Shadows of the mojave

The rain generously smashed against the roof of the beaten-down trailer, heavy enough to block out the sun. It sounded like a storm of bullets showering down, every single drop hitting a bullseye. Somewhere in the distance, a phone was ringing. To anyone walking by, the unanswered ringing would offer reassurance that no one was home—or, well, I think you know what I'm thinking. Toe-tagged.

Sure enough, that's when the loud, raspy voice of a drunk woke up and yelled, "Shut it up, or I'll shut it the fuck up!"

Without a hiccup in his voice, he grabbed the nearest bottle for a sip—his version of Folgers in his cup. Now, this ain't no common drinker. He is thirty-seven, divorced, and burdened by the unfortunate demise of his firstborn. Traumatized by his failure as a father, a husband, and, well, an all-around man. We find him at the bottom of a bottle daily, struggling to find any sign of a second chance. Did God forget him, or is He trying to teach a lesson?

It sounds cunning, but this is who he is: an empty shell of what once was. He finally decides to force his body into what most of us call getting up off the floor. One knee lifts the dead weight of a man who wants absolutely nothing to do with this world. He stumbles his way to the mirror to remind himself what trash he is. He doesn't say too many mean things to himself, just the average self-hate speeches. Nothing to take notes on.

Then the phone rings again. This time, it doesn't stop. It just keeps piercing his eardrums until finally, he reaches out, grabs the small cordless phone, hits the button, and barks, "Do you understand what time it is? Who is this?!"

A young woman's voice cracks on the other end as she mutters the words, "Your daughter."

Hard of hearing, he yells louder than before, "WHO?!"

She repeats herself, but this time with a fierce sense of ownership: "YOUR DAUGHTER!"

A heavy pause of neglect flooded the room, the silence cutting through the air like a knife to butter. Finally, he brings the phone up to his ear. He says, "I thought we agreed you wouldn't call unless it was to tell me your mother died. What is it you think you want?"

There was a sudden shift in the air. You could feel the tears and anger flood through the receiver when she aggressively yells back, "Mom is dead! Is that what you want me to say, huh?!" She weeps with a raw, unfiltered hate toward her father.

He stutters, "How... how? And when?"

The voice on the phone responds, "Not like you give two fucks about what happened to her, nor what's gonna happen to me. But if you must know... she was hit by a drunk driver last night. It was a hit-and-run. I got the call this morning when they found her in a fucking ditch."

Her voice grows fiercely hostile. "My mom sat in a fucking ditch, alone, dying, because a drunk, just like you, decided not to pay attention to where he was fucking driving. He decided, ultimately, that I didn't need a mother anymore. And he took her from me. So here we are. So now what?"

He freezes. The silence stretches—so quiet you could cut the air with a knife and still suffocate.

"What do you mean, 'so now what'?" he snaps. "Isn't it obvious? You're coming to stay with me. Now tell me where you are so I can come get you."

For that split second, he must have suffered some serious head trauma the night before, because the moment he finishes saying, "Tell me where you are so I can come get you, Lesley," he is shut down immediately.

He is met with: "My name is fucking Lisa, dammit! When are you gonna stop destroying both our lives, huh? When are you gonna grow up, Jonathan—I mean, Chris?!"

Randy replies, "I am your father, and you will call me by my name: Dad."

A cold dial tone is all he gets in return. As he slams down the receiver, he throws a confused, angry punch, only hitting the lamp in front of him. Luckily, no one is there to witness it.

Suddenly, even if just for a moment, he gets it together and decides to grab his cell phone, which was last seen charging. He rushes over to the kitchen-slash-living room toward one of the only four outlets in the entire trailer, only to find the phone literally drowning in a puddle of what looks like vodka—though even he isn't entirely sure.

Giving up on the cell, he goes back to the cordless phone to do it old school. He presses *69. Zero confidence comes with the decision; he just has to hope she answers.

The phone rings. With his thoughts traveling a hundred times faster than usual, Randy gets frustrated and is just about to throw the phone against the wall when Lisa's voice cuts through.

"Can't you just forget I even called?" she asks. "You seem to forget everything else."

Randy sticks his chin up and puts his left leg out at an angle, slightly bent—clear body language signs of authority. He says, "I don't know when you think you grew up, but cut the shit. You're only seventeen years old, and legally, I'm in charge of you now whether you want me or not. The faster you accept that, the sooner we can move forward. So tell me, Lisa... where are you so I can come get you? I'm not gonna ask again."

She breathes deeply into the receiver and finally says, "6678 Gunther Court. Two miles away from the Caltrain."

"I'm sending an Uber over. Be ready in five minutes."

Lisa starts to reply, "Where do you want me to—"

Before she can even finish her sentence, she is cut off by a dial tone.

Before becoming any angrier, she decides not to call her dad's bluff. She rushes over to her things. It wasn't much; her life was mostly jammed inside a tiny 3 \times 5 space in a closet located off the side of the kitchen. Deciding to only grab what means the most, she pulls out a single picture of her mom and herself at Disneyland. She stares at the photograph, brokenhearted, and begins to cry as she collapses to the floor.

She curses at God, yelling through her tears, "Why did you take her from me?! She was all I had! We did nothing to you!" Every word is shouted with pure, agonizing pain.

Then, right after the last words leave her mouth, she stands up with a devil's rage. She begins throwing everything in her hands straight to the floor, screaming a final, bitter curse directed straight for her God to hear: "I will never forgive you. I hate you for this!"

Right as the last syllable leaves her throat, the horn from a car blares repeatedly throughout the front yard. Her Uber has arrived.

She quickly throws everything into a duffle bag and runs out toward the Toyota hybrid. The car is already turning around for its exit, but like an Olympic sprinter gunning for a gold medal, Lisa dashes along the side of the vehicle, scaring the driver into early retirement. He hits the brakes, and Lisa jumps in.

"Where are we going?" he asks, startled.

"Anywhere," Lisa replies. "I don't care."

The driver meets her in the middle. "Ma'am, please, I need an address."

Regretting it instantly, she forces out the words: "4203 Brand Boulevard. It'll be the only trailer in a residential park."

As they drive, the silence of the car pulls her back, and she remembers the very last thing her mom ever said to her:

"Lisa, one day I'm gonna be gone and you're gonna be a grown woman. What are you planning on doing? I'll give you an idea: you're gonna make it. You're gonna be just fine. You're a smart girl. You have the resources and the mindset to get exactly where you're going. Everything is gonna be okay. I taught you well. You have nothing to worry about."

Lisa takes those words and preserves them, rewriting them onto a small sticky note that she carefully places inside her mother’s favorite book, And Then There Were Roses by Gunther Redcliff.

The Uber driver finally pulls into the park next to the address she provided. In a soft, sincere voice, Lisa says, "Thank you," and steps out of the car.

She picks up her phone and dials the person who, by now, holds a completely different title in her contacts. She hits send and the phone begins to ring. Looking down at the screen to put it on speaker, she catches sight of the name she saved him under: Asshole. She is still perfectly fine with that decision.

On the sixth ring, Randy answers.

"I'm here," she announces, her voice heavy with a stubborn, reluctant edge that screams she doesn't want to be anywhere near this place.

By now, Randy has stood up and looked out the front window. His eyes finally land on her.

My God, he thinks, she’s so big.

It has been five long years since Randy last laid eyes on his daughter. And looking back at him from the rain, it's clear she has never forgotten—and she has absolutely never forgiven  him