Page 101 of Over & Out
“How did you find me?” I ask, proud of how steady I’m able to keep my voice.
His eyes droop, like he’s tired of holding them open. He looks thin. Maybe he’s sick.Good.
I should feel guilty about that, but all I feel is a deep, incandescent rage. That old rage and grief from when Mom was sick.Why her? Why the parent who loved andcared for me and told me I could leave all of this behind any time I wanted?
But then I see that notch in his nose. The misshapen dent in his left eye socket. A scarred stretch of skin across his jaw. My stomach turns like it always does when I see his face.
“I just want to talk,” he says. His voice sounds strange. He’s sober, I realize. The last few times I’ve heard him, it’s been over the phone. Slurred. Threatening. Pissed off. Now he’s sober, and his voice is eerily calm.
This is bad. Very bad.
“I’m going to ask again,” I say, moving to the top of the stairs. “How did you find this place?” My voice is loud now. Angry. Aggressive. It’s my knee-jerk reaction to him and the threats he brings. It’s the voice of the man who smashed a wall at a hotel. Of the man who, within an hour of Mom’s passing in that hospice bed, went outside and drove a car over a cliff. The tabloids don’t know about that one. I drove hard and fast on the empty freeway at two a.m., then took it off-road. I jumped out right before it went over. Then I watched as the car smashed into tree after tree before landing in a gully. I hoped it would burst into flame, even though I, of all people, know things like that only happen in the movies. Mabel took care of that little incident, just like she takes care of everything. We chalked my injuries up to me doing my own stunts.
“Does it matter?” my father asks now. He takes a step toward me, but I hold my hand up.
I guess it doesn’t matter. “You can tell me whatever it is you came here to say from right there.”
A wind blows then, lifting his thinning hair from his forehead. He was so vain about his hair when I was a kid. He got the hair people on set to do his too so people could snap “candid” pictures of us together and remark on how I got my looks from my father.
I hate that about myself. I hate that I look like him.
He moves like he’s going to fold his arms, but drops them straight at his sides again. He keeps his eyes on me. “I wanted to tell you that you can stop sending the money, Hopper.”
My stomach plunges. There’s only one reason he’d do that. Because he thinks he’ll get a bigger payday somewhere else. Mabel’s speculation about him gearing up for a lawsuit must be true.He has a case, Hopper, she told me. We didn’t properly sever our relationship or the contract he had some shady-ass lawyer draw up. He was entitled to a large portion of my earnings we never paid him.
But it’s not the manager business where his strongest case lies. It’s with something else. Something that’s hung around me like a disease. Something that could easily end my career. Worse, something that could rip Chris away from me.
“So why are you here? Why aren’t I being served right now?”
“Because—” he starts. But he’s interrupted by the sound of an engine.
My already heavy stomach bottoms out as Chris’s car pulls into the driveway.
“Fuck,” I say out loud, the word choked. My heart thuds in my chest, beating painfully, like it’s already bruised. “Go now. I’ll find you.”
He’s going to tell her. He’s going to tell her and she’s going to leave me. Then he’s going to serve me. He’s not warning me. He’s driving the screws in first.
“Please, just fucking leave,” I say, hating the pleading in my voice. “You can do whatever you need to do. Just let me talk to her first.”
My father’s eyes snap to mine. I see a muscle in his jaw twitch.
Chris pulls up in the little car she won’t let me replace. She slams the door as she gets out, smiling at my father. “Hi,” she says in her sweet, cheerful voice. She doesn’t know who he is. Her smile drops when she comes within a few feet of him.
She looks at me. Then at him. Then her eyes widen as she understands what’s happening. “You must be Hopper’s father,” she says, her voice neutral.
“Carl,” my father says. He reaches his hand out.
“No!” I boom. “Don’t you fucking touch her.” I run down the steps, grabbing Chris’s hand.
She opens her mouth as if to argue, then snaps it shut again as I plead with her with my eyes.Please, sweetheart. I’ll tell you everything. Even if you hate me, I’ll tell you everything. Just stay far, far away from him.
“I’m not diseased, Hopper,” my father says, his tone sounding more like the one I remember.
“Yes you are,” I say. “You’re a fucking scourge.” I’m shaking. Sweating.
“Hopper!” Chris says. I’m holding her hand too tightly.
“I’m sorry,” I say, chest tight.
