me over in the reflection. His gaze flicked down to my hand. “Hi,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Andrew. I work here.” His eyes were blue, and he was probably younger than I was, and he had a nice smile that probably had the same effect everywhere.
“Nicolette,” I said. “I live in Philadelphia, actually.”
“Shame,” he said. “You in town for a while?”
“No,” I said. I pointed out the window. “There.” Dad was reading a book on a bench near the edge of the courtyard, his elbows resting on his brown pants, like he was deep in thought, searching the words for more meaning. “Thanks for your help, Andrew.” I forced myself to flash him a smile as I left the room.
Out in the courtyard, a few women sat around a café table with lunch in Styrofoam boxes. Two men were playing chess. A few people were pacing in what appeared to be slow, endless circles around the perimeter. I settled in beside my father on the bench. “Hi, Dad,” I said.
He pulled his face out of the book, glancing in my direction.
“What are you reading?” I asked.
“Nabokov,” he said, showing me the cover. “For next semester.”
He wasn’t here. But he wasn’t far.
I cleared my throat, watching him from the corner of my eye. “Yesterday,” I said, “you told me you saw my friend Corinne. A long time ago. On the back porch.”
“Did I tell you that? I don’t remember that.” He ran his thumb over the page edges, fanning them slowly.
“Yes,” I said. “I was just wondering . . . I was just wondering if you knew how she got there.”
He didn’t answer, his head still in the book. But his eyes weren’t moving across the lines; they were staring, his mind elsewhere. “I was drinking too much,” he said.
“I know you were. It’s okay.”
“I mean, I went to get you. I got a call. About you. My daughter and some stunt on the Ferris wheel. I said I couldn’t come. But I did. I got mad, and I got in the car, and I drove, because it was all escalating, and it had finally come to this.” He put the book down and squeezed his eyes. “You were pushing more and more because I never stopped you. I never did. So I got in the car. I was going to be a dad.”
I started shaking my head because I didn’t like where this was going. And it was too much. Too direct. Nowhere to hide for either of us.
“So I got to that bend before the caverns, and I thought: This isn’t how to be a dad. Driving drunk. This isn’t how. So I pulled over. I just . . . pulled over.”
“Where, Dad?” It came out as a choked whisper.
“Just before the caverns, there’s this access road, a dead end. I pulled in and I parked.” He looked over at me. “Don’t cry, doll. I wasn’t in a good state. I needed some air. I just needed some air.”
He needed to stop.
“I had the windows rolled down—I just needed to sleep it off.” He folded his hands in his lap, his fingers drumming against his knuckles. “I heard people yelling . . .”
I had to know. It was time. “Dad,” I said. “What did you do?”
I felt his body tense, parts of him twitch. “What do you mean?” He looked around, narrowing his eyes. “This place is a rabbit hole,” he said.
And Corinne was the rabbit. We followed her down, down, down, and she left us here.
Then, to me: “I don’t like it here. You need to go. I want you to go now. Nic, you need to leave.”
I stood, the air too heavy, his words like static. My memories, spinning and blurring like our pictures, like our ghosts. I couldn’t look him in the eye when I left.
* * *
TYLER’S TRUCK WAS IN my driveway, but he wasn’t in the house. I found him around back, sitting on the edge of the porch, his feet on the grass. “Anything?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Did you see your dad?”
I sat beside him. Pulled my knees up, dipped my head down so I could see only the blades of grass under my shadow. “I don’t understand what happened. I don’t understand that picture. It doesn’t make sense. He said he was driving near the caverns. He said he was there. But that’s all he said. That’s all.” Tyler reached out, took my hand. “Did you lie to me?”