Into This River I Drown - By Tj Klune Page 0,93

a ride home. Mom would be pissed that he’d left the truck all the way in Eugene, but that was okay. I could drive him there to get it tomorrow. I smiled, thinking that we could make it a mini road trip. Maybe take a couple of fishing poles with us and stop off near the bridge on the way back. It would be just the two of us. Just the two of us and nothing else would matter.

I stepped out into the rain, leaving the Ford’s door open behind me. Days later, I’d have to reupholster the door since it would sit open for another six hours, and the material became bloated and reeked of mold. I’d do it with a grim expression on my face, cursing myself when it wasn’t looking right, berating myself that Big Eddie would have done it right the first time. Big Eddie would have made it look spectacular right away. But that was still days away.

I bounded up the steps and threw open the door. The house was almost quiet, the only sound water falling on the roof. “Dad,” I tried to call out, but it came out as a croak. I cleared my throat and took another step into Big House.

And with that second step, with that small movement that meant nothing, came the first cold realization that my mother had not been lying. She had not been making it up. It was a tiny part, a tiny voice screaming from the depths. I pushed it away, but it had done enough damage, even in a split second. “Dad?” I said again. It was a little louder.

Another step into Big House, and I wanted to scream. “Dad?” I said, raising my voice. “You here?”

Upstairs. He can’t hear me because he’s upstairs in the shower or in his bedroom or he’s just playing a game and trying to trick me. He and Mom came up with this stupid trick, this awful trick, and pretty soon, he’s going to jump out and yell surprise! Surprise and weren’t you just so scared? Weren’t you just freaked out over nothing? Just a joke, son. It was just a joke. It was just a joke and I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave you, I promise.

I ran up the stairs, ignoring how the rain falling on the roof sounded like the roar of a river.

He wasn’t in the bedroom or the bathroom. He wasn’t in my room or the spare room. He wasn’t in the closets. He wasn’t in the attic. I went room to room, whispering his name, saying his name, finally bellowing his name, demanding that he come out from wherever he was hiding, that he show himself and end this joke, end this whole fucking thing. I was tired, I screamed at him. I was so tired of this game and I wanted it to be over.

No reply came.

I slumped against the wall near the stairs and slid down, wrapping my arms around my knees. I sat there, shivering, for I don’t know how long. Finally, I pulled out my phone again and called my father for the last time.

“You’ve reached Big Eddie’s phone. Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

The howl that tore from me then echoed throughout the house.

“You’ve reached Big Eddie’s phone,” I say now, sitting in the Ford at the gates

of Lost Hill Memorial Cemetery. “Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

I open the door to the Ford and step out into the dark. There’s a chill in the air, but I’ve forgotten my coat at home or back at the store. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.

I hop over the security chain stretched out across the road. The cemetery closes at nightfall, but I’ve been here after dark many times over the past five years. It’s better for me to be able to come here without anyone else around. There’s nothing more awkward than standing above a loved one’s remains and having someone mourning two headstones down. Do you acknowledge them? Do you ignore the tears on their face? Or do you just exchange a knowing look that says, “I know. I know what you’re going through.”

But you don’t. Not really. Everyone grieves differently. No one handles the loss of a loved one the same. Some put on a brave face for others, keeping everything internal. Others

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