Brandy Woods Snow - As Much As I Ever Could

A summer away at Memaws cant rectify everything that fell apart in a single minute, but that wont stop my dad from forcing it on me.

My fingers wrench tighter around the handle grip of Dads Ford Explorer as he hugs the center line, tires thumping over golden reflectors in waves and shooting vibrations through my seat. I glance over my shoulder to make sure the door lock is crammed to its neck into the tan vinyl interior. Not that itd make a difference if he were to flip this thing head-over-end into the muddy goop of tidal flats along either side of the road. If a bodys going to exit a car in a hurry, it sure as hell wont wait for an unlocked door.

These kinds of thoughts never shoved their way into my brain before the accident. Now they circulate like a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle.

I sigh and yank my phone off the dashboard. 4:15 p.m. Only ten more minutes to get my summer of hell underway.

A notification blinks on the home screen. One new email from Trent Casey and all I can see of it is, CJ, things have changed so much this last year that I think Inbox preview cruelty at its finest. A little sneak peek of my on-again, off-again boyfriend kicking me to the curb because Ive been too screwed up to screw him the past year. Not that Id screwed him before, or anyone else for that matter.

I toss the phone in the cup holder and stare over at my dad in the drivers seat, his eyes fixed and hooded as if in a trance. He hasnt spoken in over a hundred miles, but Ive strategically coughed from time to time to make sure theres at least a reaction to the noise, and hes not comatose or something. Plus, its easier than actually talking, and it warrants no response from him. Win-win.

Dad flips on the blinker, its dink-doonk, dink-doonk, dink-doonk signaling a right turn. Into where I have no idea, and unless Memaw has taken up living in a dilapidated open-air shack, hes seriously misguided. He pulls into one of the ten open parking slots, demarcated by rows of conch shells instead of actual painted-on lines. How beachy of them.

Dad lets the engine idle, sliding his phone from the pocket of his polo and pecking out a text message without so much as a word or glance in my direction. I unlatch my seatbelt and open the door, easing out onto the hot, gritty sand, which creeps into my sandals and scratches at the skin.

Where are we? When he doesnt respond, I step beside the open door, banging my hand on the window. Dad, where are we?

Edisto Island, of course, he mumbles, never looking up from his phone, his fingers still moving furiously over the screen.

I point to the rectangular banner draped atop the entrance with what looks like a hand-stenciled Welcome to Edisto Beach, SC! in blue paint. No shit. I mean, what is this place?

Watch your mouth, CJ. Im still your father. He finally looks up long enough to glare across his steering wheel at the banner, squinting as if its written in some foreign language before looking back at me. He waves his hand around. Were obviously at the market.

The entrance isnt a single open-close door, but one of those garage-style deals that pulls down from the ceiling. Oyster shell wind chimes tinkle in the breeze. I take a deep breath, the briny air expanding in my lungs and coating my skin, and somehow start imagining myself as one of those slugs we used to find on the back porch at home and pour salt over. Almost immediately, their slimy little bodies would foam up and implode, turning into a dried-up crispie wed flick off into the grass the next day. Maybe thatll happen to me, and I can simply shrivel up and disappear.

Dad gets out and lifts the back hatch, and I walk to meet him, giving an extra foot shake on each step to loosen the stowaway sand from my sandals.

But why are we here?

This is where Memaws picking you up. He hauls out my two large suitcases and sets them under the overhang. Shes running late, but shell be here within the next twenty minutes.

And youre just gonna leave me here? I thumb over my shoulder.

He stares at me as if Ive just asked for an explanation on the meaning of life, standing like a statue except for the front flip of his thinning auburn hair that tousles with the breeze. That hair, along with his chocolate brown eyes and freckles, are the only things we even share anymore. Everything else is gone. Evaporated.

Dont be dramatic, CJ. I have a long drive home. He slams the hatch, walks to his still-open driver door and slides in behind the wheel. The passenger window rolls down part-way. Ill see you at the end of summer. Bye. The words scarcely exit his lips before the windows rolled up and hes peeling out of the parking lot on two wheels as if hes off to a five-alarm fire.