Bury Me - Tara Sivec Page 0,19
will fall into place.”
It enrages me that he thinks my questions are silly. Why is figuring out the parts of my memory that I’m missing considered silly? Why is trying to understand who I am a waste of time?
“Why can’t you just be honest with me?” I whisper desperately.
He pushes against his knees with his palms to stand up. Sliding his hands into the front pockets of his suit pants, he jangles the loose change in there and stares down at me.
“I don’t know what you expect me to say, Ravenna. Why would you think I’m not being honest with you?” he asks me with a frustrated sigh.
“Why was I in the woods that night?” I immediately fire back, refusing to back down.
He squares his shoulders and lifts his chin. “Your mother and I have already told you we don’t know.”
“Fine, you don’t know why I was out in the woods in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm,” I reply sarcastically. “Then who found me? How did you even know I was hurt and to call the doctor?”
It never occurred to me to ask this question until now. The only wooded area on our property is on the other side of the lake, more than an acre away. If that’s where I got hurt, how would anyone have even known to look for me out there, unless they saw me leave the house? Unless they were following me.
Unless they were chasing me.
I can see myself running as fast as I can through the dark woods, tripping over tree roots and stray branches. I can almost feel my heart pounding in my chest as I run away from something, but it’s not because of fear. I’m proud of something I’ve done, and I’m angry that I’m being forced to run away from it instead of confront it.
My father sighs in frustration, the sound pulling me out of my thoughts. “I can’t answer your questions, Ravenna. I was busy working in my office, and I heard your mother scream. I ran downstairs and saw you unconscious on the floor, and I immediately called the doctor.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that he told me he can’t answer my questions, not that he didn’t know the answers to them.
Unfortunately, even his partial answers are the same my mother gave me, and they don’t help me at all. She was getting out of the shower and heard a noise downstairs. She came down and saw me lying in the middle of the floor, sopping wet, covered in dirt and leaves, with scratches all over my arms and a head wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.
“Why does everything I remember feel like it’s the exact opposite of what you and Mom tell me?” I question.
He immediately stops playing with the spare change in his pocket and silence fills the room. I hate that I’m sitting on the floor at his feet, feeling so small and insignificant when he towers over me so commanding and in charge, ignoring everything I ask him as if the questions I have aren’t worthy of an answer. I want to stand up to him, yell in his face, and poke his chest with my finger, but I find myself glued to the floor as the mask of indifference on his face quickly changes to one of fear. His eyes widen and he bites down nervously on his bottom lip, much like my mother did when I walked in her room and caught her crying.
“Have you remembered something, Ravenna? What have you remembered?” he asks in a rush.
His concern would be touching if I felt like he was doing it for my benefit, instead of trying to figure out if I’ve remembered something I shouldn’t. Something that would prove he really has been lying to me and he knows what happened.
Because he saw it happen, or because he was the cause of it?
Once again, I’m left wondering what could possibly be so bad that my own father doesn’t want me to know the truth.
Maybe I haven’t been avoiding him lately because I’m afraid of him and uncomfortable around him ever since I heard him yelling at my mother. Maybe I’ve been avoiding him because I’m afraid of how he makes me feel in his presence. When I’m in the same room with him, I feel my mistrust of him growing so strongly that it’s almost suffocating. A daughter should trust her father and know without a shadow of a doubt that