Mum’s Diary

We have one rule in our household:

• Never, ever mention Daddy.

I’ve never met my daddy.

Well, to be frank, I’ve never quite met anybody beyond Mum, Sally Jones, and Candy. Sally Jone’s a third cousin who’s twice my age, and Candy’s a cat who greatly dislikes me, but they’re, like, the only living things I have for company.

Anyways. I was at dinner when the most oddish thing happened. Basically, Sally Jones was rattling ‘bout some university in Iowa and her college application blah blah blah blah when I suddenly blurted:

“That’s nice, Sal, but do you ever wonder what your daddy was, uh, like? Heck, what my Daddy was like?

Mum had shrieked, Sally had wheezed, and Candy had hissed. I had felt the shame rushing to my cheeks immediately after the words had escaped, rocking my chair back and forth while I sucked nervously at my teeth.

But strange as it was, nobody yelled or hollered or yanked my braids. Mum had, after recovering from a series of hoarse whimpers and coughs, arisen from her chair, disappeared for a minute or two, and came back with a small leather book in which she handed to me. I had been too confused and embarrassed to dare open such a thing, and the book had sat on my desk for months before today.

Today is the day I flip the cover open to reveal small, squiggly handwriting that reads:

Dear Diary,

and the story of my family begins.

Of course, everybody who had a sliver of sanity would refuse a road trip across the entirety of the United States- with a stranger, by the way? Forget it. Yet, Dad’s condition was only worsening. I had to get to Boston before (a), he died, or (b), he became a man even I wouldn’t recognize, a man without humor or happiness or excitement. Plane tickets were much too expensive, to the day I’ve never heard of a train station in Los Angeles, and renting a car would soar me into debt. And I was almost giving up hope of riding with a stranger, almost ready to have my bank account in the negatives if it meant seeing Dad one last time, when suddenly a young, shaggy boy offered me a ride. I was of course shocked, if not at least skeptical, but he heard none of my “whys” and “you wouldn’ts.” He just gave a lazy smile, shrugging his broad shoulders even when I had brought the prospect of gas up.

“It gets cheaper in the mid,” he sighed, his face devoured in freckles. “When do we leave?”

“As soon as possible,” I replied, still unsure if he was toying with me. 

“Mmm, like now?” 

“I mean-” 

“Hop in, gal. You’re ‘bout to go on an adventure.”

I suppose I’m so caught up trying to capture this particular moment of hope and gratitude, rushing it forward as my delight grows, that I forgot to describe where we were, what I looked like, so on. For all you know, this dialogue could be taking place in an empty void.

I wish. An empty void would contain peace, absolute tranquility and no doubts. It would be so soothing, living in something so simple. Living in nothing. I bet Dad wouldn’t have cancer in a paradise like such. 

We weren’t in a place nearly so beautiful.

Actually, we were at a gas station.

“You want to leave now? Don’t you need to pack or-” I couldn’t quite hide the delight in my voice. We were going to see my dad; I was going to drive across the United States with nothing but the rusted, stenching smell of a strangely supportive stranger. Though to anyone else, it’d sound like a nightmare, to me it was a dream. I giggled at the thought, buckling myself as the engine roared to life.

Boy, was I an odd girly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Cancer?” asked the freckled boy, from whom I had learned the name of Thomsy Catch. “Like, uhhhh, the type that kills people or y’mean the zodiac sign-”

“What do you think, dimwit?” I snapped, having found myself fading from the storylike adrenaline after an irritating hour and a half of sitting in the backseat. “Why would I see my dad now just because he’s some zodiac sign-”

“I dunno, for his birthday….?” 

“Cancer season isn’t for another six months. Get a grip on yourself, Thom…tomz-” 

“Thomsy,” he corrected casually, reclining his chair back to give a sly wink. “Get a grip on yourself, Taza.” 

“Tash-” I’d let out an irritated sigh, rolling my eyes as I realized his game. He’d tried to start up another conversation, but I remained stubbornly quiet, eventually falling into an uncomfortable slumber. My dreams were full of Dad, and only Dad. Dad wheezing. Dad screaming. Dad dying. 

I awoke to a hazy night sky filled with dancing lights. “Tommy-”

“We’re in Las Vegas, sweetpea,” he called out, grinning the most sheepish thing imaginable.  “Not quite the northeast yet, but I assume with that face, you looove gambling.”

That night was exotic. I remember nothing other than everything, from the squeals of laughter and the $200 I’d won to the brilliant lights and slurping a giant milkshake.

