The Opposite of Love (12 page)

28

CHASE

Chase held the envelope for a long time.
Shocker.
Did Walter actually remember his birthday on time this year? He felt that familiar buildup and drop-off in his chest, as though his heart was veering around corners at a NASCAR event. He hadn't heard from his father since his Christmas card arrived late—in February.

He shifted the envelope in his hand, weighing it. It felt light—too light for a card. A greeting card would be out of character for his father anyway. “Damn waste of money,” his father would say. “Three-fifty for a crappy piece of paper with some pansy-ass poetry!” Still, Hallmark had that ninety-nine-cent section. And it
was
Chase's seventeenth birthday.

Candy never forgot his birthday. April 30. “How could I forget fifteen hours of the worst freaking pain of my life?” she'd say, only half teasing. Chase had been nearly ten pounds at birth, and she never let him live that down. Today, Candy left a package of Little Debbie brownies, a small tub of Safeway Double-Dutch Chocolate frosting, and a candle on the kitchen table.

“Working late,” she'd scrawled on a note. “You and Daisy celebrate for me. I'll be home by nine thirty or so.” It sucked that Candy hadn't taken the evening off to help him celebrate. Figured.

Chase slid his finger into Walter's envelope and carefully edged it open. Chase knew what he wished it would say. “Dear Chase. Happy birthday, kid. I'm coming to town on the weekend. Let's hit Golf N' Stuff in Ventura and Texas Cattle Company in good old Camarillo when I roll through. Take care of the girls for me. Dad.”

Walter loved Texas Cattle Company. Juicy, charbroiled hamburgers and free popcorn on the tables. Pictures of past Ventura County beauty pageant winners on the walls. “Not too hard on the eyes,” Walter would point out.
Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen
.

Chase pretended he didn't see his own hands shake as he unfolded the letter. He steadied himself and brought the paper closer to his eyes. Words jumped out at him. Formal request. Custody reevaluation. Child support. His stomach sunk to his toes.

He skimmed it quickly. The letter was not for his birthday. In fact, it made no mention of his birthday. It wasn't even addressed to him. It was to Candy and to the Superior Court of California—County of Ventura, Family Law Division. Chase balled his fists, crumpling the letter. The room spun.

Chase squeezed his eyes closed. An image of Walter's face popped out at him, raging. Walter swinging a bat at Candy's car windows. Chase cowering, inside the car. Chase struggling with the seat belt, trying to unclick it, then giving up and covering his face and head. The bat swinging …
crack, Crack, CRACK
against the window. Waiting for the glass to splinter and shower down on him like searing rain. The window didn't shatter, just cracked like an earthquake fault.
Chase opened his eyes before he could remember any more.

He wouldn't go. He'd refuse. Nobody could make him, right?

That evening, Candy held Walter's letter in her hand, her face all pinched up like she'd chowed down a lemon, whole. Chase shifted his weight a couple of times, wanting to ask her what she thought, but at the same time, not wanting to know.

Candy folded the letter back up, handed it to him, and retreated into her dark bedroom like it was some kind of cave. She hibernated in there for at least an hour. Chase paced the floor, listening for any kind of peep from inside the room that would show him Candy had a clue what to do. He heard nothing. Except for the occasional sniffle. Crap.

Finally he pressed open the door and peered inside. Candy lay on her bed, her covers pulled up to her chin.

“Mom?” Chase asked.

“We're screwed,” she whispered.

“What?”

“We're goddamn screwed.” She rolled over to face him, and even in the darkness of the room, he saw the glistening of her cheeks and knew she'd been crying. His heart twisted.

“We're not screwed.” Chase insisted. “We just won't go. He can't make us go. Not if we don't want to.”

Candy sighed and rolled back away. “I listen to bitter ex-wives complain about their custody battles in the salon all the time. The stories they tell would blow your mind. Ventura County courts are pro two-parent parenting, even if one parent is an abusive ass.” Candy paused, her voice muffled. “No offense. I know he's your father.”

“Yeah, but Mom, I don't
want
to go. I'll just say that in court.”

“You're a minor.”

“I just turned seventeen.”

“You're a minor. And Daisy's a minor.”

“Wait a second. You're telling me that Walter can throw me into a full-length mirror, hard enough to shatter it—and he'd still get custody? What about the time he cracked your windshield with a baseball bat when Daisy and I were inside? What about that?”

“Chase, baby. We have no proof. “

Chase could feel his heart beating all the way in his ears. “But he's been gone for years. We've been living here with you, going to Simi Valley schools and making Simi Valley friends. Where the hell has he been?”

“I listen to these stories every day. I'm telling you. All that matters is that Walter donated sperm, that he's cleaned up his act, and that he wants to be involved in his kids' lives. At least in the courts of Ventura County, the bias lies with parental rights for
both
parents, regardless of how incompetent, abusive, or scummy the parents happen to be.”

“That can't be right. There has to be an age when the courts would listen to a kid. Maybe not for someone Daisy's age, but for me … I'm nearly an adult.”

