Stripped (5 page)

I can’t breathe for the sobs, for the raw weight of grief. Mama is dead. She was the only one who understood me. She was my intercessor between me and Daddy. When he wouldn’t listen, she would talk to him for me. Sometimes I wonder if Daddy even likes me. I mean, he’s my father, so I know he feels the patriarchal emotion of protective love, but does he
like
me? For who I am? Does he understand me? Has he ever tried?
 

And now the only person who’s ever understood me is gone. Gone.
 

“Pull over, please.” I’m scrambling to a sitting position, scrabbling at the window button, at the locked door. “I’m gonna puke—”

He’s over the rumble strip and on the gravel shoulder and slowing enough for me to lunge out of the still-moving car and into the tall, scratchy grass at the roadside. Vomit pours from me like a hot flood, burning my throat, convulsing my stomach. My eyes water as wave after wave gushes through me, and my nose drips. Daddy doesn’t help me, doesn’t hold my hair back. He just watches me from the driver’s seat, the engine idling. A Michael W. Smith song plays softly from the speakers, floating to me from the open door. “The Giving.” I hate that song. I’ve always hated that song. He knows I hate that song.
 

I kneel on the gravel and the grass, heaving, panting. I stare over my shoulder at him. The grief in his eyes is like knives. But it’s lonely grief. He’s in his own world.

So am I.

I spit bile, wipe my face on my sleeve, and kick the back door shut. I slide into the front passenger seat, click my seat belt in place, and then angrily punch the stereo off.

“Grey, I was listening to that.”

“I hate that song. You
know
I hate that song.”

He calmly taps the CD player back on and touches a button to skip the song. “It’s my car. I’ll listen to what I want.” He hasn’t skipped the song, it turns out. He skipped back to start it over. Even in the midst of grief, he still has to be completely in control.

The car is still stopped, so I unlatch my belt and shove the door open. “Fine. Then I’ll walk.”

“It’s five miles, Grey. Get in.”
 

Something explodes inside me. I turn to him and snarl; it’s an animalistic, guttural, wordless growl. “Fuck you,” I say.
 

He actually gasps. “Grey Leanne Amundsen—”

I ignore him and start walking. A car passes by with a loud
whoosh
and a belated gust of cool wind. He gets out and cajoles and pleads and commands. Then he tries to manhandle me into the car. His arm goes around my waist, and he drags me to the passenger door. I stomp on his instep, jerk free from his grip, and then—before I know I intend to do so—I punch him in the jaw. My fist clenches on its own and flashes out, connects with his cheek. He stumbles backward, more surprised than hurt. My hand aches. I don’t care.

“What’s God’s plan now, Daddy? Why? Why did he let this happen? Tell me, Daddy! Tell me!” I’m slamming my fists on his back.
 

He catches my hands in his. “Stop, Grey. Stop. STOP! I don’t know! I don’t—I don’t know. Just get in the car and we’ll talk about it.”

I wrench my hands free. “I don’t want to talk about it. Just leave me alone.” I say it calmly. Too calmly. “Just…leave me alone.”

And…he does. He drives away, leaving me on the side of a highway, miles from anywhere. In that moment, I hate him. I didn’t think he’d just leave me here even if I did get out of the car. Another sob slips from me, and then another, and then I’m bawling again. Miles pass under my feet slowly, so slowly. Eventually I call Devin, my closest friend, and she comes to pick me up.

She’s my closest friend, other than Mom.
 

Who’s dead. It hits me all over again.

I slip into Devin’s car and slump forward against the dashboard. “She-she-she’s gone, Devin. She died. Mama died.”

“I’m so sorry, honey. I’m so sorry, Grey.” She leaves the radio off and pulls away off the shoulder, back onto the highway heading away from the Medical Center of Central Georgia
 
and out to where we live.
 

Devin lets me cry for a long time before she speaks. “Why were you walkin’ on the side of the highway?” Devin has the perfect southern belle accent down pat. She cultivates it, I think. I’m always trying to sound less like a mid-Georgia hick, but the accent creeps in sometimes.
 

