Ockler - Fixing Delilah

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2010 by Sarah Ockler

Sigh lyrics written by R. Alex Morabito.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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Second e-book edition: November 2011

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ISBN 978-0-316-12915-2

For my mother, Sharon Ockler,

who keeps the family stories,

photographs, and treasures,

and for my father, Steven Ockler,

whose love of maple sugar candy found

its way to Red Falls.

1: a position from which it is difficult to escape; a predicament

1: to repair something broken, damaged, or spoiled; to mend

2: to make amends for something wrong

3: to restore a relationship by resolving a disagreement or rift

Claire? Its Rachel. Im afraid I have some bad news.

Mom and I didnt sleep last night. She spent the predawn hours packing and mail-forwarding and making lists with colored Sharpies while I hung out on the couch, drinking cold coffee and trying not to ask too many questions. I was in enough trouble alreadyand that was before Aunt Rachels phone call sent her into overdrive and hijacked my summer plans.

Here we go, Mom says now, clicking the power locks and backing us down the driveway in the dark blue Lexus sedan. Actually, its a black sapphire pearl Lexus sedan, not dark blue. The bill for the custom paint job is tacked to the bulletin board over my deska constant reminder that I still owe her for the dent-and-scratch combo I added when she was out of town last month.

Including the backpack between my feet and a long black dress for the funeral, I brought three bags of stuff for the whole tragic summer. The rest of the black sapphire pearl trunk and the cashmere leather interior is full of Moms matching luggage and carefully labeled boxes of file folders, gel pens, computer cables, a printer-scannerfax machine, andshould she be required during our dysfunctional family trip to showcase her management prowessa collection of smartly tailored pantsuits in taupe, navy, and classic black.

Left turn in four. Hundred. Feet.

An invisible electronic woman navigates us toward the highway from the distant planet Monotone, where everyone is tranquil and directionally adept, but Mom isnt listening. As vice president of marketing for DKI Groupthe most prestigious branding firm on the east coastMom gets multitasking. She could eat a bagel, scan the morning headlines, and get to I-78 with her eyes closed. Even deprived of sleep she drives effortlessly, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping manicured fingers on the dash-mounted touch-screen phone. It takes her eight separate calls to her assistants voice mail to convey what I did in one text message to my non-boyfriend, Finn:

major family shit going down. off 2 vermont 4 the summer. L8trs.

Merge on right. In one. Point five. Miles.

Mom checks her rearview and eases the Lexus into the right lane. Eyes on the road, mind on the goal, and everything will be okay, she says, patting the steering wheel. Its her corporate road-warrior mantra, and shes already said it three times this morning. Usually, Moms mantras are pretty poster-worthy. Mom on doing homework without her help: The more you put into it, the more you get out of it. Mom on working weekends: Youve got to plant the seeds of hard work to reap the harvest of a satisfied client. Mom on home cooking: Im stuck at the office tonight, Del. Theres money in the coffee canister for pizza or Indian.

I want to believe her today, but the view isnt looking too hot from the passenger seat.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Im really not the car-denting kind of girl. Im also not the lipstick-stealing, school-skipping, off-in-the-woods-with-someone-I-barely-know kind of girl, or the kind who loses all of her dignity over a scandalous cell phone picture on a trashy blog. But that is the evidence, exhibits A through E, all stacked up against me, and now Im like the bad guy on one of those cop shows, handcuffed to an airplane seat. Only instead of getting the handsome, tough-but-emotionally-wounded police escort, Im stuck on a seven-hour road trip with Commander Mom and her arsenal of mobile communications devices.

I turn away from her and put on my sunglasses so she cant see the tears stinging my eyes, but its too late.

Delilah, weve been over this already. You cant stay here in Key. Period. She says it like its some big edict passed down by the Supreme Court. Its all I can do not to play the I wish my father was around, because hed [insert better parenting strategy here] card.

Mom continues, tapping my leg for emphasis. Its not just the sneaking out or the shoplifting. Tap, tap, tap.

How many times do I have to tell you? I ask. It was an accident! It was. I didnt even realize the lipstick was still in my hand when I walked out of Blush Cosmetics yesterday, bored and tired from wandering the mall alone.

An accident, Mom says. Like the car? Like your grades? She shakes her head. It doesnt matter, Delilah. Theres a lot of work to do up there. Tap, tap, tap. Other issues aside, youd still be going with me.

Right. Im letting her think shes won an important strategic battle in our ongoing war, but if things were different between us, more like they used to be, Id want to gonot just because I need a break from Finn and pretty much everyone I know in Pennsylvania, but because nothing would be as important as helping my mother and aunt through this tragedy and tying up its many loose endsthe three remaining Hannaford women united and strong as an unsinkable ship.

But things arent different. Shes her and Im me and surrounding us is an ocean of mess and misunderstanding, full of pirates and sharks just waiting to see who slips in first.

Stay on interstate. Seventy-eight for. Fifty. Miles.

After the directive, Mom cranks the air and switches off the freakishly calm GPS woman. Back here on planet Stress, its just the two of us, all the unsaid stuff made more unbearable by the artificial cold.

Now that I have a captive audience, she says, setting us on cruise control as the road opens up, who did you sneak out with last night?

Last night.

Youd think someone whos seen you half-naked would be a little more enthusiastic about picking you up on time. Not Finn forty-five minutes late Gallo. From the drivers seat of his old silver 4Runner, Finn crushed a spent butt into the ashtray and turned down the radio, blowing out a plume of blue smoke from between his lips. He didnt say anything, like, Thanks for waiting in the dark for me, or Im sorry I put your life in danger with my lateness, or Allow me to apologize with this exquisite lavender rose bouquet. He just pulled me to his mouth with one hand cool and firm on the back of my neck and somehow made up for everything bad hed ever done in his whole entire life.