Redemption by Stacey Lannert Read Free Book Online Page A

there to save me.”
    I laughed because there weren’t any banana trees on Dead Man’s Curve. There weren’t any banana trees in Missouri. My mother wasn’t smiling as the tow truck pulled up with Dad’s smashed Buick.
    “My God, Tom, you should be dead,” she said. Mom examined Dad and then the car. She was in disbelief at the wreckage. He should not have been able to walk away from that accident, but his body was so loose from the alcohol that he slithered right out of the car. He didn’t even remember what had happened.
    “He should be dead,” said the police officer at our doorstep. “His blood alcohol level is so high that it would kill most people.” My father laughed harder. Drunk driving laws weren’t enforced back then, and the officer only issued my father a citation since no one was hurt. While he wasn’t likely to get in legal trouble, he was definitely in Deborah trouble.
    After the officer left, my parents fought the rest of the night. Daddy said he had to drink—he was out with the guys from work.
    In a slurred voice, he explained, “This is the only way I can get promotions. I have to play the game.”
    I heard the whole thing, and I took his side; I didn’t know any better. I thought Mom was nagging Dad because that’s what he told me she was doing. She didn’t say anything to me about the fight, but he would go on and on. “Tiger, it’s not a big deal,” he’d say, sitting on his chair. “Everything is going to be fine. Come here.”
    He came home two nights later with a brand new car—the bananamobile. He said he chose that big yellow station wagon with wood panels because it was a banana tree that destroyed his old Buick. “Look at this car, it will be perfect for towing the boat,” he said with pride. Christy and I were excited. We ran to the car, exploring it inside and out. He was my superhero.
    When we drove down Dead Man’s Curve, Mom would shudder while Christy and I made a game out of guessing which one was the dreaded banana tree. It wasn’t hard to figure out; it was the tree that looked like a Buick had been wrapped around it.
    After the accident it seemed as if Mom began nagging Dad about his drinking more often. Every night, gauging the time he came home was like a litmus test. Would he be on time? Would he smell like alcohol? Some nights he passed inspection; some nights he didn’t.
    Dad and I began to bond more. On the nights he failed the test, Mom would barely speak to him. But I did. He would change out of his suit, and we would hang out together in his chair watching TV, hopefully eating popcorn. He would ask about my day and then tell me about his. I became closer to him and more distant from my mother.
    My mother gave our dog, Max, away to her grandmother. I could not stand my great-grandma. She yelled at me and smelled like cigarettes. I did like her husband, George, probably because he had the same name as my favorite bus driver. He was my step-great-grandfather and not blood related. I didn’t know what that meant, but I thought it was weird that I was supposed to call him by his first name. I hated the thought of Max going to live with them, and I didn’t understand. I blamed Mom for giving him away, but I thought it was my fault.
    I didn’t want to use the bathroom at night because I had to walk past my parents’ room. I was scared of waking them up and getting yelled at, so I peed in the air conditioning vent in my room. Mom smelled the urine and blamed it on Max. First, she banned him from my room. But she still smelled the pee. I didn’t fess up; I was too scared I’d get in trouble. I also didn’t want them to know I was terrified of waking them up. I don’t remember why I didn’t want to disturb them in the night.
    All I understood at the time was that I begged her not to give the dog away—Max meant the world to me. But she got rid of him anyway. Sometimes, I was starting to see Mom as mean.
    Twenty years later, I found out the truth.