But those were the earlier years. Now, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve become the skilled escape artist, and in his drunken state, he forgets very quickly his daughter’s room is empty and her ground floor window ever so slightly cracked. Sara’s family knows I work late and never care when I come over late. It’s the perfect solution … most of the time. But not on this night.
On this night, my normal vigilance is replaced with uncharacteristic exhaustion. Perhaps I’ve become lazy, or perhaps he’s learned to tip toe drunk. In any event, it comes as quite a surprise when my bedroom door is flung open and the meanest man I’ve ever met comes staggering in to pick a fight with a seventeen-year-old. That’s alcoholism at its finest. The first blow strikes the left side of my head—hard. That first blow to the left side of my temple sends my right temple smacking against the wall, and all I can register are the fireworks suddenly flashing in the back of my eyes from the impact. The next back hand lands nicely on the corner of my mouth, and soon blood is dripping down my chin from where I was struck. The instant pain that shoots through my jaw feels as though it is unhinging from the joint.
The nice thing about glancing back handed blows is that they tend to spin a drunk man like a top, and spinning drunk men aren’t all that familiar with balance. Thus I am afforded my moment for escape. The window, my normal route, isn’t an option as he’s blocking my path directly to it. Which leaves the front door as the only alternative. I grab my book bag sitting on the floor by the door as I skirt past him while he staggers to get to his feet. As I run through the house, I can hear him stirring in my bedroom. He sounds like an angry bull whose matador has just done something very rude and unpleasant to him. But I am fast. In a matter of moments, I am out the door and bicycling fast for parts unknown.
Normally, I would have made my cursory call to Sara from the phone in my bedroom before he even had the chance to stumble his way down the hallway to my room, nothing more needed than a quick, “Hey, dad’s drunk and I don’t feel like arguing. Can I come over?” followed by her ever happy to see me, “Of course.” But this night is different.
Because of my slip, my heart is racing, my hands are shaking, I am crying, and my head is exploding. I have no idea what time it is, and judging by how soundly I was sleeping, it could be well into the early morning hours. I will have no choice but to explain the bloody lip, which means lying to my best friend, and worst than that, no way of knowing just how bad it will look in the morning when we join her parents for breakfast.
I consider not calling her and just killing time until morning when I can go home, but I am cold and tired and hurting. After two blocks, I come to the old Amoco station and decide it is either a cold, uncomfortable night on my own or a nice, warm bed and good company. I stand at the pay phone with tears still streaming down my face and notice for the first time my feet are bare and bruised from the metal pedals of my bicycle and the hard chewed up asphalt of the old gas station’s parking lot. I fish a handful of change from the side pocket of my backpack and dial Sara’s cell number. I am not looking forward to this conversation but eager to hear her familiar voice. That’s when things change.
I am so busy trying to decide what to tell her I somehow manage to not hear the overtly masculine voice on the other end of the line. Instead, “Hello” in Logan’s sleep-laden and somewhat annoyed voice is the first thing I register. In my over-adrenalized idiocy, I start to wonder how I’ve managed to dial his number before I realize I wouldn’t know how to dial his number if I wanted to because I don’t even have the number.
After a few confused, terrifying moments and several impatient “Hellos” from Logan, I finally find my voice—the stammering voice that is my alter ego of humiliation. “Uhhhhh … L-Logan? I-Is S-Sara home?”
“No, she’s away at the lake house. She forgot her phone… Wait, Rowan…? What’s wrong? You sound like you’re crying. What happened?”
Shit! That isn’t stammering, it’s sobbing. This is not good. Regroup. Deep breath. Change of subject. “What are you doing answering Sara’s phone?” Good, that will throw him off.
“I asked you why you’re crying. What the hell is going on, Rowan?”
Okay, redirection didn’t work. We’ll just go with a lie instead. “I’m not crying. I’ve just been riding my bike.” This can’t get any worse. Not only am I trying to lie, I’m coming up with really stupid lies.
“Bullshit. Rowan, why the hell are you calling Sara from a payphone in the middle of the night in tears?”
Caller ID. Oops. What do all smart people do when they are caught in a lie? They keep lying. Adamant rebuttal is fool proof. “Logan, really, I’ve just been riding my bicycle… I forgot something at work and needed … uh … to talk to Sara… I… Why is she at the lake house this weekend? I thought … you know … uh … comp report… I mean, it’s due Monday, and she was supposed to be home…”
“Okay, that’s it. Where are you? I’m coming to get you. And don’t even think of saying you’re fine, and don’t even think of telling me you’re not crying. Just tell me where the hell you’re at before I call the cops.”
Well, that just didn’t work at all. I think about hanging up, but the sound in Logan’s voice is paralyzing. He is angry, not to mention confused. For all he knows something bad has happened to me, and well, he wouldn’t be all that wrong. If Logan wanted to, I have no doubt he could have the cops out looking for me. It’s a small town, and he is well known and respected. The last thing I want is the cops to be pounding on the door to the trailer where my drunken father is likely trying to pass out to some obscure early morning infomercial. That could be really bad.
“Logan? I need help.” It’s barely a whisper.
I don’t recall ever saying those words to anyone in my life, especially in connection to my father’s drunken behavior. Strangely, I immediately feel an odd sense of relief. I know there’s nothing Logan can really do for me, but just saying the words out loud in some way is liberating. I’m tired. Secrets are draining, and this one’s a doozy. And with this confession, a sense of the inevitable starts to slowly sink in.
“Can you please pick me up at the Amoco at Vine and Eighth Street?” I don’t wait for a response. I hang up.
No one until now has known what life is like in the Rowan Avery household. But in a short time, someone will. I better just hope I’m prepared for the fall out.
Chapter 3
She better have a damn good explanation. She must think I’m the world’s biggest idiot. Riding bicycles in the middle of the night. What is she, five? Please. This is the thanks I get for dog-sitting—should have just taken the stupid dog with them like they usually do. But no, dog has an ear infection, and everyone knows dogs with ear infections can’t possibly go to lake houses. Never mind the fact that Rufus doesn’t exactly enjoy having his ears messed with. Rufus becomes Cujo real fast. And if that isn’t enough, my bedroom’s been turned into a damn hobby room. Who the hell is going to be using this hobby room? Not that I don’t love sleeping on the couch in the den. It is better than Sara’s room, clothes always strewn about and constantly oversaturated with the latest perfume all girls her age seem to bathe in. And now it’s two thirty in the morning, and her phone starts ringing.