Page 63 of Gone Tonight
“I got burned putting out a fire.”
He grew absolutely still. Then he leapt to his feet and walked around his desk to stare at my arm.
The shrink’s voice was just above a whisper. “Did your daughter set it?”
I had his full attention now. And I knew why: I watch a lot of crime shows.
When certain traits bump up against each other in a person, they can collectively point to warning indicators of a tendency toward deep violence.
I’d gone to the shrink for reassurance. I wanted him to confirm what I’d already told myself: It isn’t all that uncommon for an older kid to occasionally wet the bed—it certainly doesn’t mean they’ll grow up to do bad things. And what child isn’t transfixed by the sight of burning candles that turn an ordinary cake into a birthday extravaganza? Catherine merely took it a few steps further, by finding matches and lighting one before holding it to the wick of a eucalyptus-scented candle I’d bought to mask the musty smell of our apartment. It wasn’t Catherine’s fault the match wasn’t extinguished when she threw it into the trash. Or that when she saw the smoke coming from the plastic bin, she didn’t think to pour water onto it.
It wasn’t her fault,I told myself for the hundredth time. And I’m almost positive that fire was an accident.
The psychiatrist tried to keep me from leaving. He followed me all the way through the reception area. He said he wanted to get Catherine into a study one of his colleagues was conducting.
He wasn’t truly interested in helping.
To him, my daughter was a lab rat. A thing to be tested and studied and used.
I finally got away by promising him I’d come back next week, but of course I never did. And when I saw his number flash on my phone, I handed it to the cook at work and asked him to speak in Portuguese until the shrink gave up.
Satisfied the popcorn pot is clean, I lay it on the drainboard to dry, then pull my sleeves back down, covering the hairless patch of skin.
I walk to the living room window and gaze down at the parking lot. The Bonneville is gone, and I don’t know when Catherine will return.
I wonder if she has noticed that in all the years we’ve had the car, Ihave never once let the gas gauge dip below half full. No matter how tired or busy or broke I am, I always go directly to a gas station the moment the arrow nears that point.
It’s one of my safety rules.
I gaze outside for a while longer, but the view doesn’t change. Finally, I step away from the window and walk into my bedroom. I need to write more of my younger self’s story while I wait for Catherine to come home.
When Mike the trucker pulled up at an Exxon station early the next morning to fill his vehicle with diesel fuel, I gave Cookie a final goodbye pat.
I’d been riding with Mike for six hours. It was time to branch off.
He asked if I was sure I was going to be okay. I told him my aunt lived outside of Youngstown and was going to come pick me up.
Youngstown, Ohio, was fourteen miles away. I’d seen a sign for it before we’d pulled off the highway to get gas.
Mike nodded, but his expression told me he saw through my lie.
I waved and walked away briskly, like I was confident I knew where I was heading. I could see a McDonald’s a hundred or so yards away, so I went there, my duffle bag bumping against my leg with every other step.
I was grateful that even though the drive-through line was long, the fast-food restaurant was nearly empty when I stepped inside. I used the restroom, then washed up at the sink and tried to get the bloodstains out of my shorts. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a few tiny spots of Coach’s blood on my neck and face, like angry red freckles. I frantically scrubbed at them with a soggy paper towel until my skin felt raw.
I waited until I was certain Mike had filled up his truck and left. I needed a map to figure out where I was and where I wanted to go, and I figured my best luck would be at the Exxon station.
I kept my head low as I hurried out the side exit of the McDonald’s, then walked as quickly as I could back to the gas station, coughing as a rusty work van passed and spewed a thick puff of black exhaust in my face.
I wished I’d thought to pack a baseball cap or sunglasses, especially since the sun was rising. When I was little, I was afraid of the dark, but right now the shadows were my friends.
Inside the mini-mart, a tired-looking woman with permed blond hair was fitting boxes of cigarettes into the tall rows of a holder behind the cash register.
I cleared my throat and asked her if she knew where the nearest Greyhound station was.
She reached for a folded map next to the cash register and pushed it across the counter to me, saying she thought there was one in New Castle.
It took a minute to orient myself. We’d crossed the state line into Ohio, but just barely. Once I realized the small blue star drawn on the map represented the location of the Exxon station, I traced my finger to New Castle. It didn’t look terribly far.
