Redemption by Stacey Lannert Read Free Book Online Page B

Mom wasn’t mad about the air conditioning vents no matter who peed in them. She gave Max away because my dad would come home drunk, trip over my excited dog, and then kick Max. Mom felt awful when she heard the dog yelping in the hallway, and she wanted the dog to be safe. Meanwhile, there I was, almost eight years old, secretly hating her for taking my dog away.

Photo Album
    n my photo album, I see pictures of a smiling, awkward, blond kid who laughed all the time.
    In one photo, I am busy doing my favorite thing: waterskiing. Short and skinny and young. I am wearing my red life jacket. My white skis are held together with a huge black band so my legs will stay together. You can see that I was soaking up the rays of sun and smiling genuinely about it. My heart was happy. I remember how proud and exhilarated I was when I could finally stay up on those skis for ten whole minutes before falling down.
    I learned how to water-ski when I was four. My parents bought matching life vests for the whole family—red with black toggles to close. Suiting up in that vest was one of the highlights of the summer. So was shopping for skis. We tried on so many pairs that the salespeople would try to hide their aggravation.
    We loved going on trips in Dad’s yellow bananamobile. Mom bought travel games that Christy and I played in the backseat. Sometimes we’d yell and scream and fuss at each other—the best fun was when we were cutting up.
    We’d get threats from the front seat. Dad would warn, “Don’t you make me pull over this car.” But he was all talk on vacation.
    We knew a fun vacation week was starting when the tarp came off Old Red. Our boat had red stripes, and it was just big enough for four people. Mom and Dad would keep us quiet in the car by telling us to watch Old Red. The boat dangled from the hitch on the back of the bananamobile, and they said it would fall off if we looked away. We caught on to that scam quickly. They also pulled “the quiet game” to see who could be silent for the longest. One of us would break after barely two minutes. Then we’d move on to the license plate game, seeing who could spot the most tags from the most states. When all else failed, Mom took out a piece of paper, and we played hangman or squares. She made dots, and we got points for connecting them.
    Every year, we vacationed at Table Rock Lake in the Ozark Mountains, at a resort called Lone Pine. They had a pool, lots of fishing, a sandy lakeside, and tons of games. As I got older, I played shuffle-board and badminton.
    Then there was the waterskiing. We’d get most excited when Old Red went in. We’d swish around in the boat asking to put on our skis, but we weren’t allowed to until we had a thick, gooey layer of zinc oxide smeared on our noses. Mom and Dad had matching white beaks. We’d laugh at other people’s white noses because we’d forget about our own. Dad manned the steering wheel of Old Red wearing his aviator sunglasses and a huge smile. We drank grape soda on vacation, and Dad drank beer.
    When we first learned how to water-ski, Mom skied behind us. Both parents would check to make sure our life jackets were secure before Mom slipped into the water, and Dad lowered us into her arms. She would guide us to the rope and ski behind us until we were ready to stand on our own. When we fell, Dad would circle back to get us, and Mom would be right there in half a second.
    We couldn’t be on vacation all year long, though. Daily life continued to crumble—very slowly at first. There was another big, bad moment. I wish I could forget it. Mom had made a huge spaghetti dinner, and Dad was late again. We waited more than an hour for him to show up. Finally, we ate without him. She put all of the food away and started cleaning the house while Christy and I went into the living room to watch TV.
    When Dad arrived home, purple-faced from gin martinis, he told Mom, “I want my dinner.”
    She wasn’t looking for a fight with