I missed what we had when I was a kid, we’d seemed happy for a while, until Mom spent less time doing family stuff and more time with new friends. By the time I was eight, I knew she had one foot out the door. She began leaving a backpack with a change of clothes in it outside under the steps, high heels and sparkly shoes with brightly colored eyeshadows and mascaras. She became a party girl almost overnight, responsibilities of family too much, and so, one day, we carried on without her.
It broke me for a while, but life was peaceful with Dad—I knew what to expect and I was glad for that. But Dad—he was still lost in a time warp, his hatred for Maverick as alive as it’d been all those decades ago.
By the time Dad came home seven hours later, the sun was already setting, and the house smelled of the homemade spaghetti sauce I’d brewed up in my boredom.
“House looks nice,” he uttered, dropping into the chair.
I’d left the shoebox of books front and center. His eyes glided over it, before he moved to take off his uniform boots.
“Hungry?”
“As a lion. It’s good to have you home.”
I suppressed the growl. He’d nearly kidnapped me and held me hostage out here all day, much like he’d assumed Maverick had done. “I cleaned places that look like they haven’t been touched since Mom was here.”
Dad pushed the chair across the cracked linoleum, growling loudly.
“There were so many dust bunnies under the dryer I could have made a new blanket to keep you warm at night.”
He didn’t answer, fumbling with the tie on his boot.
“I read that entire box of memories you left me with.” I slid a bowl of steaming hot spaghetti across the table. “I still don’t understand what you think you’re doing.”
“Saving you,” he grouched, finally catching my eye.
“From what? Myself?” I held a fork just out of reach, unwilling to give him anything.
“Hell, for starters. You see the storms that come in off that ridge—”
“This isn’t about the storm, Dad, only the one you created.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been holding a grudge on a man you don’t even know. Punishing him for something he didn’t do.”
“It’s not that simple, Poppy, don't you see? He's the reason your ma left us—”
“Did she leave for him? What are you talking about?”
He shook his head, dejected, and gave up on his boot. Pain laced his old eyes and feeling a spike of sympathy, I relinquished the spoon and bent to help him untie his boot. “After Aspen's mom died, your mama just wasn't right after that. She lost her best friend, it was one thing when they were fighting, at least they talked—but losing her for good made something split inside your mama’s head. She was so lonely all the time, her eyes were so vacant, I’d come home and find out she hadn't even fed you all day.” His shoulders slumped. “I used to worry so much at work I had Nana Winnie pop over every day around lunch to make sure you’d had something to eat.”
Tears welled in my eyes at the name of the little old woman that’d been in my life almost every day for the first thirteen years. She wasn’t even related—only a kind neighbor with a huge heart.
“I still don’t understand why this is Maverick’s fault.”
“Him and his crazy ideas, self-reliance and survival, he was hellbent on natural childbirth and insisted on a midwife—only, when that baby was born it was the night of the worst storm in recent history. The waves were so big just off the bay that a fishing boat capsized that night. Of course, the bridge went out and the midwife couldn’t get to the ridge, that’s why Maverick’s wife died—that’s why your ma lost her best friend and me and my dad knew long before that that he was a stubborn, no-good bum that would bring more harm than good to everything he touched. Even from up at the ridge.”
“That doesn't seem right, Dad. I don’t think—”
“Ask him.” Dad’s eyes flamed with anger. “Just ask him. He’ll probably lie to you to save his own ass.”
“Dad, is this really what you've been punishing him every day for? His existence?”
“I grew up with Maverick, that kid used to sit at my kitchen table and listen to my parents fight over politics and mashed potatoes. He went from needing a good family to spend time with, to his dad coming back to town and planting these wild anti-establishment ideas in his head—he just wasn’t the same. When he told your ma and I that he had no plans after high school except to work and live off the land, how could he do that—how could he plan to support a family and take a wife without a job? He’s just a bum, Poppy, too lazy to work then and too lazy to work now.”
“That’s harsh, Dad, and it’s not true. His life is just different from yours.”
“It’s not for you. I raised you a certain way—”
“What way? To love nature? To hunt and fish and camp and stop and smell the wildflowers? I love the ridge, and I love the man that lives on it.”
“Poppy, I won’t let you go back there—I couldn’t live with myself if...if…” He swiped at angry tears, covering his forehead with his palm before pushing up off the chair and leaving the kitchen.
I heard his
