Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [72]
Any time now Ashton Kutcher would jump out
because I was being Punk’d, I just knew it. Trish maintained a bland expression.
“No fucking way.”
“Doug is too proud to ask you for help.”
“He made it crystal clear he didn’t trust me and he 254
didn’t want my help.”
“But I do. I need your help.” She sucked in a mouthful of smoke and exhaled slowly. “Doug doesn’t have to know.”
“You want me to lie and sneak around?”
“Yep.”
“Even if that lying and sneaking around reveals Dad killed Canter?”
“He didn’t.”
I stared at her giving her, a chance to recant. She continued on, “I know you think the worst of him.”
“Can you blame me?”
“No. That’s why I’ve never pushed you to be part of his life. Which is why I’m confused you’re willingly spending time with Brittney.”
I shrugged.
“I’m not making excuses for his behavior, or offering explanations or apologies that aren’t mine to give. But you have no idea how much he regrets what he did to you after your mother was killed.”
I sparked a cigarette and realized one already smoldered in the ashtray.
“People lost in grief . . . everyone reacts differently. Some shut down. Some drink. Some become crusaders and some . . .” Trish’s hazel eyes sought mine.
“Some people lash out. With words or with—”
“—fists, or hangers, or whatever is handy?”
“Even that.”
255
“Bullshit.”
“Your mother’s death devastated him.”
“Please. He wasn’t the only one, but you didn’t see me whipping off my belt and using it on him to express my grief.”
“He would’ve taken attention of any kind from you, Julie.”
My mouth dropped open. “What the fuck are you babbling about?”
“Did you ever consider that he had no one to talk to? No clergyman. No extended family. You had Ben. And Kevin.”
She was a fool. Dad could’ve talked to me, but instead he let his fists do the talking. And it didn’t change the fact he’d started hitting me before Mom died, right around the time Ben showed up, so he had Trish completely fucking snowed. Jesus. How could she be so blind when it came to him?
“Every time he looked at you, he saw her, what he’d lost, and it was almost more than he could take.”
Again, if Dad loved my mother so much, and I reminded him of her, it made even less sense that he beat me.
“In all the years we’ve been married, I’ve never heard Doug speak her name. Not once.” She expelled a bitter snort. “The great love of his life and I didn’t know her name until I ran across their marriage certificate in the safe.”
I’d never considered that; I hadn’t heard her name 256
either, not since the day I’d seen him crying as he’d repeated it over and over in absolute agony. She’d been just Mom to me. But Dad called her . . . not her real name, Annika, but a nickname . . .
Anka.
My breath stalled.
A memory floated in, an image of my father, looking up when my mother entered the room, absolute adoration in his eyes. Tugging her onto his lap as she laughed. Him peppering her face with kisses, repeating, “My Anka, my sweet, sweet Anka.” Then more kissing and mommy/daddy stuff that made me flee the room with my crayons and coloring book.
How in the hell had I forgotten that?
Because you’ve blocked out the good and the bad memories. A sanctimonious voice countered: Yeah? Well, it’s his fault because the mean bastard sullied them all. Hello, Bipolar Disorder.
Trish continued, “Your middle name is after her?”
“A shortened version.” Childish, but I couldn’t stand to hear Trish say her name. Ever. “Look, we’re off track. What is it you want from me, Trish?”
“Help in figuring out what is going on.”
“And if I don’t want to help?”
“You will.”
“Why would you think that?”
“You’re not as coldhearted as you want me and everyone else to believe.”
I squirmed. She was wrong. What would it take 257
to prove I really wasn’t like everyone else? Or anyone she knew? That I always followed my own agenda, be it good or bad?
The bell above the front door jangled and for some reason I looked up and saw Tony amble in.
Speaking of bad . . . how had he found me so fast?
Jimmer. That rat bastard.