Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway Read Online Free PDF

to say something, because Mom hated it when he did that, but I stopped myself, realizing that I didn’t really care. I watched the glass as it sat there, half full of a watery mixture of Scotch and melting ice, the condensation creeping down the outside, the water stain forming against the wood. Mom always complained that Dad should use coasters, and Dad always said that he forgot. There were little water stains from my father’s glasses all over the house. Little mementos of him. Little traces of what once was.
     
    Slowly, my father started taking his clothes off of the hangers. Then he stopped, and turned to me.
     
    “You don’t have to watch, Kitten,” he said. “Why don’t you go play in the pool?”
     
    I shook my head. “I’ve been in the pool all day. I want to stay here. With you.” I didn’t know where my mom was. I could hear Donnie screaming and splashing in the pool, oblivious to everything that was going on. Marie was in our bedroom, upset, pretending to watch TV. Daddy packed his jacket, the one that smelled like him. He packed quickly, and I watched how easily the two suitcases swallowed everything that was hanging in the closets. I started to feel an irrational hatred toward those stupid suitcases. He was only taking his clothes. Even though Marie said that was a good thing, I had a bad feeling about all of this. I felt sick deep in the pit of my stomach. Trying to ignore it, I said, “Are you coming back to visit soon? I mean . . . will we see you on weekends and stuff? What about next weekend?”
     
    When my father looked at me, I got scared because he looked different. He looked old, tired, and sad. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was creased with pain and worry. My father usually looked so handsome, so much younger than all of the other fathers at my school, but today he looked drained, worn out. Like he had aged twenty years. That same look that came over his face when he was sitting in his chair, silently brooding over God knows what awful memory of the war. He turned away again, and picked up the Scotch. He took a long sip, and replaced it on the water ring. Barely looking at me, he said, “Kitten . . . I guess your mom didn’t tell you . . .”
     
    The moment he said this I wanted to cry, because I knew what was coming. Whenever Dad said that, it meant bad news. Not just bad news, but the kind of life-changing bad news that hits you with the force of an atomic blast. “I guess your mom didn’t tell you . . . Grandpa died,” or “I guess your mom didn’t tell you . . . we’re getting a divorce.”
     
    This time it was a doozy, though, and for a moment I thought that I must have misheard him, or that this was all some kind of terrible dream, and I was still hidden away in my bedroom, twisting and turning in a fitful sleep.
     
    “I guess your mom didn’t tell you,” my father said this time. “I’m moving to Texas.”
     
    I stood there, my mouth gaping open but no words coming out. I felt my face flush, and a wave of sickness pass through me. It was a feeling that no twelve-year-old should ever feel. I managed to croak the word “Texas?” back at him. I mean . . . Aunt Evie’s house seemed like it was far away. But Texas? As in the Alamo, and cowboys and stuff? As in a thousand miles away? TEXAS?
     
    “I’m going to start a business,” my father said, as if somehow this was the most rational thing in the world. “I going into the eight-track-tape business. There’s good money in eight-track tapes. I think the eight-track has a big future . . .”
     
    What was it Marie had said? People don’t just leave their homes, their businesses!
     
    “What about the dress shop?” I stammered, cursing myself for not saying what I really meant, which was “What about US?”
     
    “Your mom can handle the shop just fine without me. You know your mom—she always wants to be the one who wears the pants in the family. And you know I don’t go for that kind of news,