EPISODE — KARI TREESE
/Three weeks after my father died, I say, I was stuck in a line of cars at a stop sign on EastShore Highway. A man on the corner held a cardboard sign that said: “Hey Kid—everyone needs a little help?”
I heard my father’s voice: “G’mornin’ kid” and “That’s right, kid” and “How’s school, kid?” I stared at the man’s face without seeing him, thinking instead about whether or not I liked the way my father called me kid.
The man winked at me like we were sharing a secret. I blinked away, my body shivering, gooseflesh pushing my arm hair stick straight. When I looked back, it wasn’t the man on the street.
I saw my father’s bald pate, that sheen in the sun made from sweat and heat and oil. Then, his fluffed ponytail tucked at the bottom of his neck. I remember my mother cutting his hair and his voice, “Not too much Mary, for God’s sake.” When I noticed the man’s glasses, the same wide clear squares, I tried to shake the memory of my father out of my head.
My hair swirled the air in the car and I inhaled the Aqua-net my father used to use to keep his flyaways stiff against the sides of his head. I ran my fingers over the steering wheel and pulled the memory of boar’s bristles—his old red hairbrush—prickling across my fingertips.
I thought I saw him wave at me, my father on the corner holding the sign that called to me, “Hey Kid.” My breath caught in my throat. Six cars still to go and all I wanted to do was drive away, leave the stop sign, the man on the corner, and my father behind.
Stuck, I rolled down the car window, hoping the breeze coming in off the bay would sweep the smell of my father away. I gulped air, the man’s gaze holding mine now, beneath the glasses and sign and smell of my father. Instead of ocean brine, I bit into the grit of the desert—his favorite place—hot and dry in my mouth. It swam in through the open window, choking me.
When the man on the corner stepped off the curb and into the street, I slammed my foot on the gas, heard the crunch of metal on metal and the blast of the airbag exploding into my face.
I don’t know what happened after that.
When I woke, an EMT swirled smelling salts under my nose. I watched the red lights swim around in their glass cages.
I was picking grains of sand from my teeth for days. I never saw that man again.
After a long pause, the woman from the insurance company says, That’s all very interesting ma’am, but we really just need to know if you are on any medication or have a medical condition that might have contributed to your episode.
Oh, I say. No.
Kari Treese received her MFA from Mills College. She teaches math during the day and eats words at night. Kari’s a fish person, for whatever that’s worth. Her work has appeared in Hobart, Pithead Chapel, Lunch Ticket, Rivet, and others. She is a fiction reader at Atticus Review. She tweets @kari_treese.
