Dirty Secrets

Part 19

With her canvas bag slung over her shoulder, Lyla carried her laundry to her dad's car in two plastic grocery bags, one in each hand.

"Here. I'll put those in the trunk for you," he offered.

"I got 'em."

"You got your shoulder bag and those--"

"I'm fine."

She slid onto the passenger seat, dropped the bags on the floor between her legs, then secured her shoulder strap and seatbelt. Ryan started the car and drove away from the curb. She heaved a sigh of relief as she watched the hospital in the rearview mirror growing smaller and smaller.

"How about we stop at Chili's for a burger on the way home?" Ryan asked. "You can order a steak if you want."

"I just wanna go home."

"Not hungry?"

"Not really."

"Don't think there's much to eat back at the house."

"That's fine."

The soundtrack for the short drive home was awkward silence. Occasionally, their eyes would meet. Each time, an automatic smile appeared on his face. The longer they drove without conversation, the more self-conscious she became. She didn't want her dad to feel as though she was icing him out. But what was she supposed to talk about? He probably had a million questions that he'd like to ask but she knew that he didn't want to upset her. So they made their way home just dad and his quiet, psychotic daughter.

As Ryan steered the car around the corner and onto their street, Lyla was overwhelmed by a familiar sensation. A reassuring feeling that she hadn't experienced in years. Maybe it was the way the bronze sunlight peeked through the leafy branches of the trees lining the street. Or maybe it was the fragrance of the air as the afternoon surrendered to the evening or possibly a combination of both.

Lyla was eight years old, on her way home from a birthday party at her friend, Kathy's house. Her dad had come to pick her up. His hair was darker and thicker then. His rising cheeks shaped his eyes into crescents each time he smiled. And he smiled a lot.

When they turned into the driveway, Lyla remembered her mom coming out onto the porch, pulling her cardigan sweater closed and cinching it around her thin body. She was ready with so many questions. How was the party? Did Kathy like her gift? Did you have cake?

It was so easy to be happy in her mother's arms, with her cheek against her mom's chest, the fragrance of her mother's hair tickling her face. It was magic. But Lyla didn't know it then. Laughter was a familiar part of her vocabulary, weaving effortlessly in and out of her words. 

When Ryan shifted the car into park, Lyla was alarmed by the physical appearance of the man getting out of the car in comparison to the image of the dad who drove her home from Kathy's party. She understood the toll that her mom's illness had taken. She felt it, too. But she had forgotten about the light in her dad's eyes. The light that she hadn't noticed until it had gone out.

She shouldered her bag, grabbed her laundry and followed him up onto the porch of the simple, two-story brick building, a well-kept, modest home. Last year, Ryan had dedicated significant time and effort into scraping and sanding the peeling wooden frames of the old weather-beaten windows and the porch railings and repainting them. It was a productive way to keep his mind occupied. Or at least a distraction from dwelling on the aching loss that he and his daughter would probably never get over. He found the house keys in his pocket and unlocked the door. She turned on her heels at the sensation of being observed.

There, across the street, was the creepy custodian wearing his sinister smile. He stood motionless, leering.

A minivan cruised down the road and when it cleared her line of vision, he was gone.