Riptide (3 page)

three

Fairy tales do not tell children that
dragons exist. Children already know
that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell the
children that dragons can be killed.
—G. K. Chesterton

During the ride back to my house, I try to hang on to the fun from surfing this morning. But it’s like it’s not in my DNA. That whole out-of-sight-out-of-mind thing only works when I’m on my surfboard. When the ocean isn’t there to command my attention or Ford isn’t around making me laugh, I get sucked back toward my family like it’s a black hole. I’ve spent my whole life keeping my worlds separate—school, beach friends, home. And now, what with Ford interning for my dad, two of them are colliding like particles in an atom smasher. It’s all I can do not to come unhinged.

I shake the thoughts out of my head and refocus on the scenery as Ford slows Esmerelda to a stop. Dad’s car is parked in the drive. A sudden tightness in my stomach makes me clutch the edge of the seat.

Great, just great.

Ford says, “Smell ya later.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Ford uses his underarm to make a fart noise, indicating my lack of comeback, before Esmerelda burps a loud good-bye.

I carry my board over to the garage and lay it against the inside wall by the door. Then I plaster a smile on my face, steel my nerves, and walk inside the house via our immaculate laundry room.

It’s best to get it over with and say hi to Dad. That’s the only way to gauge his mood. I head over to the kitchen and then go into the living room.

He’s combing through the mail, a mug of beer on the coffee table.

“Hey, Daddy. How’s your morning been?”

“Could have been better. I came home to take a quick break and regroup. This Thompson case is getting out of control.” He looks up and frowns. “Where have you been
all day?”

“I went surfing with Ford, remember?” I shift my weight from side to side.

Dad flings an envelope on the coffee table, creating a trash pile that will be cleaned immediately after the mail has been sorted. “Are you sunburned? You know how your mother feels about too much sun. Let me see your arms.” He grabs my arm to inspect it.

My eyes widen as I check out my skin with him. “No, I’m not sunburned, Daddy. I slathered sunscreen on this morning. The strongest stuff we have.”

He drops my arm. He seems disappointed. “Have you done your chores?”

His hands are now full of mail; I relax a little. “No, I’ll finish those this evening. I haven’t had a chance to do them yet.”

He tosses the papers down. His voice turns ugly. “You had time to surf.”

“I’ll start my chores now.” I bite my lip.

He zeroes in on my fear like a shark sensing blood in the water. “What about your college applications?”

“Well, I’ll do those after my chores.”

“Well, which is it?” he growls. “Are you going to do your applications or your chores?”

“Both. Which would you like me to do first? Obviously, I’m not getting what you want me to do.”

As soon as this flies out of my mouth, I know I’ve given him the opening he wants. Every muscle in my body tenses expectantly. I’m caught inside a twenty-foot swell and don’t know a maneuver worth a damn.

His face turns red and it twists into something frightening and malicious. “Why, you little—” He raises his hand to hit me and pulls back just before making contact.

I flinch and cringe. God, I hate showing fear.

Instead of following through with it, he closes in on me and crushes my upper arm. “I don’t care how you do it. You better get your damn work done by tonight. And I mean all of it.”

I run down the hall before he decides to follow after me. Once I’m safe in my room, I slide down against the doorframe and cry without sound. As I hug my knees, I notice the red fingerprints on my arm. I touch them lightly, close my eyes, and lower my head between my knees. My existence diminishes like a boat on the horizon. I become nothing.

When it feels like everything is slipping out of my reach, I do what I always do. While hugging my favorite stuffed animal—a pajama-clad bear from when I was little—I open my journal of quotes and flip to a good one:

A woman is like a tea bag; you never know how strong she is until she gets into hot water.—
Eleanor Roosevelt

Quotes are buoys in the ocean. I hang on to them for sanity, for life, for hope. Quotes keep me going. Sometimes having someone else’s words encourages me. They give shape to my feelings.

I should have lied. Told him I’d finished a stupid college app. Next time, I will. You’d think I’d have learned better by now, about lying to make things right. Whatever … what difference does it make?

I snap to it. There are applications to work on and chores to finish. I take a quick shower—the shower is one of the only places in my house where I feel safe—and let the hot water beat against my skin. Little drops constantly raining down, washing the finger marks off my arm. Washing the humiliation down the drain. Me wishing I could slip down those pipes and come out somewhere else. Anywhere else.

I wish I could stay in the shower forever, but I can’t, so I shut it off. I’m determined to beat him at his own game. I’ll accomplish everything with time to spare. So I throw some clothes on and get started. I vacuum the house and then sweep and mop the kitchen and bathrooms. I chip away at the tasks before me, taking mini-breaks to fill in tedious, never-ending blanks on college apps to places I don’t want to attend.

By the time my mom arrives home from shopping, dusting the living room is the one thing unfinished. My dad hasn’t spoken to me since earlier. He’s engrossed in whatever case information he’s reviewing. Whenever he has a particularly tough case, sometimes he works from home so no one from the office interrupts him. It’s good for him but not for me.

Mom breezes in, shopping bags in hand. “Hey, kiddos. How was your afternoon?”

Dad answers, “Everything’s great. I’m working on the Thompson case and Grace has been cleaning.”

I quietly dust a lamp. He’s so full of BS. It’s an unwritten rule that we keep our mouth shut about Dad’s “outbursts,” and if it ever does come up, I get the whole
it’s better to have a father than not
speech. Or
sure, you can call CPS and go live with someone else. Good luck on your foster family. Have you heard the horror stories from those kids?
And I know she’s right. I’ve heard enough to know the grass isn’t always greener.

