Because You Loved Me

I told my parents I was off at one when really I was off at twelve. I wanted to spend time with my boyfriend and I didn’t want another curfew, especially at almost 19. Almost. Nineteen and three quarters. As if stating those few extra months would show the maturity I supposedly possessed.

I didn’t plan on my phone playing games, my parents waking up, finding an empty car in the driveway. One fifty in the morning. My dad called my job. “What time was she off?” The answer: “12.” My body in a dumpster. My car in a ditch. My life a recent memory. Or maybe something worse.

My phone decides to be merciful at last and allows my ears to hear Bach’s 9^th Symphony, muffled through my cloth bag. It’s my mother. Panic. I fumble for my phone, but it’s somewhere on the floor, forgotten and meaningless until now. Wrapped up in crumpled clothing.

“Where are you?” She asks. The reasonable one. Practical.

Such an easy question. A query. I know I should lie. But I can’t. I blame church for that of course. “With Erik. Why?” I ask, like it’s strange for her to call at such an hour. Like I’ve done nothing wrong.

“Do you know what time it is? Your father has been trying to get a hold of you.” “Your father” she says and I know it’s a warning. Caution: watch out for Dad.

“No. Am I late?” A deer caught in headlights. But I know she isn’t fooled. And if she doesn’t run me over, Dad will.

“We didn’t know where you were. Why didn’t you answer?” Why are you lying? Why don’t you listen? Why aren’t you trustworthy anymore?

“I didn’t hear my phone.” A lame excuse. It’s pathetic even in my ears. But the whole truth about why is too inappropriate.

My father beeps in. “Hello?”

I answer and the questions start again. But this time it’s Dad. “Where are you?”

“With Erik.” I repeat. I’m pulling my shirt over my head, buttoning up my pants, while my dad sits on the line. Listening. Accusing. Knowing.

“Where with Erik?”

“His car.” His house. No Parents.

“Where are you now?”

Shopko. Skyline. Walmart. I’m taking too much time. Hurry. “Outside his house.” I check for the essentials—phone, glasses, keys, purse—before opening the door and stepping into the night.

“What were you doing?”

What we shouldn’t. “Making out.” My safe answer.

He tells me to wait, he’s coming by. Like it’s a casual visit. Let me see your boyfriend’s house. How’s the neighborhood? Is it nice? How long have you been fucking my daughter?

I sit in the bed of Erik’s pickup. His hand is intertwined in mine. My dad is coming. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” He squeezes my hand and kisses my cheek. Not my lips.

I wonder if he’s disappointed. Two more minutes. Almost there. Then a phone call.

My dad pulls up. Gives us both “the talk.” The one he never intended having to use on me. After three tries he must have hoped he wouldn’t need it again. I got to let him down last. I guess I’m just lucky like that. The big finale.

We drive home. Separate cars of course. Dad calls me, asks me more questions. Don’t I want to wait? Don’t I want him to care? To be involved? Don’t I? 

“Yes.” I say. Too late. Why not ask me four months ago, on a different day. No Parents at home.

You could have asked me. Made me listen to your case. Would I have heard you then as well as I hear you now? Kung Fu on a thirteen inch TV. A boy and girl.

No one watching.