Page 38 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

Nicole stops midrant and snaps her head in my direction. “What? What is it?”

“Beth,” Michael says, drawing his brows together.

“It’s Dad,” I say. “He’s alive.”

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

SUBJECT: LONG OVERDUE

Beth,

I’m sorry I haven’t written you in so long. Trust me. It was for the best that I stayed away. There are things I’ve done that I’m not proud of. Unspeakable things. But know that not a day has gone by that I don’t think about you, Nicole, Michael, and my Laura. I can’t believe she’s gone, and I’m so sorry I can’t be there for you all right now. I wish I could have been a better father, grandfather, and husband. But sometimes we’re not the people we want to be. We just are. I know you worry about me. But don’t. I am safe. I am well. And I’m closer than you think I am. Give Michael and Nicole my love. And please forget about me because I am not a man worth remembering.

Love,

Dad

TWENTY-ONE

BETH

I’ve always wanted Dad to write back to me and now that he has—I wish he hadn’t. I’m not sure why I ever thought I needed his words to begin with. Everything he had to say, he said when he walked out of our lives seven years ago. Michael sits on the other end of the couch with a fresh beer in hand, rotating it as if he’s actually reading the label. I’m not sure if he usually drinks this much or if this is out of the ordinary for him. But then again, grief is like an airport. There are no rules or social norms. You just do what you gotta do to pass the time until you reach your next destination. Nicole clutches my phone in her hand. Her brows are knitted together as she rereads the email over and over again.

“Why would he write you now after all these years?” she asks.

“Because Mom passed,” I say. That had to be the only reason why he’d choose to respond now. All of my other emails went unanswered.

Michael lifts his beer bottle and swigs. “Or he knew we found out.”

“How?” I look to Michael and then Nicole.

She lifts her head. “Maybe he thought Mom told us.”

I swallow hard as my mother’s words return to me.Your father. He didn’t disappear. Don’t trust...

Michael raises a brow. “Mom didn’t say anything to you before she passed, did she?” He’s staring at me.

Nicole is too now.

“No,” I lie again. I don’t know why I don’t just come out and tell them. But they weren’t here. They knew she was dying, and they still didn’t come, so they don’t deserve Mom’s last words.

A line from Dad’s email jumps to the front of my mind.I’m closer than you think I am.

It’s creepy. Or maybe it isn’t? I don’t know. The police figured he fled to Mexico given where his truck was found—a little over ten miles from the border. Now I’m not so sure. Mom’s words echo in my head.He didn’t disappear.And then Dad’s.I’m closer than you think I am.Maybe she knew he’d reach out after she passed. Maybe Mom was the one that kept him away.

I try to think back to when he left. I remember Mom coming to terms with the fact that he was gone rather quickly. She always tried to get me to stop looking for him and would say things like,If he wanted to be here, he would. It wasn’t like when Emma went missing. Susan, Eddie, and Lucas held out hope that she would return. They never stopped looking for her. But Mom stopped looking for Dad. Maybe because she knew exactly where he was this whole time, and she wanted him to stay there.

My eyes dart between Michael and Nicole again.

“She did say one thing.” The words fall out of my mouth. I only say it because I don’t think I can figure it out on my own. Perhaps they can help solve Mom’s riddle and Dad’s cryptic email. Michael’s smart. He’s always been the brains of the family. And Nicole sees things through a different lens, like the world is presented uniquely to her. If I put an apple in front of her face and asked her to describe it, she wouldn’t say it was red or shiny or round. She’d tell me about its natural wax, the layer of protection that slows down its decay. She’d point out a weak spot, perhaps discoloration or a bruised, mushy area caused by impact or too much compression. By the end, she wouldn’t even be describing the apple anymore.

Michael leans forward in his seat, squaring up with me in a way. “What did she tell you?”

Nicole purses her lips, holding in the words she clearly wants to yell at me. She crosses one leg over the other and bounces her foot, showing how little patience she has for me. They’re waiting for me to say more, to admit that I lied to them, and to reveal what exactly I lied to them about. This undercurrent is why we can’t trust each other.

“She said Dad didn’t disappear.” I leave out theDon’t trustpart, and I don’t know why I do. Maybe I want to keep it for myself. Something just for me. Or maybe I don’t want to lose hope that my dad is a good man.

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