steering wheel, or yell profanities to a man whom Iâd never known and who would never hear them. Instead, I turned on the radio and pulled out of the garage into the inky black night, humming along to some throbbing new Lady Gaga beat.
The gentle flow of post-rush-hour traffic went to an immediate, brake-squealing stop-and-go when the sky opened up and started to dump quarter-sized raindrops onto the cement. I groaned and pulled around a soccer mom in an SUV the size of my apartment, angling onto the 280 Freeway exit. I had no idea where I was going, but according to the blurry green freeway sign, I was on my way south to San Jose.
I flipped on my headlights and thought about my father, thought about his careful script in the yellowing pages of the old notebook.
Nina was right; there could be things in that journal that answered my questions about him. If I knew enough about him to have questions.
As a little girl I imagined him tall and slim with a dashing career that kept him out of my lifeâperhaps a mild-mannered college professor by day, a continent-hopping James Bond type by night. He was supposed to want to be with me, to want to know his only daughter, but circumstances kept him at bay.
Now I knew what those circumstances wereâgreed. Power. My father wanted to find the Vessel of Souls. A Vessel that controlled the balance of good and evil in the world.
I wasnât any use to him... .
The thought entered my head on its own and I felt a lump forming in my throat. I clenched my teeth and felt the leaden weight in my foot as I pressed the gas pedal harder, my little car zipping past the minivans and eco-conscious carpoolers.
He could have found me anytime... .
My eyes stung and I took my hands off the wheel, pressing them over my ears. Why was I doing this to myself? The car pulled a little to the left and I jerked it back, then stared at the road in front of me. Somewhere along my drive I had turned onto a deserted strip of highway. The fat raindrops had now turned into a sad, constant drizzle that thundered on the hood of my car. I wiped the tears that poured down my cheeks. I sniffed, then squinted as a pair of halogen headlights beamed in my rearview mirror. I frowned. We were the only two cars on the road, yet Mr. Bright Lights apparently felt honor bound to drive directly behind me.
âIf youâre in such a hurry, go around!â I mumbled to the carâs reflection. âItâs not like there arenât three other lanes to choose from.â
In response, the headlights drew closer, filling the interior of my car with a glaring blue-white light. I snapped on my blinker and coasted into the slow lane. As Mr. Bright Lights pulled even with me, I shot him a dirty look, but the interior of his black SUV was dark. All I could make out was a figure hunched in the driverâs seat.
âJerk,â I muttered, my tears drying in my cheeks.
Mr. Bright Lights sped up again, showering a spray of water onto my windshield. I kicked my wipers onto high; with the first whoosh of water I saw the blurry glare of Mr. Bright Lightsâs taillights, directly in front of me.
âHoly shit!â I screamed, slamming on my brakes and yanking the wheel. My heart hammered as my tires spun and slid helplessly on the wet road. I felt my seat belt tighten and cut across my chest as the dark scenery outside swirled into a blurry, circling mess. I felt the prickling heat of sweat on my upper lip and down my back, and I let out a gurgling, wailing cry until my car glided to a gentle stop, just inches from the highway retaining wall. With shaking hands I killed the engine and bit back the feeling of hot adrenaline as it roared through my body.
There was no sound except the drumming of rain on metal and the thundering beat of my heart. I peeled my aching hands from the steering wheel and gulped lungfuls of air, waiting impatiently for the imminent post-traumatic-experience heart attack. When it
The gentle flow of post-rush-hour traffic went to an immediate, brake-squealing stop-and-go when the sky opened up and started to dump quarter-sized raindrops onto the cement. I groaned and pulled around a soccer mom in an SUV the size of my apartment, angling onto the 280 Freeway exit. I had no idea where I was going, but according to the blurry green freeway sign, I was on my way south to San Jose.
I flipped on my headlights and thought about my father, thought about his careful script in the yellowing pages of the old notebook.
Nina was right; there could be things in that journal that answered my questions about him. If I knew enough about him to have questions.
As a little girl I imagined him tall and slim with a dashing career that kept him out of my lifeâperhaps a mild-mannered college professor by day, a continent-hopping James Bond type by night. He was supposed to want to be with me, to want to know his only daughter, but circumstances kept him at bay.
Now I knew what those circumstances wereâgreed. Power. My father wanted to find the Vessel of Souls. A Vessel that controlled the balance of good and evil in the world.
I wasnât any use to him... .
The thought entered my head on its own and I felt a lump forming in my throat. I clenched my teeth and felt the leaden weight in my foot as I pressed the gas pedal harder, my little car zipping past the minivans and eco-conscious carpoolers.
He could have found me anytime... .
My eyes stung and I took my hands off the wheel, pressing them over my ears. Why was I doing this to myself? The car pulled a little to the left and I jerked it back, then stared at the road in front of me. Somewhere along my drive I had turned onto a deserted strip of highway. The fat raindrops had now turned into a sad, constant drizzle that thundered on the hood of my car. I wiped the tears that poured down my cheeks. I sniffed, then squinted as a pair of halogen headlights beamed in my rearview mirror. I frowned. We were the only two cars on the road, yet Mr. Bright Lights apparently felt honor bound to drive directly behind me.
âIf youâre in such a hurry, go around!â I mumbled to the carâs reflection. âItâs not like there arenât three other lanes to choose from.â
In response, the headlights drew closer, filling the interior of my car with a glaring blue-white light. I snapped on my blinker and coasted into the slow lane. As Mr. Bright Lights pulled even with me, I shot him a dirty look, but the interior of his black SUV was dark. All I could make out was a figure hunched in the driverâs seat.
âJerk,â I muttered, my tears drying in my cheeks.
Mr. Bright Lights sped up again, showering a spray of water onto my windshield. I kicked my wipers onto high; with the first whoosh of water I saw the blurry glare of Mr. Bright Lightsâs taillights, directly in front of me.
âHoly shit!â I screamed, slamming on my brakes and yanking the wheel. My heart hammered as my tires spun and slid helplessly on the wet road. I felt my seat belt tighten and cut across my chest as the dark scenery outside swirled into a blurry, circling mess. I felt the prickling heat of sweat on my upper lip and down my back, and I let out a gurgling, wailing cry until my car glided to a gentle stop, just inches from the highway retaining wall. With shaking hands I killed the engine and bit back the feeling of hot adrenaline as it roared through my body.
There was no sound except the drumming of rain on metal and the thundering beat of my heart. I peeled my aching hands from the steering wheel and gulped lungfuls of air, waiting impatiently for the imminent post-traumatic-experience heart attack. When it
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