Finding Paige

Chapter One: No Luck at All

"If we didn't have bad luck, we wouldn't have luck at all." That's what mother always told us growing up.

Nothing ever goes right in the Flemming household, especially when you try your damndest to make something work. The accident left the whole family shaken. Jennifer was so used to having someone to talk to, and share her deepest secrets with. Now? Now she sneaks out, parties, skips class, and hangs with the wrong crowd. Her way of coping I presume.

Our father Daniel started drinking again. Sober for three years before the accident, but each night he finds himself swirling that crystal glass filled halfway with scotch and ice at O'Brian's Pub by his office. I can't even remember how many times Jennifer had to go pick him up from the bar because he had a few too many. Mother stopped going to get him, she doesn't want to fight, and I don't blame her. The last time she picked him up, he yelled the entire way home, "It's your fault she's gone! It's your fault she's gone!" over and over again. He got out of the truck and threw a rock from the driveway at her head. Sixteen stitches and a vicodin prescription later, she just sits at home reading every night after work.

Don't get me wrong, Marcella is a good woman. She was always the best mom, hell, she still tries her hardest to be there for Jennifer, but she buries herself in those damn books. The nightstand has every single Nicholas Sparks novel stacked on top of it.

Her "finished pile" is what she calls it.

Lately, she's been afraid to sleep. The nightmares are getting worse, and more detailed. She finds herself drifting off to sleep, but shakes herself awake to keep from reliving that night.

The other side of the bed is usually untouched. Daniel likes to sleep off his hangovers on the futon in the guest bedroom while Jennifer sneaks out to numb her mind with the next best drug. Coke, Molly, Ecstasy, she's pretty much done them all. Waking up half naked in a stranger's house, a grey-haired naked man lying across her abdomen in nothing but his boxers, not even remembering what happened the night before or how she got there. That's about as bad as it's gotten.

On the weekends, Daniel wakes up and does the same routine. The alarm goes off at 5:30am Saturday morning, he gets up and makes a cup of coffee, walks into his bedroom and kisses his wife on the forehead as she sleeps. He opens the door to Jennifer's room to see if she made it home from the previous night's festivities, and then makes his way down the hall to my room. Standing there for a moment before opening the door he says the same thing he always says,

"I miss you P-Bug."

He's called me that for as long as I can remember.

He sits on the edge of the bed and tells me about his day and how much of an asshole his boss is, and how he wishes more than anything that he can have his family back. 

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He wipes the tears from his eyes, the occasional stream falling into the black pool of coffee in his cup, walks out of the room and shuts the door behind him. The clacking sound of the door hanger as he heads down the hall echoes off the pictures lining the walls.

The garage in the backyard is a bright yellow with brown doors, but it's seen much better days. The only one who goes back there anymore is Dad, and even he cringes every time he opens those giant doors. Partially built siding, broken wood, dust and tools cover the floor of the building. Two saw-horses on each side of the garage are the only thing holding the almost finished boat. It is a pearl white, freshly painted the night before but still needing a few touch ups to make it perfect. Dad always was a perfectionist. The faint sound of tires wrestling with the gravel as Jennifer's old 1997 Tiffany Blue Beatle pulls into the driveway. Headlights shining across the yard, illuminating the swing set we used to play on as kids, the blue slide still cracked from the tree that fell a few years back.

Noticing the garage door is open, she parks the car and hesitantly walks toward the yellow building. Her head still pounding from the night before, she runs her hands through her hair, tossing her pink plaid shirt over her shoulders and putting each arm through one at a time. She takes a deep breath before walking up behind Dad.

"It's almost ready to hit the water again," Dad says with a smile.

"I don't even know why you're so persistent on getting this thing running again. I mean, my sister died because of this thing for Christ's sake. Why are we trying to memorialize it?" Jennifer asks with an attitude.

I guess my sister doesn't understand where he's coming from. Does she not remember the countless drunken nights when Dad would come back here and yell at the boat? It's not the boat's fault, it's not anyone's fault. Accidents happen.

"Jennifer, you two got me this boat for Father's Day. You saved up your allowance for months before you bought it. Told me it would do an old man good to have a hobby. It was beat up, rusted, and down right ugly, but it was mine," Daniel says. "All three of us worked on this thing until the sun went down, almost every day. Took us four months to get it ready for the water, but when we finished, man did it look good. Paige was so excited, she actually slept in the boat that night, right here in the garage. The next day, we took it out on the lake and had the best day I think we've ever had."

"Lake Mantoc, I remember," my sister Jenn adds.

"That's why I'm doing this Jennifer. Not to remember what happened to your sister, but to remember the days we had as a family with this," Dad continues.

"Alright, but can you at least let me paint the name on the side?" she asks with a smirk.

"Of course sweetheart. What do you want to call it?" asks Dad.

"How about, "SS Finding Paige"?" my sister asks smiling.

"That's perfect honey," Daniel says, leaning in to give my sister a hug.

Jennifer picks up her purse and heads toward the house, while my dad goes to shut the door. He spends all day in there, working away and talking until the sun goes down, only coming out to eat or use the restroom. Whistling the same slow tempo song while he sands down the sides of the boat, enjoying the occasional bite out of his reuben sandwich. The sun is starting to rise, the rays gleaming through the treeline surrounding the house.

My sister starts running the hot water for a bath and strips off her clothes. She stands in front of the mirror, glancing from one side of her body to the other, fresh bruises cover her legs, unable to remember how she got them. Subtle indentations of blue and purple contusions as she runs her fingers across them. The look of disappointment washes over her face as she dips her feet into the bathtub. Placing her phone on the edge of the sink and putting her favorite music playlist on shuffle, she slides down into the tub and drifts off to sleep.