The Ghost Runner (4 page)

T
he realization that I might've died up there on the trail—and that it wasn't the first time—doesn't fully hit me until the next morning as I'm getting ready for class. And the reminder that my father is in town doesn't hit me until then either, when I listen to the three messages he'd left on my voice mail.

I'd spent the whole night at Alex's place, curled up with him and his many rescue animals—two dogs, two cats, and a rabbit. I held the bunny on my lap in Alex's tiny kitchen while he made dinner for me, and afterward we walked the dogs, then came home and snuggled up with the cats. And with each other. The animals weren't very happy about that. One of the cats bit Alex on the arm when he began kissing me, and he had to give her some catnip so she'd leave us alone.

It was the best evening I've had in a long time, and being there with Alex made it easy to forget a lot of things.

Like the fact that I almost lost my life … again.

And the fact that my father is in town.

And the fact that I have a paper due in less than two hours.

~

I rush to the computer lab before class and write furiously. I suppose I am lucky, in a way, to have so many concerns about the environment—it means that everything I need to write this ten-page paper is at my fingertips. And while it's a depressing topic—I write about factory farms and how they pollute the air and water—it also feels surprisingly good to write about being a vegan; it makes me feel that there
is
a way I can help the planet, even in my own small way.

But most of all, I rush through my essay because I want to see Lucy before class begins. I still feel bad about having left her so suddenly that day my dad showed up—I can't believe it was only two days ago—and I worry that she's mad at me, that I've lost the only girlfriend I've had in years.

I arrive early and hang around in the hall. The other students show up, give me funny looks, and walk past me into the classroom. It's almost time for the class to start—still no Lucy.

Finally she strolls down the hall, slowing a bit when she sees me standing there. She gives me a snarky look. “Well, well, well,” she says. “If it isn't my long-lost study buddy.”

“I'm sorry I left so fast,” I tell her. “I wanted to explain, but I didn't know how to reach you.”

She shrugs. “Don't bother. It's better if I fail these classes on my own.”

She starts to walk past me, but I step in front of her. “You know that guy you saw staring at me? It was my father—who I haven't seen in almost a year. He showed up out of nowhere. And the last time I saw him—” I stop.
“Well, it wasn't good. We had a really bad fight.”

She looks at me. “Seriously?”

I nod. It feels good to be telling someone about it. “I didn't know what to do—I just had to get out of there. And he keeps calling me, wanting to get together.”

“What's the problem, exactly?”

“It's kind of a long story.”

“Well, is he dangerous?”

“I don't know. Probably not.”

“Probably? What does he want?”

“He says he wants to have dinner, to talk.”

She studies me for a moment. “I don't know anything about him—and I don't know much about you either, come to think of it—but if you're scared of him, call the cops. If you're not, meet him in a public place and see what he wants. Otherwise, he'll just drive you insane.”

This actually makes sense. “Maybe you're right.”

“Not to mention he'll keep interrupting our study sessions. It was a pain in the ass to write that paper by myself, you know.”

I smile at her. “Sorry. How can I make it up to you?”

She begins to smile back, but in a wily sort of way, and I say, “No way. I can't audition with you.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I told you—I'm not an actor.”

“Let the director be the judge of that.”

Professor Lindquist pokes his head out the door, saving me from telling her that I'd rather be eaten by vampires than audition for a play. “Ladies? Planning on joining us today?”

“Yes,” I answer, and I grab Lucy's arm and drag her inside with me.

~

I decide that Lucy is right, that I can't live in fear of the unknown any longer. So, finally, I return my father's phone call.

He suggests taking me to Encore, the fancy steakhouse where Roman took me on our first date. I remind my father that I don't eat meat, expecting the usual lecture about how un-American it is, how no child of Texas turns her back on meat, but instead he says, with hardly a pause, “You pick the place. We'll go wherever you want.”

I choose an Italian restaurant in the center of town, the busiest place I know. As Lucy suggested, I want a crowd around me—witnesses. I thought about inviting Alex or David or even Lucy, just for safety, but then I realize that this is something I need to do on my own. I need to see him face-to-face, to hear what he has to say, and if I tell anyone I'm meeting him, they'll only cloud my judgment, or talk me out of it.

And I also realize that I have questions for him, too. Questions that might help me put the past behind me, once and for all.

I'm waiting in front of the restaurant when I see him walking toward me with a smile. It's an expression I don't recognize—he hardly ever smiles, and when he does, it isn't a smile that welcomes you but a smile that tells you something awful is about to happen, that he's about to throw a beer bottle or a punch.

But now he looks genuinely friendly—at least, that's how he'd seem to someone who doesn't know better.

“Thanks for meeting me, Katie,” he says. “I'm really glad we have a chance to talk.”

I open the door to the restaurant, which is as crowded and noisy as I'd hoped. I've put my name in already, hoping to be seated as quickly as possible; I don't want the evening to last any longer than it needs to. A hostess takes us to a table in the corner.

When a waiter asks if we'd like anything to drink, I'm stunned when my father asks for nothing but water. I remember him only as a loud, boorish drunk of a man—a man bearing no resemblance to the calm, composed person in front of me now, smiling up at the waiter. Is it possible that he's changed?

I look down and pretend to study my menu.
No
, I tell myself,
it's not possible
. People do not change—take Roman, for example. He may not be exactly human, but he's certainly a testament to the fact that you are who you are, no matter what.

Then I remind myself that Alex used to be just like Roman, and I find myself wavering again. If Alex could change his dangerous ways, can't anyone?

My father and I order our food, and then I look him in the eye. He meets my gaze, and his eyes, for once, are not bloodshot or angry. I don't know what to say, where to begin—the fact that he is sitting here in front of me is strange enough. Then he reaches into his pocket and puts something on the table in front of me.

