Counting the Days

 

 

By now, eight X’s were on my Return to North Carolina calendar. Eight days had passed since the video chat with my father, when he had promised to come and save Leon and me in ten days. Two days were left.

During that time, several things had happened. Routines formed. Each weekday, my mom and Howard worked at his optometrist office, which was attached to the house. Mom did his accounting and billing. During business hours, patients were always parking in the driveway. I’d hear a car pulling in, and I allowed myself to hope that my dad had come a few days early to fetch Leon and Mom and me. Each time it was someone else, a total stranger, and another punch to my gut.

A kid can only take so many punches.

Howard’s electrician had finished rewiring my bedroom. During dinner one night, Tabitha told me I could continue to sleep in her room if I was too frightened to sleep on my own. “You know, because of the hundreds of ghosts haunting our house.”

Nice play, Shakespeare, I thought.

No way was I giving Tabitha gloating rights. Plus, when my dad showed up, I wanted him to know that I’d kept my promise to do my best. So I brave-faced it for Mom and the Mortons, and went up to my bedroom. “Sweet dreams, everybody,” I said.

That first night I was so petrified, I didn’t sleep more than a wink or two. Every time I heard a creaking sound somewhere in the house, or water rushing through pipes, I was certain ghosts were to blame. They were coming for me, getting closer.

During those days, perhaps the most spooky thing of all that happened was that nothing else spooky had happened. At least nothing spooky that I couldn’t blame on my worried mind, picturing ghosts in every corner of the house, in the closets and in the cabinets. No homicidal spirits. No desperate whispers. No disembodied footprints. Not even a freaky light show flickering on and off. Nothing.

Had I imagined it all? I couldn’t have.

On the ninth day, my fears were confirmed when something horrible happened. I was feeding Leon dog chow in his kennel when I heard my dad’s ringtone. The world brightened. “Hi, Daddy,” I answered.

“No, Bertie, this is Mrs. Ida.” Mrs. Ida was my father’s secretary. She had elaborate hair, a syrupy accent, and said “real-real” a lot. “Bertie, I’m real-real sorry, honeybunch, but your daddy just found out he has to remain in Los Angeles longer than expected.”

“What? He’s not coming to Pennsylvania tomorrow?”

“Afraid not. He’s real-real upset about it.”

My heart jumped into my throat. I could barely speak. “No! He promised me, Mrs. Ida. He triple-promised. I need to speak to him. It’s urgent.”

“He’s in court. Listen, Bertie, the case he’s litigating turned upside down on him, and he’s trying real-real hard to save the ship from sinking.”

I hated myself for breaking down on the phone to Mrs. Ida, but there was no fighting it. Tears fell as I burst into stuttering sobs. “Yeah, well, my ship is sinking too, Mrs. Ida. And I-I-I’ve been doing my best to do my best!”

“Of that, I have no doubt. I’ll give your daddy that message ASAP. He’ll call you just as soon as he’s able, okay? Hang in there, honeybunch.” Mrs. Ida said she was real-real sorry twice more, and the signal went dead.

A part of me died with it. At that moment, I had never felt more lost or alone. Even with Leon there, eating his chow. I wanted to smash my phone, and Mrs. Ida, and even my father. It would serve him right if an evil ghost scared me to death, or the creepy man down the street chopped me to pieces with his axe. At my funeral, my dad would shout, “If only I’d kept my promise to Bertie! My triple-promise!” He’d throw himself onto my casket, or something dramatic and wickedly watchable that would get twenty gazillion hits on YouTube.

Sleeving tears from my cheeks, I heard laughter. Then I spotted Mac and Tabitha in the front yard, happy as could be. My mood darkened even more.

“Hey! That’s my soccer ball” I yelled.

And that’s how it began. Five angry words I will never be able to take back.