“I got in a fight with Daddy. He…he always has to be in charge. You know? Everything, all the time. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. Everything has to be
his
way. Even when we were fighting, he had to control what I did and what I said and what I felt.” I sniffled. “I…I think I hate him, Dev. I do. I know he’s my Daddy and I should love him, but he’s just…he’s a jerk.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Grey. From everything you’ve told me, he is kind of a jerk.” She glances over her shoulder as she changes lanes, and shoots me a sympathetic smile. “You want to stay with me for a while? Momma and Daddy won’t mind.”

“Could I?”

“Let’s grab your stuff,” Devin says, trying to be cheerful.

Daddy is in his study with the door closed. That tells me a lot; Daddy never, ever closes the door to his study unless he’s really upset or “deep in prayer.”
 

I pack a bunch of clothes and my toiletries in a bag, grab my duffle bag of dance gear, my stash of allowance cash from the drawer of my desk. I look around my room, and it feels like it’s for the last time. On impulse, I snatch my iPod and charger off the desk along with the charger for my phone. I go back to my closet and shove all my clothes into the suitcase, bras, panties, dresses, skirts, blouses, heels, sandals, all of it shoved into the Samsonite case until it’s overflowing and I have to sit on it to get it closed. I had planned to pack more thoroughly but for some reason I just know. This is it. The end.
 

I take in the posters of various dancers on my walls, the Broadway playbills from the trip to New York Mom and I went on for my sweet sixteen…it all seems juvenile. The room of a child. A little girl. There’s even a shelf in one corner full of American Girl dolls from my childhood, all dressed neatly and sitting in a row.
 

One last glance. My framed photo of Mom and me in Times Square goes in my purse. She looked so happy there, and so did I. That trip is what inspired my love of dance.
 

My dance bag is slung over my shoulder as I pull the suitcase down the stairs. The wheels thump from step to step until I’m on the landing. The front door is before me and the closed French doors of Daddy’s study to my left. One of them swings open and Daddy fills the space, eyes red-rimmed, face haggard.

“Where are you going, Grey?” His voice is hoarse.

“Devin’s.” I hold up the acceptance letter for USC, the envelope with my room assignment, my new roommate’s information, check-in instructions. “And then L.A. I’m leaving for college next week.”

“No, you’re not. We’re a family. We need to stick together during this trying time.” He tries to step closer to me, and I back away. “Your mother just died, Grey. You can’t leave now.”

I huff a disbelieving laugh. “I
know
she died. I was
there!
I watched—I watched her die. I have to go—I have to get out of here. I can’t stay here. I don’t belong here.”

“Grey, come on. You’re my daughter. I love you. Please…don’t go.” His eyes are wet. Watching him cry hurts but doesn’t change the fact that I hate him.
 

“If you loved me so much, why’d you leave me on the side of the highway?” I know it’s not fair, but I just don’t care.

“You refused to get in the car! What was I supposed to do? You
punched
me!” He slumps to the side against the closed door, resting his head on the wood. A tear slides down his cheek. “She was my
wife
, Grey. I’ve been with her since I was seventeen. I lost my
wife
.”

I tip my head back, trying not to cry again. “I know, Daddy. I know.”

“So stay. Please stay.”

“No. I…can’t. I just can’t.” I hold the strap of my purple-patterned Vera Bradley purse in my hands and twist.

“Why not?”

I shake my head. “I just can’t. You don’t understand me. You don’t know anything about me. I know she was your wife, and I know you’re hurting just as much as me. But…without her, I don’t know what to do. She made this family work. Without her…we’re just two people who don’t understand each other.”

He seems so confused. “But…Grey…you’re my daughter. Of course I understand you.”

“Then why do I like to dance?”

He seems puzzled by the question. “Because you’re a girl. Girls like to dance. It’s just a phase.”

I have to laugh out loud. “God, Daddy. You’re such an idiot. Because I’m a girl? Really?” I groan in disgust and hike my dance bag back on my shoulder. “That’s exactly what I mean. You don’t understand the first thing about me. I’m just like Mama used to be before she married you. You know that. And that’s what bothers you about me. She was this free and wild dancer, and she married you and she changed for you. I won’t do that. That was her choice, and that’s fine. For her. But it’s not my choice. I don’t want to be a pastor’s wife, Daddy. I don’t want to go to prayer meeting every Wednesday, two services on Sunday mornings and small groups on Mondays and women’s Bible study on Thursdays. That’s not my life. I don’t even
like
church. I never have.” I let that sink in, and then I drop the real bomb: “I don’t believe in God.”

