Redemption Complex

Chapter 1: Mr(s) Big Time

"Rheese! Be an angel and get me the small wench? I left it somewhere near Marie-Anne's truck. God that woman is hopeless." Dad had already slided back under the car when I started giggling. Marie-Anne was a lovely old woman and long-time customer. Our very first customer when Dad and I moved to Maurice River, too. Whenever she came by to get her old, rusty truck fixed she brought self-made pie because she knew what a hopeless case it was. Dad had tried to convince her of a new one for so long but she was as stubborn as me, he said. She loved that stupid thing, told us the story of how her husband rushed her to the hospital in it when their first child was on the way. I loved hearing about her life, and the more I knew of it, the more I ended up understanding her persistence to keep it. "When I join my dear Billy one day, then you can finally get rid of it", she joked this time when Dad gave her the obligatory speech about lacking replacement parts and money.

"Which one?" "The 15/16 should do it!" I swiftly brought it over to him. "What's the story behind this one anyway?", I asked because a small Chevy car stood out in our garage. It looked almost brand new too, even though the model itself was an older one. Dad resurfaced, stood up and leaned against it with a dumb smile on his face. He fixed his glasses and cleaned some sweat off his forehead. "I got it for you." "What? For real?!" "I got worried you'd never ask, sweetheart! Sure had me waiting." I couldn't contain my excitement anymore and attacked him with the tightest hug ever. "Holy shit! Thank you! But...why? I don't mind borrowing yours, you know!" He laughed and patted my back. "Yeah, I know, I know. But in two months you're officially an adult and as is tradition, you should get your own car by then!" "How come I never heard of that tradition before?" Laughing, he dangled the keys in front of me. "Well, because I just introduced it! Take a seat. You can't drive yet, but by your birthday it'll be ready to go, I promise."

It hadn't been the only broken promise.
The Chevy had collected dust over the years and I felt like I'd interrupted a strange peace when I pulled the handle to take my last seat in it. The garage was dead silent. Marie-Anne's truck was gone just like her. My grandparents had made me close down the shop long ago, told me I wasn't capable of running it. They owned the property so there was nothing I could have done. What a waste it had been. Everything was still at its place. Dad's assortment of toolboxes created an organized mess near the east wall and I could almost still hear the radio playing a bad signal country station from way out of town.

My hands closed around the faux leather wheel and I imagined a life where this little Chevy became my rusty truck. In my head I picked up dad from work or from one of his friends after too many beers. I drove to a big city and came home with a handsome guy with kind eyes. We took the Chevy to go on vacation with our mutual friends and later our children. I sang in it on my way to work and sometimes the kids and I did silly little dances in the backseat. But all of this would've only worked if dad showed up again, if I'd see him again in front of me now, slapping his hands on the hood and telling me it'd all been a bad dream.

But he didn't show up, of course he fucking didn't. That day seven years ago was the last time I'd hugged him while he was still breathing. My real last hug had been when I found him at home, lifeless in his bed. He hadn't even left me a letter like the people in movies always did. What was I supposed to do? Why did he decide to leave me? My grandparents had blamed me for it all. Finally a new victim after they'd called mum responsible for his depression for years. As if she chose to die. I'd left them a letter, did them one better than Dad did me. Actually, two, because I had no intention to end my life so they wouldn't need to spend a few thousands of their dirty dollars on my funeral. They were rich, but their money came at the price of your soul. Dad had been right about never taking it unless absolutely necessary. My letter to them was short, definitely short enough to be read before the inevitable 'she's being dramatic again' eyeroll. A "Thank you for nothing", a "You're finally rid of me" and a whole hearted "Fuck you" was all they deserved in my book and I didn't tell them where I intended to go.