It was when I was lying in a pile of velvet cushions, Thomsy in his own luxurious 5-star hotel room, that I thought of how Dad would be so envious of my experience, and guilt had crossed me over like a tsunami. I’m still yet to show this diary to him, of my journey to see him, and I know that if I do, I’ll furiously erase every word of fun that I had.

Day #2 or 3

Halfway to our next rest stop, Amarillo, we were in a heated argument, I think in New Mexico or somethin, when it happened.

A horrid, horrid accident. A massive SUV drove into our tiny little rusted junk, and of course my memory isn’t the best after that. I recall a piercing headache and plenty of shouting, Thomsy exploding threats while bleeding nonstop. He must have been as dizzy and hurt as I was, because we were both heaved into an ambulance and fed some weird cherry thing.  Anyhow, it had turned out fine, otherwise I wouldn’t be, uh, writing this, but wow was the experience terrifying. Being sore and having to stay days in the hospital didn’t increase my chances of getting to Dad before it was too late, and when I’d overheard doctors speaking of `frequent cancer deaths”, a tight, unmistakable presence in my throat had swelled. Also, Thomsy’s car had been left in horrid condition, with severely wrinkled skin and shattered windows. Quite literally, in a breezy summary that I am proud to have not drooled into, Thomsy had sued the driver of the SUV, had earned himself plenty of money, and had bought a thirteen-year-old, broken air conditioner car for $2,000. k

Yeah. A lot of time passed. 

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Day “I Lost Count” 

It was nearly two months before we were back on the road, much to my agitation and irritance.

“We’re not going to make it,” I whimpered. “Not even in Amarillo yet, are we? I told Dad we’d be there by now, and it’s a miracle he’s lived this long-” 

“I sued a man, sweetpea. Rather efficient, too-” Thomsy started, only to be interrupted by the outraged cry I had released.

I just couldn’t take it any longer. My daddy was dying, and this stupid, shaggy boy had the audacity to joke? My boiling fists slammed repeatedly against the windows, screams escaping my throat and tears flooding my eyes.

I remember, vaguely, against the flaring red of my vision, Thomsy giving a whimper carved from half-terror, half-guilt. I’d erupted into endless sobs, sobs that lasted all the way to Amarillo. ‘Bout six hours, it was just me wailing.

The hotel we’d booked in Texas wasn’t all the same as the one in Vegas, but at the time I couldn’t care less. The ordinary bed with ordinary sheets was tremendously comfortable, and the pillows may as well have been the plum velvet ones I’d slept in two months ago.

We had gone on a cowboy tour the next day, and though riding a horse was both glamorous and exhilarating, especially when I had it gallop over a pole, I hardly enjoyed myself with the thought of Dad glooming over me. Begging Thomsy not to stay a minute longer and continue on the road after the tour was over, we’d done exactly such.

~~~~~~

Day “I Still Lost Count”

Nothing significant happened until Thomsy and I were in Tennessee, two weeks later. I mean, we had lost gas (unsurprisingly) in Oklohoma, sitting in the sweaty car for hours, but it wasn’t worth writing about in somewhat vivid detail. 

What was, though, was when we were robbed.

We were nearing our next rest stop, Greenbrier, when a gang of men forced our car to a halt by jumping in front of it. Thomsy had rolled the window down to scoff, only to have a gun pointed at his forehead. The oily men had forced all our valuables into their hands, including my phone, which contained everything I’d had of contacting Dad and my friends. Just recalling the feeling of powerlessness and anxiety makes me shudder, and that’s most likely why I try to make this event as brief and to-the-point as possible.

What was even worse, though, was when Thomsy had stopped us in Florida rather than Boston. On the bright side, I saw crocodiles for the first time. On the dim side, everything.

“His life expectancy is a week! One more week. How will we make it from stupid Florida to stupid Boston in a week? You’re a damn liar if you try to reassure me, Tom, ‘cause I- I k-know-” 

Trying and failing to contain my despair-

I slam the diary shut with a sickening thud, panting rather heavily as realization dawns upon me. But no, I must continue reading to confirm my suspicion. It can’t be-

I speed through the remaining pages, not daring to breathe so much as a puff of air.

Elder lady helped me-

paid for my plane ticket to Boston- 

Left Thomsy- 

Found myself pregnant week after-

Dad still alive-

Clara is born-

“Clara, what in the lord are you doin’?” asks Mum. Then, as if struck by lightning, she pulls me into a tight hug. “You read it, didn’t you-”

And together we cry, long limbs wrapped around one another.

‘Cause that Thomsy dude’s my daddy, that’s why.