Daddy’s lip curls in horror. “Grey, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re upset. It’s understandable, but you can’t say these things.”

I want to scream in frustration. “Daddy, yes, I’m upset, but I know exactly what I’m saying. This is stuff I’ve wanted to say for
years
. I just haven’t because I didn’t want to upset Mom. I didn’t want to fight. I’m basically an adult, and I…I don’t have anything else to lose.”
 

“Grey, you’re eighteen. You think you’re an adult, but you’re not. You’ve never worked a day in your life. Your clothes, your manicures, your dance classes, everything, it’s all paid for by the generosity of the congregation…the church that
I
built on my own. I started with six people in the back of a restaurant in 1975. You wouldn’t last a day on your own.”

Wrong thing to say. “Watch me.” I pick up my suitcase and extend the handle, tip it onto its wheels, grunting as the weight nearly topples me over.
 

Daddy moves in front of the door. “You’re not leaving, Grey.”

“Get out of the way, Daddy.”
 

“No.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

I set the suitcase upright and rub my forehead with the back of my wrist. “Just let me go.”

“No.” He seems to swell, to take strength from defying me. “You’re not going to that Babylon. Los Angeles is the home of…of…prostitutes and homosexuals. You’re not going there. You’re not leaving.”

“Daddy, be reasonable.” I try the cajoling method. “Please. You’ve known this is what I’ve wanted since before Mama got sick.”
 

 
“You’re not leaving. That’s final.”

I do scream then, an enraged howl. “God, you’re so mother
fucking
stubborn!” I want to shock him with my vulgarity; I don’t like swearing, but I want to make him angry. “Just move out of the way!”

I shove at him, and he moves. I’m a tall girl, strong from dance. He stumbles to the side and I throw open the door so hard it smashes into the wall, cracking the plaster and knocking off-true a framed picture of Mama and Daddy when they were young, before me.
 

He grabs the frame of the open front door, sagging against it. “Grey…please. Don’t leave me.”

I want to love him. I want him to be the daddy I need, the kind that hugs me and holds me close. The kind that comforts me. My mother, his wife, is dead. We’ve both lost her. But instead of bringing us together, it’s fracturing us.
 

Devin stands there horrified, just outside the door. She grabs my suitcase and hurries to the car, pops the trunk, and heaves in the heavy black case. I follow after her, stopping as I stand in the open door of the car, about to duck in. I stare back at my father over the blue fabric of the ragtop convertible roof. He stands in the doorway, looking lost. I almost go back. Almost.

“Goodbye, Daddy.” It’s the last attempt.

He rallies, takes a step toward me, resolve hardening in his eyes. “Grey, please. Don’t break us apart like this. Don’t do this to us.”

“How can you turn this back on me? I’m not going away forever. I’m just going to college, Daddy. I…I’m just doing what’s right for me. Please try to understand.”

“If you leave this house, you’ve made your choice. If you leave, you’ll be willfully choosing sin.”

“It’s not sin! It’s my life. Why can’t you be reasonable?”

He clenches his fists, straightens his back. “I am being reasonable. Come back in and we’ll discuss your options.”

“I have to go, Daddy. I have to.” I go back, stand in front of him. “I love you. I know…I know we’ve had our differences, but…I love you.”

“Are you staying, then?” He takes my hand, the iron in his gaze softening every so slightly.
 

I pull my hand away. “No. I have to go.”

“Then you’ve made your choice. “Goodbye, Grey.” He turns away from me and closes the door without a backward glance.

And just like that, I’m alone in the world.

Chapter 4

I go to the funeral. Of course I do. Devin takes me. She holds my hand, wraps her tiny arm around my waist, and holds me up when they lower the coffin into the ground. During the viewing I sit with Devin, far away from my father. He doesn’t look at me. Not once. He acted so strong during the viewing and the service, like he was a pillar of Godly faith and perfection. I hate him.
 

I cry again. I thought I’d shed all my tears, but more slip free. I pull my Flip from my purse and film the first shovelful of dirt hitting the oak-wood top of Mama’s coffin. People gasp at my temerity, my sheer gall. I don’t care. It’s the last scene of her film, the final recording of Leanne Beth Amundsen’s life.