It Had to Be You

Dee's POV I opened my eyes to camel-colored leather seats as soft a hug, and the sound of static-infused pop music on the radio. My legs were smaller than they had been when I closed my eyes to rest, and I kicked them out, feet ghosting over the air. The strange out-of-body haziness that told me I was dreaming. No matter, not all of my childhood was terrible and if I was this small, then this was likely just before or just after we moved to Westbrooke. Things hadn't started to get worse until a couple of months in. So, might there be still a good chance that this dream might be a good one? Comforted in that thought, I pumped my legs, knocking them against the hard edge of my car seat, the dream wavering around me in that strange foggy way. The light-ups on my sneakers scattered red and blue prisms against the dark of the backseat, night oozing in between the thick poplar trees that lined the many long driveways to the McMansions Westbrooke was known for. My old Monster High backpack was to my right, still looking fresh as the vinyl had not yet peeled from excessive use and bullying. On my lap was my pearl pink Nintendo 3DS, showing me the startup screen to Nintendogs & Cats. I could hear the little plastic bobble scrunchies clack together at the roots of my braids, nostalgic and melodic. “Duckie? You awake?" Oh no…Oh God no… I looked up to see not Mama or Tita, but Dad instead. Which meant…it wasn't going to be a good dream after all. Dad was dressed in his Sunday best as Tita liked to say, a crisp white shirt with gold-plated cuff links. His hair was freshly cut, slicked down so you couldn't see the curl of it. He wasn't wearing one of his silly ties, which meant he was still in business mode, his dark silk tie and matching nondescript tailored suit. A TT was kept in the shoulder holster under his coat. I never saw his gun, Dad was careful with that, but I knew he was armed. I heard about it being quietly argued in the dark hallways after bedtime to know. The car slowed until we were idling in front of his boss' house, a house I'd never even seen from its place at the top of a rocky plateau, instead, I'd always recognized it through the tacky golden monogrammed gate that loomed over everyone. Dad tipped his rearview down, hand hovering over the key in the ignition, and I could see the hazel of his worried eyes. “You remember what we talked about, Duckie?" He turned so I could see his full face, arm hanging over his headrest, and shooting gloves on. “What's Dad's golden rule, Munchkin?" Fuck. That meant it was May 17th. The last day I'd ever know happiness. I hated this memory, above all others, and wondered what had triggered this nightmare to take place. Was it leaving the farm and watching the landscape change from rolling hills to brick, mortar, and steel? Was it the worry of finances again? Was it even something so simple as wishing my Dad had seen me graduate high school, wondering if I'd ever get to be in his presence again without a three-inch-thick piece of visitation glass between us? “Duckie?" I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to wake up, and shuddering at the way the engine cut off without any issues, just like I remembered. The Jaguar XF had been so unlike Dad's centuries-old white Oldsmobile, who died a glorious fiery death on the Tappan Zee. The Oldsmobile's death had been the last nail in the coffin that held my father's pride thanks to a string of bad investments and betrayal by close friends. I had no way of knowing how tight we were on money in those days; how hard we were struggling in our little matchbook-sized box in Vanderveer. To me, I wasn't faring any better or worse than my classmates. Happy, but poor. I didn't understand why the notion seemed to stress my father. Wouldn't get it till later when I understood the world more when I could read the overdue notices for bills when I began to realize that getting things hammy-down wasn't a status you wanted for back-to-school clothes. But that was later, and I was still young in this dream—this memory—and didn't understand what Dad meant when he said, “Things were going to be different." That he was going to do better. Be better. How he'd sold his soul for my new clothes, fancy toys, and the envy of our peers. The anger of my peers. How a break-in by the then-unknown Black Devil Brotherhood had rattled both my parents for a different reason as they looked at the tag that labeled us persona no grata in our neighborhood. A…side-effect of Dad's new position as a bodyguard, it was the reason why we had to up and move to Richville. All because Dad's new boss—some big wig from Elizabeth, a man I'd only known from his seedy Chiclet tooth grin and that godawful cologne that smelled like tobacco rolled in mint—was gaining more enemies than friends doing whatever business Mami still kept quiet about. “Deidra." My eyes slid back over to Dad, torn out of my thoughts, the dream wavering for a moment before sticking solid in this memory. Dad was using that tone of his that made me worry about what decision he was making. It never seemed to be the right one, or rather, it never seemed good for him. “What's the golden rule for when Daddy has to go to work?" “Stay silent, lock the doors, and wait patiently!" I…hadn't said that. In that logic only dreams seemed to carry, I looked over into the reflection of the window next to me and saw my child's reflection answer for me. “And we don't interrupt Daddy unless we really have to because Daddy needs to pay attention!" This wasn't—no! NO! I had to warn him, I had to— I struggled to undo the vice that was my car seat's seatbelt as my father smiled at me, opening his car door to talk to some of the guards present around the gate. That f*****g gate! “That's