“Maybe,” Candy muttered like a deflated balloon, “but you wouldn't want Daisy going there by herself, would you?” Her upper lip trembled.

Chase's heart climbed into his throat, picturing it. “No,” he said softly. “If Daisy has to go, I'll go with her.”

But then he'd have to leave Rose behind.

29

ROSE

Suddenly everything is happening quicker than it's supposed to. Rose wraps her winter coat around as far as it will go and curses her luck.

According to her original plan, she was supposed to leave a couple of days after Christmas. Due to circumstances outside her control, she moved everything up to early Christmas morning, and it's making the whole thing way too complicated.

The original plan called for sneaking out of the house at four in the morning and catching the eight-fifteen train on West L.A. Avenue. She knew that would be a little walk, but it seemed better than running the risk of someone recognizing her at the bus station two blocks down from her house.

The plan required money, so with kind of a Robin Hood philosophy, once and sometimes twice a week she'd strategically removed excess cash from Mrs. P.'s wallet. Not all of it, of course. She waited until her parents were asleep and went through her mother's purse, looking for bills she wouldn't miss. The woman only used cash. Rose didn't even know if she owned a credit card. It was so easy to make a twenty or two go missing without the Parsimmons so much as raising an eyebrow. They didn't count it, at least not when she was around.

All in all, Rose finds herself walking down Stearns Avenue with four hundred and sixty dollars to her name. Not to be stupid, she's spread it out. Two hundred in her backpack. One hundred in her bra. One hundred and twenty pinned to the inside of her sock, and forty in her jacket pocket. Somehow the money makes her feel safe, as if she has weapons or armor stashed all over instead of flimsy pieces of green paper. Enough money for a train ticket. Enough for a Motel 6 until she gets on her feet. Enough for food, water, and supplies for a long time if she spends it wisely. Not a lot, but enough.

So it's painful to think about wasting any of it on a taxi. Certainly, she can't take a taxi all the way to her final destination. That could deplete her money supply like a hole in a bucket of water.
This is where the timing thing just kicks me in the ass. It's no big surprise that neither the train nor the buses are running tonight, in the freaking middle of the night on Christmas.
It's not like she lives in the city, or even in Van Nuys. No. She lives in Simi Valley. Not a small town by any means, but still sleepy enough to have a backward public transportation system. Everyone and their mother have a car, pretty much.

Everyone has a car, and everyone has a cell phone. Everyone except her. So finding a pay phone in the middle of the night is no easy task. When she finds one by that Circle K across from the bus stop, she ducks her head in, flipping through the yellow pages and looking for a taxi service. Shit, she thinks. What a freaking waste of money.

Nala meows from inside her cotton tote bag. Rose almost left her behind at the Parsimmons', mostly because she knew what a pain it would be to carry her, but when the time came, she just
couldn't
. Nala looked at her with those big soulful eyes, and it reminded her too much of the day she'd lost her own mother, driving off in that cop car so many years ago. She couldn't leave Nala.

Rose rests the bag on the floor and Nala settles down inside, curling around herself. Rose holds her finger against the number in the yellow pages and dials it slowly. Oh well, she'll take a taxi just far enough to make herself invisible. Someplace where no one will know her signature Pocahontas face. She'll find a cheap hotel and wait it out. She tries not to think of what she has to do next. It makes her teeth chatter, and that panicky feeling stir up her heart.
Don't think about it. It has to be done. It's part of the plan
. She tries to breathe, but her chest feels heavy, like it's weighed down by a stack of encyclopedias.
Breathe. Think of something peaceful. Serene
.

She leans against the wall, waiting for the taxi with her eyes closed. She visualizes an ocean with rolling, crashing waves. That's what her crampy stomach feels like it's doing. These past months she's been practicing visualizing, escaping mentally. She's had to. Otherwise she really would have gone nuts, trapped in that house … in that room. The ocean always felt serene to her, and if she really focuses, she can almost hear the waves. Unfortunately Chase's voice rips her away from the sand between her toes, sort of ruining it for her.

“Rose?” Her name sounds like a question, an uncertainty, like he half expects her to turn around and be someone else, a girl who just looks like someone he once knew. She recognizes his voice before she even opens her eyes.

“What the hell do you want?” she asks, not in an unfriendly way, one eye open. Her voice sounds like sandpaper, but it's strange how easily words come to her after so long without talking.

He stands for a moment, like he isn't sure what to say. Or maybe he's just looking her over. She knows she looks different. She's braided her hair into two thick ropes, Native American style, for one. And she is wearing no makeup. Just cherry Chap Stick. No thick black eyeliner. No mascara. Just her naked face.

Uncomfortable with his eyes on her, Rose pulls the cuffs of her oversized coat over her hands. She's surprised he even noticed her in this coat. It's zipped up to her neck and so oversized that she practically disappears inside it.

Finally, Chase blows into his hands, then rubs them together. “I'm here to rescue you,” he says, delivering the line with nowhere near enough gusto.

