When I'm Gone: A Novel (19 page)

JULY

CHAPTER 19

“Hey, you want a Twizzler?” Annie had her elbow deep in a paper grocery bag filled with snacks. They were twenty minutes away from Pentwater, and in the past three hours, Luke had eaten half a bag of pretzels, a whole can of Pringles, two sticks of jerky, and a sixteen-ounce bottle of Coke. He kept thinking he couldn’t eat any more, and then Annie would pull another treat out of her magic bag and somehow make it sound amazing.

“Do you have the whole candy section of the grocery store in there or something?” Luke tried to peek inside the bag but was distracted by the two twisted strands of licorice in Annie’s hand.

“Here, open your mouth.” She waved the ropelike treat in front of his face, and Luke dropped his jaw. Annie flung the candy into his mouth, and he bit off the tip, taking his hand off the wheel long enough to grab the rope before it fell into his lap.

The sugary-sweet treat tasted like strawberries and flashed him back to Sunday afternoons in Natalie’s backyard fort, chomping on a pack of Twizzlers they’d snuck from Terry’s “hands-off, kids” cupboard.

“Natalie and I used to bite off both ends and stick them in a can of pop as a straw. It usually made the pop taste disgusting, but we didn’t care.”

“Mmmm . . . gross.” Annie snorted. “I love that you guys met when you were kids. Will you show me around the town a little if we have time?”

Luke didn’t have a lot of love for Pentwater. He’d lived there with his parents for fourteen years. He could close his eyes and recall all the best bike paths and the days of the week you could pass through Mrs. Sterling’s yard without getting a call to your mom. But when he let those memories in, the others came too, like the fear that heavy footsteps and clinking bottles could bring to a little boy or how small his baby sister looked lying dead, blood-soaked, in his mother’s arms. Luke shook his head as if by doing so, he could rid himself of these haunting memories.

“You’re lucky we’re going to be there during the summer, when all the tourists are in town and the fishing boats are running. We should be getting there early enough to see the fishermen bring in the catch of the day.” When Luke’s dad was sober, he was one of those men heading out before sunrise, returning smelling of fish guts, beer, and sweat.

When he was younger, Luke would go down to the harbor and watch his dad gut and fillet the fish he brought in. His hands were so nimble, and Luke was sure his fingers would never be able to work so efficiently. Turns out it wasn’t a skill he needed to learn. He still avoided the seafood section at the grocery store, the smell bringing back memories he liked to pretend he didn’t have.

“First things first though. We are meeting Andy at 813 Winter Lane in about fifteen minutes. Think we’ll make it?” Annie asked.

They’d exited the highway a few miles back, and the sun was playing with the thick greenery that acted as a canopy over the two-lane highway. A green sign with an arrow said
P
ENTWATER 5 MI
. Luke’s hands tensed on the wheel. They were almost there; this was really happening. He still hadn’t worked through what he was going to say. One of his biggest worries was that Andy wouldn’t remember him at all and he’d have to go through some explanation instead of skipping right into the questions and accusations.

“Oh yeah, we’re very close. Look, there is the old MacTarlton house.” He pointed to a blur of old cars and garbage stacked into nondescript piles of brown. “They were hoarders before being a hoarder was something that could get you on TV.”

“Wow, you have a very accurate memory.”

“Not that hard. Fourteen years is a long time to live somewhere.”

“But you were only a kid. I don’t think I remember half of what happened to me before the age of twelve. Then again, we moved around a lot, so I guess I wouldn’t know what living in a small town would be like.”

“Why’d you move so much?” He took a quick glance at Annie, preferring to hear stories about her life than think about ones from his own.

“Army brat.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, the seat belt straining against her shoulder. “I was used to it. It was a lot harder to learn how to stay in one place once I met Brian.”

“Funny, I was the opposite. I moved around a lot from fourteen until I turned eighteen. It was hard to go from being a small-town boy to living from a suitcase.” The trees suddenly opened up to Pentwater Lake on the left and Pentwater River on the right. Luke’s fingers started to twitch and he grasped the wheel tighter, hoping Annie hadn’t noticed. It was time to turn on the road to his childhood home. He took the turn cautiously, checking left and right several times before pressing forward, trying to act casual.

