Driving With Dead People Read Online Free Page B

the bathroom, tossed my pee-soaked sheets and pajamas into the bathtub, and headed back to the kitchen.
    Dad was reading the Elk Grove Courier and slurping Maxwell House instant coffee he’d made by adding warm tap water to the coffee crystals in his mug and whipping it up with a metal spoon. I’d seen him do it a hundred times, his thick fingers choking the mug.
    I sat down at the table and stared at Dad, who continued reading the paper. I wondered where he stashed his home movies. Dad titled and dated each one by writing on the rim of the plastic reel with a Magic Marker. If he’d filmed Sarah Keeler, the reel probably had her name on it or at least the date.
    Dad dropped one corner of the paper and snapped, “What are you gawking at?”
    I looked down at my oatmeal. I heard Dad flip the paper back up in front of his mean face. He hated me.
    I thought about Dad standing by the side of the road filming her crumpled bike, her body lying on the asphalt. I imagined that he’d filmed her shoes, blown clear off her feet from the impact, lying in two different places.
    I looked at Dad cutting through sausage patties with a butter knife. I was surprised he hadn’t run over any kids himself, considering how fast we had to scramble out of his way when he sped through the alley behind our house, the wheels of his blue pickup spewing gravel in all directions.
    If he ever did, the police would arrive with sirens blaring and I’d watch as they hauled Dad away in handcuffs, hauled him away forever to Cincinnati or Cleveland or even farther. Someplace he could never come home from, a place where he could never yank my pants down again with everyone staring. Someplace he deserved.
    “Eat it, don’t play with it,” Mom said, jerking my head back slightly as she ran a brush through the back of my hair. I looked up to see Dad staring straight at me.
    He probably knew what I was thinking.

Chapter Three
    I hadn’t always wanted Dad to die or go to jail. There was a time when I felt sorry for him when bad things happened.
    I was five. We were living in the little house down on Greenleaf Street.
    It was a cool day in November, and Mrs. Beckner was driving Suzanne and me home from kindergarten. We couldn’t ride the bus because kindergarten was only a half day.
    As we were driving down County Line Road, I saw swirling black smoke mushrooming up on the flat horizon. “That’s probably my dad’s store,” I said, knowing perfectly well it wasn’t. My dad’s hardware store was at least eight miles from where we were.
    “Whatever it is, it’s big,” said Mrs. Beckner.
    “Huge,” I said, my heart pounding with excitement. Something enormous was burning down.
    When we pulled up in front of my house, Mom was standing on the front porch with her brown wicker purse slung over her arm, and Granda was leaning against her white Pontiac. Something was up.
    As Mrs. Beckner put her car in park, I popped the door handle and jumped onto the grass near the sidewalk.
    “Thanks, Mrs. Beckner,” I said.
    “See you tomorrow,” she said, waving.
    I ran over to Granda’s car.
    “Hey, cutie,” Granda said, brushing my bangs across my forehead.
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    “You’re coming home with Granda,” she said.
    I turned to Mom, who was walking toward our station wagon.
    “Where’re you going?”
    “Your dad’s store’s on fire. I’ve gotta see if I can help.” She walked back, kissed my forehead, and headed for the car.
    “Dad’s store—” I was ready to ask a million questions, when Mom interrupted.
    “Stay with Granda,” she said over her shoulder. “And don’t play with the hose. You already have a stuffy nose.” She got in and pulled away.
    Who said anything about the hose? I was always being warned about things I wasn’t going to do, until I was told not to. But today nothing could take my attention from the fire.
    I shot Granda a devious look. “I saw the smoke,” I told her. “You can see it driving