“What’s going on?” Mom asks, brows furrowed.

I shrug and say nothing. Maybe I’ll say something next time we jog together. Then again, maybe not. She never cares enough to leave him. She never sees the shit go down either, which is real convenient. And it’s not like the marks stay—or if they do, they aren’t in the shape of hand. It could have been from falling on my surfboard. Right?

Mom surveys me. Her eyes move straight to the cutoff jean shorts I changed into. “I hope you’re not planning on wearing those things out in public.”

“No ma’am. I don’t have any plans to go anywhere.” Someday, I’m going to walk out of this house in whatever I want. Until then, frayed or unacceptable clothes get hidden in whatever bag I’m carrying when I walk out the door.

“They make it look like your parents can’t afford to buy you anything better.”

“I didn’t want to risk getting bleach on my nice shorts.”

She takes off her three-inch business heels and rubs at a frown line on her forehead. “Throw those out and go put on acceptable shorts for the dinner table—something tailored.”

If I weren’t in front of Miss Highbrow Fashion, aka Mom, I would so fake-barf at the mention of wearing something tailored. Bleh and grr.

“Jeez, Elaine. Frayed clothes are in right now. Grace always looks pretty.”

Mom’s lips are pursed in disapproval, but they’re also closed and for that I’m thankful.

Dad changes the subject. “So, how was shopping? Show me all your goodies.”

I glance over at Dad. We make eye contact. His face is kinder, almost sorry. The tension begins to fade away like it never happened.

I escape to my room. I hear Mom rattling on about the different purchases she made.

I close my eyes, exhausted.

The alarm on my cell goes off. I slam my book shut, shoot off the couch, and make a running grab for my purse as I blast through the front door, relieved to see that I’ve beat my dad. I sit on the front porch steps and wait. After yesterday’s showdown, a pleasant afternoon is what we need, if for nothing else than to clear the air between us. It makes Dad happy to spoil me. He likes to take me shopping and, before Ford got a truck, he would take me to the beach on Saturday mornings. Dad’s the one who taught me how to surf and helped me learn how to know which wave would be a good ride.

He’s the one who was with me when I bought my surfboard. Dad was driving me to the beach in his Jeep, his longish blond hair blowing all over the place. When I saw it in the window of Goodwill, I knew it was mine. “Dad, stop. Please! There’s a surfboard for sale!”

Dad U-turned. It was one of those blue-sky days in our relationship. “Grace, are you sure you want a beat-up old board? I’d be happy to buy you a brand-new one with all the bells and whistles.”

“No way. Old-school boards are cool. They have
history
.”

Dad laughed and shrugged his shoulders. I like it when he laughs; it’s contagious. Sometimes for a brief moment, I’m able to forget …

Mom had a conniption; she didn’t like me surfing from day one. She never approved of anything that could be construed as dangerous. Somehow, surfing made it into that category. Maybe it’s the sharks.

It’s kind of ironic considering the state of our family dynamics.

I struggle with the mixed backwash of feelings about hanging out with Dad, about shopping with him. It’s stressful at home, but outings with him are fun. It feels good and I know he cares. I mean, really … how many dads spend time with their kids? My grandfather didn’t. He split before Dad ever entered the world, so Dad never met him. My grandfather wasn’t around to protect Dad or teach him how to fight for himself when the neighborhood kids went after him, and
believe me, we didn’t live in the kind of place you walk around in at night
.

I know shopping trips are his way of saying
sorry, I screwed up, and this is my apology
. But sometimes I wish he would just
say
it. But then I think about how hard his life was as a kid and how he’s always been there for us. For my birthdays and Christmas. To take me surfing and shopping. Those are the times with my dad when I know I’m one hundred percent safe; when I know to savor what we have while we have it. And that’s what I try to do.

Dad pulls up in his red convertible BMW, top down, a smile on his face. He reaches across and pushes open the door.

I hop in. “Thanks, Dad. You rock.” Part of me means it; part of me knows I need to say it.

“Summer’s just getting started and there are bound to be some special summer occasions. I can’t have my daughter feeling anything less than a princess, now can I?” He pats my arm, backs out of our driveway, and speeds down the road.

As we shoot down the highway, a sense of cautious ease overtakes me. Nothing spoils a shopping day with Dad. These are moments he lives for. Moments he can be the good guy, the guy I know he wants to be all the time. I stay quiet, not wanting to mess things up, not wanting to make him frustrated. I can drive myself crazy with what ifs, or I can accept the reality of the moment. And this one should be good. The salty wind on my face tastes like freedom as we drive down the main drag to my favorite surf shop.

Dad pulls into the almost-empty parking lot. I exit his convertible and follow him toward Surf Stuff. A bell jingles when he opens a door that’s covered in surf stickers. Loud music greets us, and a sick video of big wave surfing plays on a large flat-screen hanging on the back wall.

There’s a sale rack I head straight for, eager to scope out the goods. Almost all the spring stuff is on sale. I grab three dresses that look pretty cute.

“Pick whatever you want.” Dad reassures me with a smile.

“Thanks.” I smile back and duck into a changing room.

I hang them up where I can compare them. An orange retro shift, a yellow empire-waist tank dress, and a classic white A-frame. According to Dad, all dresses should be mid-thigh to knee length. Not too short, not too long.

The shift is way too baggy and unflattering. My chest becomes non-existent. The A-frame is cute, but I have no bra that would be inconspicuous underneath. By the time I try on the empire waist, I’m feeling low on luck. I pull it over my head, adjust the straps, and voila. I feel confident and pretty.

I step outside to welcome Dad’s opinion. He nods his approval.