It's a necklace, and all I can do is stare at it in amazement. It's lovely—a semi-translucent globe, made of some sort of light-green polished stone, suspended by a silver necklace that looks handmade. There's something familiar about it, and I wonder if I've seen it in a jewelry shop in town.

“What's this?” I ask, wanting to know what the catch is.

“It used to be your mom's.”

I look up at him, then back at the necklace. I close my eyes, trying to remember. Mom did have a necklace that she wore a lot when I was young—the only piece of jewelry she had. I remember that I'd feel a hard knot under her sweater in the wintertime—about the same size as this stone—and then I think of her in the summer, in her T-shirts and sundresses, and suddenly I remember the way the stone would capture the light, the way the summer rays would bring out the yellow woven through it until the stone glowed like a tiny sun.

I open my eyes again. I look at the stone, at the delicate chain, the swirls of silver that compose the clasp. I touch my fingers to the stone and imagine it resting on my mother's neck.

“It's serpentine,” my father says. “You can find it in lots of the old rocks up in the hills. The natives used to carry it around because they thought it had mystical powers.”

“Is that why Mom wore it?”

“I'm not sure,” he says. “She told me it was in her family forever. Said it gave her luck.”

“I guess she wasn't wearing it that night.”

“No,” he says. “I found it later. Glad I kept it. She would've wanted you to have it.”

“This is for me?”

“It's for you.”

I pick it up and hold it in my hand. My father has never given me anything—ever.

“Dad, what are you doing here?”

He doesn't look surprised to hear me ask. In fact, he almost looks relieved. “I came to see you, of course.”

“Why, to have me locked up?”

“Why would I do that?”

I'm starting to wonder if that night in Houston had been nothing but a bad dream. Then it strikes me that maybe, because he'd been drunk and injured, he himself didn't know exactly what happened.

“Dad,” I say, “do you know why I left?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“I shot you.” The words don't come easily, but I have to say this out loud, just to make sure we understand each other.

“I know that,” he says, “and, Katie, I deserved it. And I sure don't deserve to be alive right now, the way I treated you back then. That night, I was drunk and I was dangerous. You had every right to take that gun away from me, and I had no right to attack you. When I came to in the hospital and remembered what happened, how screwed up my life had become, how bad I treated you, I knew things had to change. I had to get my life together.” He takes a drink of water. “And so I did. I sobered up. I got a job. I started to pay off the credit cards, even put a bit away. Then I set out to find you.”

“That investigator,” I say. “You hired him, didn't you?”

“Yep. And he found you, all right. Your boyfriend Roman gave him a hell of a scare.”

“Roman's not my boyfriend.”

“Oh?”

“Not anymore,” I say. Then, just so he'll know that I do have someone looking out for me, I add, “I'm with someone else now.”

“Really? My, my, you sure have taken this town by storm.” He smiles. “I'd love to meet him sometime.”

“I don't think so.”

“That's fine, too. Whatever you want. What I most want is to spend time with you.”

“Why? You've never wanted that in your life.”

“I want to be a better father before it's too late. Heck, it's already too late. Look at you. You're all grown up, with a job and school and boyfriends lining up out the door.”

I'm not sure how to interpret all this. I hate the fact that everything he knows about me comes from having an investigator follow me around, and I hate the fact that no matter what I do, I can't seem to outrun him. I feel long-dormant anger bubbling below the surface, and I can't bring myself to smile in return.

“Did you
ever
love Mom?” I ask. “Or me, for that matter?”

His face clouds over. “Of course I did. I know I did a lousy job of showing it. You may be grown up, but you're still too young to understand what it's like—losing a job, having people to support, not knowing how. After I lost that last logging job I didn't know what to do. I never should've turned to the bottle, and I'll regret that the rest of my life.”

“I do know what it's like to struggle, Dad,” I tell him. “I've had to do that my whole life, thanks to you.”

“I know, Katie. I could ask you to forgive me until my dying days, and if I have to, I will. But I hope you can forgive me sometime before that. I'd really like to have a second chance.”

“You're long past second chances, Dad.”

“I know,” he says. “I'll settle for any chance.”

Our food arrives, saving me from having to answer. I notice that he's ordered the same meal I'm having—angel hair pasta in marinara sauce—which is a surprise for someone who's always been a meat-and-potatoes guy. I still don't know what to say, so I focus on my pasta. I know that, from the outside looking in, we're a perfectly normal pair—a father and daughter having a meal together. But from the inside looking out, I can't help but search for my father's motive, for the angle that he's playing. With my father, there's always an angle.

So I decide that I should just ask. “How long will you be in town?”

“As long as it takes.”

“For what?”

“For us to be a family again.”

I put down my fork. “You've got to be kidding.”

“I'm not, Katie. I gave up the apartment in Houston, sold a bunch of stuff so I could come out here. I've got a little apartment I'm renting in town. Ain't much to look at, just a temporary place. And I'm going to get a job.”

Suddenly I feel the way I had in Houston—stifled. “I came here to be on my own,” I tell him. “To start a new life. What if I don't want you here?”

“Then I'll leave. You just say the word.”

“Really?”

“I promise.”

Not that his promises mean anything. But just hearing him say it makes me feel a little better. As if I really do have control over my own life for once.

“I know I've got to earn back your trust,” he says. “And I aim to do just that. But only so long as you're okay with it.”

“I guess we'll see how it goes.” I pick at my pasta. “What are you going to do for work?”

“I guess I'll look for something in construction. Worked for me back then, before those damned environmentalists put me out of work.”

“You know,
I'm
an environmentalist,” I say.