“Oh, and here is the Hexagon House. It’s still a B&B.” Luke took another bite of his Twizzler and bit down until it split open. He was overcome with an urge to take a quick right into the long paved driveway of the yellow, two-story, hexagonal house. He and Annie could have lemonade on the wraparound porch and walk into town for dinner, watch the sunset at the Pierhead Lighthouse, and have ice cream at the Pentwater House of Flavors.

“It’s changed hands at least twenty times since I was a kid, but it was gorgeous sixteen years ago when Nat and I visited.”

“You haven’t been here for sixteen years?”

“Never had a reason to visit. Nat’s parents moved after she went off to school, and I have no reason to come back here. The only reason we came last time was to see . . .” Oh, yeah. Luke stared at the dotted yellow line flashing down the middle of the road. “It was to see Andy.” His name was hard to say, and Luke bit the tip of his tongue to keep from saying more.

Part of Luke wanted to hide inside that bed and breakfast and behind the buoying effect of Annie’s friendship. But when he thought of Andy, the way he used to watch Natalie’s face when she wasn’t looking or how his fingers sometimes lingered on her hand when they touched, an unfamiliar jealousy stirred inside him. Luke forced his foot down on the gas pedal, speeding past the yellow house and the temptation to hide inside.

“Ugh. Sorry, Luke, I didn’t mean to bring him up.” She took a bite of the licorice she’d been wrapping absentmindedly around her finger. “Whoa—look at all those fish.” Annie gasped.

The speed limit slowed to twenty-five when they rolled on the main street of Pentwater. On the left were two docked fishing boats, both glistening white and one taller than his house, far more high-tech and luxurious than when his father had been a fisherman.

A group of men were clustered around the muck trough, expertly gutting and filleting their morning catch while their clients and a cluster of tourists gathered around to observe their flashing knives and expert fingers. Long, long ago, before he’d learned to hate his father, he’d come down to that very shelter and watch his father work from behind one of the painted burgundy pillars.

“Is that where your dad used to work?” Annie asked. She had no idea that it was ten times harder to talk about Walter Richardson than Andy Garner.

“Yup. He was a fisherman but also worked on a charter boat for a little while.” They pushed forward, the rows of hanging silver fish blurring in his periphery.

“Did you ever do that?” She hooked her thumb over her shoulder back toward the marina.

It wasn’t until Luke turned ten that his father even acknowledged his presence there. He’d ask him to pass a tool or turn the water on when it was time to rinse out his station. The whole pavilion stunk of fish guts and his dad’s breath reeked of beer, but it was one of the few happy memories Luke had with his father.

As the summer came to a close, Luke had become proficient at assisting his father and the other men that used the pavilion. They’d often give him a couple of coins or, if he was really lucky, a bill or two. His father would pat his head, and even though his fingers smelled like fish and stuck to Luke’s hair, he never pulled away.

“Only once,” he muttered, feeling the memories pulling him down. “When I was ten.”

One morning after bringing in a significant haul, Walter Richardson called his son over to the trough. Luke grabbed the last beer out of the cooler and ran to his dad, holding the offering out to him. His father took the beer in one hand and opened it with the end of his filthy paring knife, foam racing down his arms.

“Hey there, bud. You wanna try?” He held up the knife and pointed to one of the fish hanging on the hooks beside him and then took a long drink out of his can. “It’s time you learned.”

Luke had never heard his father talk to him that way, with pride and confidence. He wanted nothing more than to please him, to stab the knife into the belly of the fish, perform the precise cuts, remove the still warm fish guts without flinching. Luke took the knife; it was sticky and heavier than he’d expected.

