~ Romeo’s Quest

The engine in Henry’s 1998 yellow, rusted pickup truck roared like it was going to explode as he pulled up to the Amtrak station. The station was packed with families traveling, people hugging and crying and laughing. People were diving into the art of human connection.

It all made me uncomfortable.

I sat on top of my suitcase with Gabby’s wooden box in my lap. Running my fingers through my hair, I hoped to avoid the same connections that the rest of the world seemed in search of.

I was melting away in the black thigh-length dress I was wearing, and the night heat of the Wisconsin air crept up unwelcome under my legs. I was burning my butt off in the late night, but I hadn’t thought I would actually have to wait over an hour for Henry to pick me up. I should have known better, but alas. Sometimes I wondered if I would ever learn.

I waited for Henry to inch closer to the curb. His front tire rolled over an empty water bottle. I watched as the plastic bottle quivered under the pressure of the wheel and the cap popped off, flying across the sidewalk, landing against my foot. Pushing myself off my vintage floral case Mom had given me for my sixteenth birthday, I clicked the button and yanked the handle up, rolling the suitcase to the truck.

Ugh, does his car have to be so loud?

Henry hopped out of the car and walked around the front to greet me. His forest-green shirt was halfway tucked into his belted blue jeans. His left shoe was untied, and I could smell the small scent of tobacco resting against his beard, but for the most part, he looked good.

For a split second, he struggled with the idea of hugging me and longing to experience that same human connection the other people surrounding us were undertaking, but he changed his mind after watching me shift around in my heels.

A short chuckle left his lips. “Who wears a dress and high heels on a train?”

“They were Gabby’s favorite.”

The silence grew solid, and the swelling tide of memories started to fill my mind. Henry was probably remembering, too. Different memories of the same extraordinary girl.

“Is that all you have?” he asked, pointing toward my life that lived inside the suitcase. I didn’t reply. What a stupid question. Clearly that was everything. “Let me get that—” He stepped forward to grab for it and I hesitated.

“I got it.”

He sighed, running his hand through his peppered beard. He looked older than he should, but I imagined regret and guilt could do that to a person. “Okay.”

I tossed the suitcase into the back of his truck and walked to the passenger’s seat to climb in. Yanking at the door, I rolled my eyes. I shouldn’t have been surprised that his crap was broken down—Henry was a pro at broken and screwed up.

“Sorry, kiddo. That door has been giving me a bit of trouble. You can climb in from my side.”

My eyes effortlessly revolved again, and I walked to the driver’s seat, climbing in, hoping not to flash the passing cars with my underwear.

We drove in silence, and I imagined that this was what my next few months would be like. Awkward silences. Weird interactions. Odd crossings. Henry might have been the guy on my birth certificate, but when it came to being my father, he wasn’t known for his ability to show up.

“Sorry about the heat. The damn air conditioner went out last weekend. I didn’t expect this type of heat here. Did you know it’s supposed to get close to the hundreds later this week? Damn global warming,” Henry stated. I didn’t reply, so I guess he took it as an invite to keep talking. It wasn’t an invite of any sort. I really wished he wouldn’t try for the small talk. I hated small talk. “Gabby said you were working on a book, eh? I was able to get you into advanced English with a great teacher. I know people say that we hire the best of the best, but to be honest, there just happens to be a few dull nuts floating around.” He chuckled to himself.

Henry was the assistant principal at Edgewood High School, which would soon enough be my high school after these final days of summer vacation were over. The last one hundred and eighty days of my high school career would be spent with my biological father roaming the hallways. Perfect.

“It doesn’t matter, Henry.”

I saw him cringe when I called him by his first name, but what else was there to call him? ‘Dad’ seemed too personal, and ‘father’ seemed too—preachy. So Henry it was. I cracked my window down a bit, feeling overwhelmed by this new life filling my mind.

Henry glanced my way and cleared his throat. “Your mom mentioned you had bad panic attacks?”

I rolled my eyes as a sign of teenage angst. Truth was I had suffered from bad panic attacks ever since we’d found out that Gabby was sick. But there was no need for Henry to know about that.

He changed the subject…again. “We’re really happy that you’re coming to stay with us,” he said.

My head whipped toward him and my eyes discovered his until he looked back to the road. I remained as still as a tombstone, needing answers. “Who’s we?”

“Rebecca…”

Rebecca? Who’s Rebecca?

“…and her kids,” he muttered, clearing his throat in an unpleasant manner.

My shoulders rolled back and my eyes broadened. “How long have they lived with you?”

“For a little while.” His voice was mellifluous, begging me not to question the subject more in depth.

I didn’t care what he wanted. Also, I knew whenever his voice was smooth like it was that he was definitely lying.

“I mean, did they live with you before you called us for our birthday this year—three days late?” His silence answered my question. “What about last year? Did they live with you when you forgot to call for our birthday altogether?”

A discomfited mouth replied to me. “Shit, Ashlyn. What does it matter anyway? That’s in the past.”

“Yeah, and now it seems to be in my present.” I turned back in my seat, facing forward.

“Just a few months…” he whispered. “I’ve only lived with them for a few months.” After quite a few minutes of silence, he tried again to converse with me. “So what type of things are you into now?”

Feeling tired from the long train ride—and from my current state of life—I sighed, chipping at the tiny amount of black nail polish left from Gabby’s funeral. “Henry, we don’t have to do this. We don’t have to try to make up for lost time. After all, it’s lost. Ya know?”