Rose can't help herself. “Oh, come on now, Prince Charming. If you're gonna say that, say it like you mean it.” In the quiet darkness of the street, two headlights approach, slow slightly, then move past. The silence after the engine rumbles off seems thicker than it had before.

“She speaks,” Chase teases tentatively. “Glad to see your sense of humor hasn't completely dried up.”

“So shoot me.”

He shifts uneasily. “That's only necessary if you're not already planning to shoot yourself. Wouldn't want to waste an extra bullet.”

“What?”

“Or hang yourself. Or slice your wrists, or jump in front of a train, or any other gruesome thing Becca has dreamed up.”

“Becca?” Rose tries to read Chase's face. It's been so long. She isn't sure whether the crinkles by his eyes mean he's joking or about to cry. “Oh, I vote for leaping in front of a train. It's so theatrical. Not to mention quick.”

Chase grabs her by the shoulders. “I'm serious here.”

Okay. Note to self. Eye crinkles mean serious
. “You guys really thought I was going to kill myself?”

“So you're not?” Chase doesn't look sure.

“As much as my so-called parents think I'm a nutcase, I'm really not.” The fluorescent light from the Circle K shines so brightly it's giving her a headache.

“People don't kill themselves because they're crazy. They kill themselves because they're desperate.”

“Well, in that case—I am desperate. Maybe I should consider it.” Rose reaches her hand behind her to touch the stucco wall, feeling the bumps beneath her skin. Nala rustles in the cotton tote by her feet.

“Rose, this isn't funny.”

“Oh, come on, it's a little funny.” Rose tries to keep the conversation light. It might distract him from figuring out her real plan. That is, if he hasn't figured it out already. “Are you wearing pajama bottoms? That's funny.”

Chase looks down. “We haven't heard from you in eight months. You've disappeared from Simi Valley, holed up in that house, not returning emails or anything. And then in the middle of the night we get this email saying good-bye, that you hope we'll forgive you, and we can have your leftover shit? What were we supposed to think?”

“You weren't supposed to get the email until tomorrow. What the hell are you guys doing up in the middle of the night?”

“Man, you
have
been locked up for a long time. Don't you remember what it's like to be a teenager?”

Chase finding her has complicated things. She isn't sure she has the energy to keep this sarcastic banter going. She's a little out of practice. “How'd you find me?”

“I figured bus stops and train station.”

“Yeah. Too bad nothing's running.” Rose feels her stomach cramp again.
Shit.
She hopes she won't puke here in front of him. She turns her eyes to him, all serious. “Thanks for checking on me. I'm okay.” Rose inches away from the fluorescent light of the store and back toward the darkness of the night.

“No, you're not okay. But you're welcome.”

Rose manages to smile, maybe the first time in months. “Crap. You know me too well. I let you get too close, and that's nothing but trouble.” She picks up the tote and slings it over her shoulder. Damn, it's heavy. Maybe she's been feeding Nala too much tuna.

“Come stay with me.” Chase lifts her chin with one finger. “I bet I can get Candy to keep her mouth shut until we figure out what you should do. Especially if I tell her you're being abused and you have no place to go. She has a soft spot for that.”

Wouldn't it be so easy? To just let Chase bring her home and take care of her. God, the idea of sharing the plan, lightening her load, almost makes her giddy. But no. No. She can't tell anyone. “Thanks, Chase,” Rose whispers. She really means it. “But I have to do this on my own. I don't want to drag anyone else into it.”

“Do what? And why? Why do you have to do anything alone? Just because you had two sets of parents who let you down doesn't mean everyone else will. Take a risk.” His serious eyes pull her in like a lassoed bull. “Give me your
hand
, like that picture you drew. Let me help you.”

“I'm all about taking risks,” she tells him. “Don't you remember?”

“Yes and no. Sometimes the risk is trusting someone.” Chase shakes his head, stepping back again to study her. “I don't get you, Rose. You're complicated.”

A taxi pulls up. “You're just figuring that out?” Rose asks him, almost sadly. Her chest has that homesick don't-leave-me ache, which is silly, since she's the one leaving. “This is my ride.” She tosses her backpack in, carefully sets the cotton tote on the seat, and heaves her tired self into the car. She breathes in. The air inside the car is stale but warm. She wraps her fingers around the forty dollars in her pocket. It makes her feel better, kind of.

“You can't go yet.” Chase holds on to the door, but awkwardly, as if he doesn't know what he'll do when the taxi pulls away.

“I can and I am.”

“But Rose, tell me this. What did you want us to forgive you for?”

She pulls the door shut, away from his grasp. “You're hung up on that, huh?” She rests her arm on the edge of the open window. “All right. I think I told you once that I can make anything okay in my head.”

“So? What does that have to do with forgiveness?”

The driver shifts gears into drive. Rose leans her head out of the window, her thick braids hanging down. Her throat tightens up, but she still manages to say, “So maybe I was wrong. Maybe there are some things that won't ever be okay.” And with that, the taxi pulls away, leaving Chase in a cloud of exhaust fumes.