The next time I opened my eyes, the light coming through my window was warm and rosy, likely the sun of early evening. Another day had come and gone. I thought for a second that Dad should be home from work and that I needed to start dinner. Then I remembered I’d cooked my last dinner for my father and my heart ached, so badly I thought my chest might explode.
My eyes stung and I waited for the tears, but none came. My face and eyes felt tight and puffy. It seemed I’d already shed all the tears I was capable of shedding.
I heard the sound of the television and hushed whispers. I thought of getting up and going out to talk to whomever was there, but I lacked the energy to do more than shift beneath my covers. I closed my eyes again and let my mind and my body drift until my troubles were no longer a thought. And I slept.
The next morning the smell of coffee roused me from sleep. My head felt as heavy as my heart. I lay in bed, watching the pale light of dawn flicker across the carpet of my bedroom. I heard the familiar sound of a thump followed by a tool, likely a wrench, hitting the cement of the garage floor.
My heart leapt. It had all been a dream. It was Saturday and Dad was already working on the car. I shot up out of bed, pushed my arms hurriedly into my robe, flung open the door and flew through the kitchen to the garage door.
The instant the chilly cement hit my feet cold reality slapped me in the face. Derek was standing at the front of the Camaro with a wrench in one hand and the forefinger of his other hand in his mouth.
Had I not been so disappointed, I’d have been smug that he’d hurt himself. But, as it was, I was so let down, having wanted to see my dad under the hood so badly, I felt like I could barely stand it.
So I attacked.
“What are you doing?” I hurled myself across the garage, arms straight out in front of me like twin battering rams. When I hit Derek, I planted my hands flat against his chest, throwing all my weight and momentum behind them. It moved him back, but only a little. “Huh? What? What are you doing?” By that point, I was shouting hysterically and pummeling his chest with my fists.
“I would’ve thought that’d be fairly obvious,” he replied calmly, unaffected by my furious tantrum.
“But why? Why would you do this?”
“I didn’t realize it was such a great offense,” he said snidely.
I felt the tears that wouldn’t fall in private burning hot trails down my cheeks. “It’s our car, mine and Dad’s. Not yours. It’s our,” I wailed, gasping between sobs.
Derek’s features softened for an instant then he looked casually down at the finger he’d had in his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was- I didn’t…“ He trailed off, shaking his head remorsefully.
I could tell he was sincere, but at that moment it didn’t matter. All I could think of was that he had no business touching my dad’s things, no right taking over his unfinished projects. “You had no right! Why are you even here? Just go.” Derek’s head jerked up and I could tell I’d hit my mark. “Leave,” I spat. When he made no move to obey me, the decibel level of my voice rose. “Leave! Now!”
With his customary shrug, Derek turned, laid the wrench back on the workbench where Dad had always kept it and walked out the garage door and down the driveway.
Even through my grief and inordinate upset, I could feel the magnetism of him, like he was pulling me down the driveway with him. That only served to further frustrate me. Where had these feelings come from? I had only known him for, like, a minute. How could I feel that drawn to him?
Hurt, dejected and confused, I stomped to the wall and hit the button to close the garage door. I walked back to the car before the door even shut, sliding into the driver’s side like I’d done a thousand times while Dad worked on various parts of the inside.
I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I could still smell Old Spice as if Dad had just walked away. I could hear his voice as if he’d just spoken, quizzing me about engine parts. And I could still see the hurt in his eyes when I’d been so cold after our argument.
The guilt and regret tore at my insides. He had confessed something very important to me and I hadn’t had the slightest compassion for what he’d been feeling. I had taken the selfish route. And now I’d never have a chance to make it right.
My chest felt so tight, it was hard to breathe. I lay down across the bench seat and wept, wept for the mistakes I’d made, wept for all the times I should’ve said “I’m sorry”, wept for all the times I never told Dad I loved him, wept for all the things we’d never get to do. He’d never get to see me graduate. He’d never get to walk me down the aisle. He’d never get to hold his grandchildren. And we’d never get to finish the Camaro.
When the tears ran out for what seemed like the hundredth time, I fell once more into the fitful, dreamless sleep of the emotionally exhausted.
********
The pitter patter of rain woke me. I opened my eyes to the barely-visible dash of the Camaro. I was still in the car and, but for the eerie glow of the clock’s face, it was pitch black.
I sat up quickly. I was wet. There were drops of moisture falling from the ceiling of the car, plopping gently onto me, the seat, and the dash. I looked for rips in the lining, but saw none. There were no bulges where water was pooling behind the material. The more I inspected it, the more confused I became.
I watched the drops and it seemed they were originating from the seat and hitting the ceiling, making that pitter patter. Then, from there, they were dripping back down.
It was raining—in the car—upside down. But that couldn’t be right.
I held my hand out over the seat beside me. Cold drops of water splattered my palm where I held it over the upholstery. It was then that I realized I must be dreaming.
I slid out of the wet car and set my feet on the cement of the garage floor. With a splash, they landed in a puddle. Drops of moisture zoomed by my face, racing toward the ceiling. All around me it was raining—upside down.
The streetlight out front cast a sliver of light on the floor in front of the garage door. It was just enough for me to see the wet concrete and the fat drops that fell both up and down. It was also just enough for me to see a darker, unfamiliar shape in the corner.
When I realized what it was, I jumped, barely able to get my hand to my mouth quick enough to stifle a scream. The shape was a silhouette—the silhouette of a person.
Though I could make out very little detail, there was something familiar about the form. My eyes burned with the strain of trying to see into the darkness, but finally I was able to make out fiery red hair framing the pale, pale face of a girl. When she raised a hand to beckon me, I knew immediately who it was. It was the girl from my dreams, the girl from the mist. It was the girl that looked just like me.