.” He dries a few more dishes. “You trust this Greg guy?”
“He’s super-harmless. He’d do anything for her. Like he’s running around getting stuff for her Christmas party tomorrow.” He glances at me and I realize that I said way more than I should have. Mom would kill me. “She’s having lots of people over. Lots.”
“Good for her.”
He actually does sound kind of relieved. I must have misunderstood the reason for the questions. He was making sure we were both okay. We wash the last few dishes in silence.
When we’re finished, he says, “I know you can’t stay long, but I’ve got something I want to give you. Go sit on the couch for a second and I’ll grab it, okay?” He goes into his bedroom and comes out carrying a wrapped box. “I’m not very good at wrapping.”
My face feels warm as I take the silver paper off. I can feel him watching me from the other end of the couch. I’m worried I won’t like it and won’t be able to hide my expression. When I get the last bit of paper off, I stare in surprise, reach out a finger to stroke the beautiful wooden box. It’s about ten by ten, smells like fresh cedar, and gleams with a glossy golden stain.
“You made this?” My voice feels thick and scratchy.
“One of the guys I work with lent me his tools and shop. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy working with my hands. I thought you might want somewhere to keep your art supplies.”
“This is really awesome,” I say. “It must have
taken you days.” He has lots of money. He could have bought me anything, but he chose to make me something special.
“I have a lot of free time.”
“Thank you so much. I love it.” I look over at him and I can tell he’s pleased at my reaction. “I didn’t bring you anything.”
“No.” He’s shaking his head. “You didn’t have to. Next year, right?”
“I don’t know. You still owe me for the last ten years. I mean, the box is nice and all, but you should keep the gifts coming if you want me to really like you.” The second the smart-ass words are out of my mouth I cringe. Is he going to think I’m rude? Or looking for handouts?
“Wow,” he says. “I just gave my long-lost daughter a gift from the heart and now I find out she probably would have been happier with an iPad.” He smiles, making it clear that he’s messing with me. “When did you become such a moment-killer?”
“When did you get funny?”
“It’s a side effect of sobriety.” He shrugs. “When your entire life goes to hell, you have to start laughing or you’ll end up hanging yourself with your bedsheet in your cell.” He picks up a piece of wrapping paper that has fallen onto the floor, smooths one edge over and over.
“Did you want to die?” I say in a hushed voice.
He nods. “I didn’t know how I was going to get through ten years in there, and I hated myself for a long time for what I did to you and your mother. What I did to her.…”
For a moment I think he’s still talking about Mom, then I realize he means the woman he killed. He can’t even say her name.
“You mean Elizabeth.”
He looks at me. “Yeah. Elizabeth Sanders.” He gives his head a shake, fiddles with the paper. “But I couldn’t go out without a fight. I had to prove to everyone that I could change.”
“I think you’ve changed.”