Read Online All the Things We Didn't Say by Sara Shepard - Free Book Online Page B

base of the N to the waist-high grass.
    Dear Claire, I composed in my head. Check this out! I could send her a photo of the barn. Perhaps she’d find it-what’s the phrase she always used?- très kitsch.
    We passed what I guessed was the equivalent of a 7-Eleven. It was called Unimart, sort of like unibrow. There was a placard out front; faded, plastic interchangeable letters read, L OTTO HERE ! M ARLBORO $1.29.
    â€˜It’s so funny, being here,’ my father said. ‘I feel like I know every tree personally.’
    He put on the rental station wagon’s turn signal, and we pulled down a street paralleling a river. To our right were closedup shops, an empty diner called Mister Donut, a crumbling church with ESUS S AVES on the marquee, a Knights of Columbus.
    Beyond an industrial-looking, algae-green bridge was a hill lined with the kinds of trees I used to draw when I was little: long, narrow triangles, with tiny sticks as the trunks.
    My father pointed to the hill. ‘We used to pitch our Christmas trees over that.’ He swung his finger toward the steel bridge. ‘And that’s where that movie was shot.’
    â€˜What movie?’
    â€˜I don’t know. The…the movie. The one with…with the ghost in it. I can’t remember the name. Didn’t we go to see it?’
    He nodded toward a ramshackle house across the hill. ‘That’s where the Crosses live. We used to sneak over and jump on his trampoline. Once, he came out with a rifle and shot at us.’
    â€˜Did he have any kids?’ I asked.
    â€˜Nope. Hated kids.’
    â€˜Then what was he doing with a trampoline?’
    My father paused, then slapped the steering wheel. ‘You know, I have no idea. Maybe he was in the circus?’
    Dear Claire. Guess what my dad had for lunch today? Scrapple. Wanna know what it is? Pig-shoulder pudding.
    Suddenly, my father pulled over. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘Come here.’
    At first, I thought he was talking to me. But he was gazing at a wet, dazed-looking dog on the riverbank. It wasn’t wearing a collar and had a big piece of fur missing from its side.
    Other cars swished past, uninterested. Even here, I worried about them looking. My father turned the car off and stepped out. I shifted, uncomfortable. ‘Dad…’
    He held up his hand. ‘I just want to see if I know her.’
    â€˜How could you know her ?’
    â€˜All the dogs here, they mate with one another. Chances are I’ll know her.’
    Steven, who’d been sleeping against the front passengerside window, rubbed his eyes and stretched. ‘Where are we?’
    â€˜We’re here,’ I whispered. ‘I think.’
    Steven looked around. The dead Mister Donut, a gas station that looked like it had weathered a recent dust storm. Two boys rolled out from behind a pick-up truck, carrying sixty-four-ounce cups of soda. They both had spiky blond hair and gapped, yellow teeth.
    My father found the thin red leash and the packet of liver treats he always kept in his knapsack. When he opened the car door, the heat wrapped around us like mummification bandages. Prepare for record temperatures this week , the weather reporters had been declaring the whole drive. We’d been able to keep the signal for NPR for a while, but in the western part of the state we’d found nothing but country stations, which my father detested more than Lite FM. He had a whole stack of Jazz CDs to muddle him-and us, by default-through.
    My father walked carefully toward the dog. It glanced at him out of the corner of its eye, the pink edge of its tongue darting in and out of its mouth. When my dad reached out,the dog ducked away. ‘Come here,’ my father whispered. ‘It’s okay.’ He crouched and put the treat on the ground. The dog sniffed the air. When my father made a sudden move, the dog backed away again. It was a dance until the dog ate the treat, trusted