It’s been seven months since the woman who birthed me crumbled my family’s foundation, destroyed my home’s illusion of sanctuary, and shattered the maternal bond between us.
Work leaves little time for my dad to be a single parent of two emotionally disturbed preteens. But on this overcast Friday evening in August, Dad is taking us to our first concert. After saving and working hard to earn the tickets we’re going to watch a new popular group perform in Cincinnati. The anticipation in our house has been building all day as we do our daily chores. The tasks do little to remove the dirty feeling this tainted house leaves on my skin. But, the excitement is contagious and we’re smiling more than normal. The smiles are filled with healing, and with each burst of laughter a scar disappears.
A car door slams outside. I run to a tall window in the dining room and watch Dad as he walks away from his red Jeep and opens our front gate. The first few drops of rain sprinkle to the sidewalk and leave stains in the dust where they land. I can smell the rain on the nearby Ohio River.
Let it rain. I think to myself. Nothing can dampen my spirits today.
Dad prepares himself with a beard trim, a clean shirt, and a quick meal. We follow him every step of the way, eager to be on our way and needy for his attention. In moments we load into the Jeep to begin our journey. I sit in the back, spreading myself out on the smoke stained gray interior. There are loose ashes from the tip of my dad’s many smoked cigarettes on the floor boards and several small black burns on the ceiling. As we approach the dead end at the top of our hill and prepare to make a left turn I see a familiar friend carrying a football helmet approach our Jeep from the right.I assume that his practice is canceled because of the weather. As the boy waves my Dad rolls down the window and offers him a ride. Why not? His house is on the way, and we don’t want him walking in the rain on our exciting day.
“They canceled practice because David upset all the kids. He was telling them that the girl that lives across the street from him killed herself.” He explains to me while my dad makes the left turn he’s been waiting for.
The shock of his statement freezes me while my brain scrambles to make sense of the information. “Well, that can’t be. The only house across the street from David is Danielle’s. I just stayed the night with her last night and she was fine. What a sick joke!” And that was that. Nothing more than a sick joke.
“He said he saw a body bag and everything, and there’s cops everywhere!” The boy continues to explain. But, we’ve reached his stop and there’s no more time for his sick jokes on my big day. Besides, we’ll pass Danielle’s house on the way and seeing her front law free of police officers will settle my mind so that I can enjoy our family festivities.
Moments later as we cruise down High Way Avenue I pay careful attention to the house on the right at the top of the hill. It’s a two story with a wraparound porch, two front doors, and a large Maple tree to its left. Several black and white Crown Victorians are smeared along the curb at the bottom of the hill. The red and blue lights reflect on the wet surfaces.
“Stop! Daddy, stop, stop! Please stop!” My screaming crescendos. He slows to the curb and I leap to the sidewalk before the stop is complete. Ignoring the outstretched arms of a police officer and ducking under the yellow tape, I bound up the steps leading me to the brick house on top of the hill and rush through the front door.
Sitting there on Danielle’s couch is a tall, skinny man. He’s in his late thirties and wears a black suit. The man stands as I take a couple of steps toward him. “What’s going on? Why are you here? Where’s Danielle?” He doesn’t answer me.
“Are you a friend of Danielle’s?” I nod to his question and he asks me join him outside. We stepped onto the cracked, uneven concrete of the front porch and he begins to explain. I notice Danielle’s guardian, her great Uncle. He’s sitting, crying, and staring off in the corner. The man is telling me that he’s a detective, but my mind refuses to give him my full attention. My eyes graze over the faces of those around us. Dad’s mouth hangs open in shock, his black hair moves slightly with the breeze. My brother has his eyes on the ground, and fidgets with discomfort, and the sprinkling of police officers stare at the detective and I. His words all blend together. “Investigating the death of…”, “Found in the basement…”
I feel dizzy. Turning from the detective I take several steps toward my dad who’s near the large maple and fall to my knees. I drag myself across the wet walkway towards the small windows that line the base of the left side of the house. The sidewalk has a rough texture and peels the skin away from my knees, but I don’t notice. I hear myself screaming her name, and I hope to see her smiling and waving on the other side of the glass. But while I’m still several feet away an officers hands find my waist and carrys me back to the front yard.
I fall, screaming, to my father’s feet as the world goes black.
This sentence comes right out of the blue. You mentioned that he was walking home, and that somewhat signifies a hint to the reader that practice was canceled, but it's not enough. You could say something about her Dad turning back, or the boy mentioning that practice was suspended.