right, Munchkin!" I felt the weight of his hand on my head, mussing my little braids, and boggles clacking, and I could feel my heart break all over again. If only I could—I heard the jingle of his keys mix with the beeping tone of the car door opening. The radio was still on thanks to the battery, a little bit of heat blasting to keep me warm. A soft rain had begun. It was all too familiar. “Just sit tight, Duckie, I'll be back." But he wasn't going to be back! He was never coming home after this! I need to, I had to— The seatbelts turned to copperheads in my hands, hissing and biting as I struggle to unknot them. Panic made bile rise in my throat, the dream pulsing growing darker as a blood moon rose with the strengthening of the raindrops against my window. Daddy's outline shimmered through the streaks, and I couldn't tell if I'd begun to cry or if the rain had come down harder. The radio played Ke$ha's “Die Young" and any other time I'd be laughing, probably belly up in Gemma's pool, Coke to my lips as I complained about how ironic that song was. How if there really was some cosmic creator out there, it clearly had a sense of humor, playing that song the exact moment someone's life was taken from them that night. Two someones... Just like I had that May 17th, I couldn't hear everything being said between the loud synths and the drum machine. Just snatches of conversation— “—The Boss is very—" “—Christ! I said I was—“ “—That isn't good enough, Rayburn, and you know it—“ “—pizdets!—“ “—OSTANOVIT! f*****g get him—" “Stop." Somehow I'd gotten the seatbelt undone, or maybe they were never there at all. But I'm pushing myself out of my car seat, knees digging into the door, and I was watching my father fight three men at once. And losing. I don't know these guys, their faces were just smears of color like the rain had washed away their features. The dream trying to make sense of a decade-old memory. Try as I had later on, I could only remember my father's associates as the surprisingly jolly Boris of the Bald Head and leaner, meaner Meatball Sub Gregorovitch. But it doesn't matter, none of that matters at this moment, as a flash of lightning scrambled the radio so I can hear everything! But I wish it hadn't! God, I can still hear Dad screaming— I try to cover my ears to shut it out, but there's a wet crack, and Dad moans like a broken thing. I know without looking that his arm had bent at the wrong angle. “Let him up." It was the big man himself—my Dad's mysterious boss. He was shorter than my father and his lackeys by a mile, artificial tan tinting wrinkled cheeks an almost orange as the Boss sucked down handfuls of sunflower seeds and spit out the shells on the sidewalk. His white suit gleamed in the dark, the eye of the storm, as another bodyguard I didn't recognize held an umbrella over his salt-and-pepper head. Other than his mouth and hair, the rain had also washed away any noticeable features. “Stand the mudák up." The Boss' voice was a cultured baritone only slightly mellowed with a Russian accent. I'm sure I'd know that voice anywhere, but without a face and a name to give— “I want to see his face when I rob him of his life." The men held my father between them, pulling at his gel-free hair to keep his face exposed to the street lights. Dad was a mess of cuts and scrapes, his right eye already swelling shut, but even at my distance, I could see the pride in his shoulders, the fire in the hazel. He wasn't going to beg. Why hadn't he begged!? I slap at my window, sobbing. Hands larger, older. Back to the way my body should be. Eighteen and full of all the muscle I could make of it. Powerful in all the ways I hadn't been as a child when I'd lost my main protector. Fuck, I could be doing something—anything—but all I had the strength for—all that useless strength—was to sag against the window like the eight-year-old I was on that rainy May 17th. Reduced, yet again, to be a child. The bodyguard with the umbrella adjusted his grip on the handle so he could pull his gun out of his jacket holster. The faceless henchman handed it to The Boss, he gripped the gun with a surety that let me know he'd killed men before. The safety clicked off. “Any last words, Rayburn?" “Please," it was the only time my father's voice quivered, “my girl—" “You should have thought about your actions before you tried to steal from me, mudák!" The Boss shouted, the dream warping his face into a monster, into the image of the tag the Black Devil Brotherhood had left on my kicked-in door back in Brooklyn. “Now, tell you're f*****g God that you'll see him real soon, xuj." “Please—" “DADDY!" The gunshot sounded like a rocket going off as the bullet ripped through the scene, bisecting the world like a tear in the film. And I was left falling, sinking in the weird whiteness as I felt my body begin to awake from my slumber. If I had known what I know now, I would have taken that dream to be a warning. I would have taken one look at Brockport University and forfeited my spot at my dream school. I would have turned tail and rode back up tree-lined I-87 past Saratoga Springs all the way back to the family farm in Pensick where it was safe. But, I had no way of knowing what danger was before me, only what had already passed and how much I wanted to right those wrongs. But the sins of our fathers have a weird way of tainting the next generation so no one is saved. I should have never accepted your proposal to marry, Wes, we should have never fallen in love. No, I should have run. Ran while I still could and ran some more. It would have been the smart thing to do. I should have remembered seeing a little face peeking out from around the Boss' bodyguard, the only face I could clearly remember. I should have known it had to be you.