Page 3 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

My cheeks burn. “Yeah, of course. It’s … well, I’m sure you know more than I do.”

The warmth of our reunion is gone. Our relationship has been reduced to a spiritless exchange of condolences. The gap in the conversation stretches into a chasm, both of us unwilling to reach our hand toward the other. “I’ll be at the search later.” He registers my blank expression. “Sungila Lake, up on the reservation.”

“I’m surprised the sheriff’s department and the tribal police kept their teeth away from each other’s necks long enough to organize a search party.”

“Makes two of us,” he says. “If my dad knew what was going on, he’d come look for her too. He’s always had a soft spot for your mom.”

“More like he always had a soft spot for her chokecherry pie.”

Connor smiles. He flashes both rows of teeth, and he’s charming enough to look like a movie star rather than a hyena. “It’s good to see you, Providence. The circumstances are shitty with your mom, but I didn’t think we’d get to see each other again.”

Get to, as if our paths intersecting today is a miracle. What about all the years that passed without a letter or a phone call? I’m not sure if he’s oblivious or insensitive. The bitterness rots inside me like a cavity, but I merely nod. I have the sense one slip of the tongue will sour the moment.

But the next question is one I can’t resist asking. “Do you think my sisters will be at the search?”

“I’m sure they will. They’ve been at all the others.”

“How are they? Do they look okay?”

“Grace is in my civics class this semester. She’s bright. A bit of a know-it-all, but bright. I think she’s planning to go to college next year, long as she stays out of trouble.” He’s pleased to provide me with these details, and I lap them up, a thirteen-year hunger for information about my sisters finally quelled with this scrap. It’s like the first hit of nicotine. It leaves me pining for more, more, more. “And Harmony, I don’t know much about her. She’s living in the old apartment building in Carey Gap. Remember those ugly blue ones? Engaged to some firefighter over in Box Butte County last I heard.”

The other questions I burn to ask are ones he cannot answer. Do they remember me? What I did? Have they forgiven me? Do they want to see me? What lies have my parents slandered me with? I have learned to live without my sisters the way an amputee learns to live without a limb, a once unfathomable absence turned normal. But I miss them. Harmony is now twenty-five, Grace seventeen. They have lived entire lives without me.

“And Zoe? Has she been there?” The name of my childhood sweetheart flies tactlessly off my tongue.

“Saw her at the first one, but not yesterday’s. You should go see her. Her office is in Carey Gap.”

“No, I don’t—”

“You’re not going to come all the way out here without seeing her.”

“We haven’t exactly kept in touch either.” My tone is too sour. The veiled insult makes him wince.

There is nothing left to say. Thirteen years and this is all we can manage? We exchange another hug, this one mercifully brief, before parting ways, only to realize we are both walking the same direction. I pretend to tie my shoe so we don’t have to walk together and strain to fill the empty space with small talk.I thank the receptionist at the front desk, who is still pecking away at her keyboard as she reassures someone on the phone.I understand your concern … Yes, ma’am, but … I understand, but …

There is a piece of paper wedged beneath my windshield wipers. Another ticket—just what I need. I cringe at the notion of a deputy running my plates and cataloging the tickets I’d racked up in Kansas City over the last few years. Then I burn hot with fury, remembering the countless 911 calls placed by me, my mother, even once by Harmony. The sheriff or one of his drudges strode in with the verve of superheroes to admonish my father and urge him to cut back on his drinking.The drink has a mean hold on your old man, one of them said to me as he bandaged a laceration on my arm, deep and jagged from a broken bottle.He needs your help to sober up.

But I unfold the sheet of paper to discover it’s not a ticket. It’s my mother’s missing poster. I didn’t realize when I looked at it before, but she is smiling in the picture. She looks beautiful. She almost looks happy.

I open my glovebox. I wrap the paper around the barrel of my gun.

CHAPTER

2

August 10th

3:04PM

INSTEAD OF FORGINGfurther south to Carey Gap and reacquainting myself with its ghosts, I head north to the Long Grass reservation. Exhaustion seeps into my bones as I cross the South Dakota state line. I cut west through the town of Long Grass, the largest settlement on the eponymous reservation, until I reach a double-wide mobile home with the Oglala Lakota flag hoisted above it, brilliant red beating against the cloudless sky.

The dogs tell me I have the right trailer. I’m halfway across the street when they charge up to the chain-link fence, ears pinned back, teeth bared. I read once that dogs can tell if you’re untrustworthy. These dogs could do with a bath and new collars, but look otherwise well cared for. No protruding ribcages. No matted fur. No sad eyes. Yet my throat still thickens with tears. I don’t do well around dogs.

A car honks. I’ve stopped in the middle of the street. I lift a hand to apologize, but the driver swerves around me and blazes through the stop sign.

“You can come through the gate. They don’t bite unless I tell ’em to.”

Sara Walking Elk calls to me from beneath the trailer’s awning. Her dark hair sways in the wind in a single limp sheet. Silver barbell piercings embellish her septum and the bridge of her nose. She pierces the air with a whistle. The dogs finally hide their fangs, though they still hold me hostage with their stares. I fixate my eyes on the clothesline in a neighbor’s yard. Never look an angry dog in the eyes.It’s the only meaningful piece of advice my father ever gave me.

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