Read Online Closer Home by Kerry Anne King - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kerry Anne King
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else.”
Callie’s face flushes. “Maybe you’re the one who should move out,” she shouts after his retreating back. He doesn’t answer. Tears streak down her face as she sinks back into her chair and picks up Ariel’s bottle. The baby settles almost at once, but the air in the kitchen feels supercharged and toxic.
“He didn’t mean it,” I say, watching the shell of my father shuffle away down the hallway, watching my sister’s tears fall. “He won’t even remember in the morning.”
“Which doesn’t change a thing,” she says.
I don’t know what to say and so I retreat to the facts. “Right. Nothing changes, him or the budget. Which means you need to collect child support. And for that, we need to know who Ariel’s father is.”
“I don’t know,” Callie whispers.
“What do you mean you don’t know? How can you not know who you had sex with?” A little tendril of fear curls through me. I think about date rape; maybe she was drugged or blacked out and somebody took advantage. But she squares her shoulders and gives me a defiant look.
“There was more than one guy, okay? And even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell. No kid needs this kind of shit.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Callie. Grow up, already!” All at once my emotions are too big to hold in another minute, and all of the anger and heartbreak and anxiety spill out in a flood. “Dad’s right. If you’re old enough to get down and dirty with that many guys, then you’re old enough to take care of yourself. I’m not the one who got herself pregnant, so don’t expect me to carry the weight of you and a baby.”
I feel something between us crack and shatter, but I don’t apologize.
Callie goes very still. When she looks up, her tears have dried and her jaw is set at full-on stubborn. “Fine. Don’t give us another thought.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” She stands, Ariel sound asleep in her arms and oblivious to the storm.
“Where are you going?” Already my anger is evaporating into fear and loss.
“What does it matter to you?” Unlike my father, she seems to have grown taller as she walks away from me.
It’s only now, after Callie’s dead and it’s too late to talk about it, that I see this was the real break between us. She moved out before the week was over and lived on welfare until she landed a gig singing for a bar band in Seattle. After that we still talked now and then, about work and Ariel and the weather. There were visits. But we were always careful and polite, more like strangers than sisters. For the first time I let myself wonder if she would have stolen my song if I hadn’t said those things to her.
“I didn’t mean it,” I want to tell her now. “I only wanted to make you do the right thing, to find the father. Make him pay. I would have helped you for as long as you needed . . .”
But the time to set things right between us is gone, and now it’s Ariel who wants answers.
“Do you think . . . ,” I stop myself. Of course she thinks looking for her father is a good idea. She’s sixteen and the only family she’s got is me. “How are you going to find him? I mean, a name in the journal is one thing, but he could be anywhere by now.”
She drops another book in my lap. The Colville High yearbook, 1997–1998. “They’re all in there. Names, birth dates. I’ll google them.”
“Surely it can’t be so easy.”
“I found this.” She sets her laptop down in front of me.
“Oh my God, you have got to be kidding.”
I lean in to see the picture more clearly. Kelvin Marcus hasn’t aged well. The washboard abs are gone, replaced by an obvious paunch that isn’t disguised by a dark button-up shirt and suit jacket. Threads of gray run through thinning hair, and there are dark pouches under his dreamboat eyes.
“He’s a preacher.” Ariel’s voice drips acid.
“Kel?” I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen.
“You know him?”
“Everybody knew him.
Callie’s face flushes. “Maybe you’re the one who should move out,” she shouts after his retreating back. He doesn’t answer. Tears streak down her face as she sinks back into her chair and picks up Ariel’s bottle. The baby settles almost at once, but the air in the kitchen feels supercharged and toxic.
“He didn’t mean it,” I say, watching the shell of my father shuffle away down the hallway, watching my sister’s tears fall. “He won’t even remember in the morning.”
“Which doesn’t change a thing,” she says.
I don’t know what to say and so I retreat to the facts. “Right. Nothing changes, him or the budget. Which means you need to collect child support. And for that, we need to know who Ariel’s father is.”
“I don’t know,” Callie whispers.
“What do you mean you don’t know? How can you not know who you had sex with?” A little tendril of fear curls through me. I think about date rape; maybe she was drugged or blacked out and somebody took advantage. But she squares her shoulders and gives me a defiant look.
“There was more than one guy, okay? And even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell. No kid needs this kind of shit.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Callie. Grow up, already!” All at once my emotions are too big to hold in another minute, and all of the anger and heartbreak and anxiety spill out in a flood. “Dad’s right. If you’re old enough to get down and dirty with that many guys, then you’re old enough to take care of yourself. I’m not the one who got herself pregnant, so don’t expect me to carry the weight of you and a baby.”
I feel something between us crack and shatter, but I don’t apologize.
Callie goes very still. When she looks up, her tears have dried and her jaw is set at full-on stubborn. “Fine. Don’t give us another thought.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” She stands, Ariel sound asleep in her arms and oblivious to the storm.
“Where are you going?” Already my anger is evaporating into fear and loss.
“What does it matter to you?” Unlike my father, she seems to have grown taller as she walks away from me.
It’s only now, after Callie’s dead and it’s too late to talk about it, that I see this was the real break between us. She moved out before the week was over and lived on welfare until she landed a gig singing for a bar band in Seattle. After that we still talked now and then, about work and Ariel and the weather. There were visits. But we were always careful and polite, more like strangers than sisters. For the first time I let myself wonder if she would have stolen my song if I hadn’t said those things to her.
“I didn’t mean it,” I want to tell her now. “I only wanted to make you do the right thing, to find the father. Make him pay. I would have helped you for as long as you needed . . .”
But the time to set things right between us is gone, and now it’s Ariel who wants answers.
“Do you think . . . ,” I stop myself. Of course she thinks looking for her father is a good idea. She’s sixteen and the only family she’s got is me. “How are you going to find him? I mean, a name in the journal is one thing, but he could be anywhere by now.”
She drops another book in my lap. The Colville High yearbook, 1997–1998. “They’re all in there. Names, birth dates. I’ll google them.”
“Surely it can’t be so easy.”
“I found this.” She sets her laptop down in front of me.
“Oh my God, you have got to be kidding.”
I lean in to see the picture more clearly. Kelvin Marcus hasn’t aged well. The washboard abs are gone, replaced by an obvious paunch that isn’t disguised by a dark button-up shirt and suit jacket. Threads of gray run through thinning hair, and there are dark pouches under his dreamboat eyes.
“He’s a preacher.” Ariel’s voice drips acid.
“Kel?” I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen.
“You know him?”
“Everybody knew him.
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