“First things first; gotta pick a good fish. I think one of these smaller salmon will do.” Walter unhooked a silvery gray fish from the post and tossed it down in front of Luke on the cleaning station. The fish’s blank black eye stared back at him accusingly. He swallowed back a flood of bile that burned the back of this throat. His father took another loud sip of his beer and then dug his index finger up under the fish’s gills. Luke had never liked the way gills looked, like fleshy sandpaper with tentacles, and he was certain he wouldn’t like the way they felt even more.

“Damn it!” His father slammed his hand down on the metal frame of the sink, and Luke’s arms instinctively went up to protect his face, but his father was too distracted by the fish lying in front of them to notice. “Glenn didn’t bleed this one out. Damn. Way to ruin a perfectly good fish.” Luke saw the gills give a slight ripple, as though the fish was still gasping for breath. It was suffocating, drowning in the air, right in front of his eyes. Apparently a slow death made the meat taste bad. If the animal hadn’t been 90 percent dead already, Luke may have been tempted to toss it back in the lake and worry about his father’s reaction later.

His father shrugged. “Guess we’ll take this one with us. Your mom won’t care if it tastes a little off. And if you do a hack job of the cleaning, it won’t matter. Your mom thinks you shit rainbows. Take the knife and cut right here.” He drew an invisible line with his dirty fingernail down from the gills to the fish’s jaw. “A quick slice will do it.”

Luke tightened his grip on the hilt, sweat on his palm making it slippery. He took a step forward, really intending to cut the fish, to bleed it out, as his father said, but once he pressed the sharp tip of the knife against the fish’s pliable skin, a wave of nausea hit him and he had to brace himself against the cool metal of the sink.

“Come on; we’re wasting time.” His father glanced at the two remaining fish on the hook and the half-empty marina. Most of the other fishermen had finished cleaning their haul half an hour ago, and if they didn’t get the fish in the cooler soon, they’d be spoiled for sure. “You’re embarrassing me. Stop being such a little girl. Stab the fish, Luke,” his father growled.

It really wasn’t very hard. All he had to do was press down a little, and it’d be over. The fish would be out of its misery, his father would be proud, and Luke would be able to run and hide, but even though he knew all that, his hand still wouldn’t move.

His father slammed down his can of beer, and it sloshed out and on the trough, gathering into a golden pool of liquid.

“Damn you.” He yanked the knife from Luke’s hand, stabbed the fish in the neck, and raked the knife down from the gills and along the jaw. The gills gave one last flick and the fish went still, blood pouring out from the cut. His father turned with the knife clenched in his hand and pointed it at Luke.

“How hard was that?” he yelled, and the small group of tourists that had been on the charter his father worked on turned their heads toward his voice. He didn’t notice and moved in closer to Luke, knife still raised. “Slice the gills and cut down, fast, like this.” He pressed the blade against Luke’s jaw as if to illustrate. Luke gasped when the sharp edge nicked his cheek, a hot trail of blood racing down his neck. Tears of fear and pain filled his eyes involuntarily. When his father saw them, he shoved Luke’s shoulder, hard, knocking him to the ground. “Your damn mother turned you into a sissy. Go home; I can’t stand looking at you right now.”

“Walt!”
A deep, familiar voice echoed through the marina’s pavilion. Alex Kerks, the owner of Kerks Charters, stood above Luke. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he half whispered, half yelled at Walt as he dipped down to kneel next to Luke. “Are you hurt?” He ran his eyes over Luke like searchlights.

“I’m fine,” Luke whispered, covering the cut on his cheek, hoping Alex wouldn’t ask about the blood. “I tripped on the bucket.” He pointed to a black waste bucket several feet away, not nearly close enough to be in his way. Luke couldn’t look at his father, so he pulled himself to standing and wiped his face with the inside of his collar. Alex’s dark eyes bore into Luke’s, and he could see the questions in them: Did Luke really need help but couldn’t say it? Why was he covering for his father? What should happen now?

“You run home and get a Band-Aid for that cut.” Alex patted him firmly on the shoulder, and Luke swallowed a lump in his throat, sure that the last place he should go was home because his father could find him at home, and after today, the cut on his face would be nothing compared to the hard whooping he would get. “I’ll help your dad finish the fish.”