Bittersweet

  Copyright © 2015 by Kimberly Loth

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced in any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Cover design by Robin Ludwig

  In memory of Robert Loth

  1959-2010

  TWO YEARS AGO, my dad died. The first email arrived a week later. I thought it was someone’s idea of a sick joke and didn’t read it. But I didn’t delete it either so it just sat in my inbox. Every week, on Sunday, a new one would come. Three months later I broke down and read all twelve of them.

  In the emails my dad told me how much he missed me and reminded me of things we did when I was younger. I didn’t cry because I didn’t feel much of anything. I figured it was normal to feel shut off from my emotions so soon after he died, my mind protecting itself from the grief. But I didn’t expect that nothingness to last for so long.

  The emails still arrived every Sunday.

  I had no idea how my dad did it. At this point, I no longer cared. I looked forward to those Sunday emails. They kept him—and his promises—alive.

  The year I turned thirteen, we promised each other three things. His first was that he would call me once a week, no matter what. For three years he kept that promise. He called on Sundays. Sometimes we’d talk for just a few minutes and other times we’d talk for hours. Now his promise took the form of an email. Which meant that I was obligated to keep the promises I’d made him. Though he did sort of break promise number three. But that wasn’t his fault. It was mine.

  Hiding in my room, I read this Sunday’s email just before my family ate dinner.

  May 12

  From: coasterdaddy@email.com

  To: chocolatequeen@email.com

  Pumpkin,

  You know, I had a younger brother, like you have Teddy. His name was Grant and he cried for days when I left the house at eighteen. He actually hated your mother because he felt she stole me from him. I wish I had been more careful about things then. I wish I had focused more on keeping in touch with him, but I didn’t. I was a selfish SOB. I focused on your mom and my career and nothing else mattered. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.

  Ride on,

  Dad

  I’d barely closed the email when Mom poked her head in my room and, without looking at me, said, “Savannah, we’d like you to join us for dinner tonight.”

  I thought about staying in my room, but at the last minute decided to go. Legally, she could throw me out. I was eighteen. And only a junior because I was held back in kindergarten. I’m deaf. Well, not completely, but enough that my mother didn’t realize it and the teachers thought I was intentionally ignoring them. No one knows why, but I can’t hear normal speech very well. Hearing aids correct it, but I didn’t get those until the end of kindergarten.

  Honestly, I was scared of being on my own. So I listened to my mom. Plus, staying in my room would be a typical Dad play. If he were mad he’d always ignore you until he was ready to deal with it. Never on your terms, always on his. But I wasn’t my dad, so I met my mom halfway. It was the right thing to do.

  Nobody said a word during dinner, except Teddy, who jabbered on about the painting he made in preschool that day. It wasn’t until after we finished eating tacos that she broke the news. My fingers were still greasy.

  “Savannah, hon, we need to talk about some things.”

  I wiped my fingers on an almost dry napkin and grabbed a couple of tortilla chips. My stepdad, Dave, held her hand as if he were giving her moral support or something. I thought briefly about turning off my ears, but then decided that if she needed Dave for moral support maybe I’d at least want to hear what she had to say. Just in case I needed to talk her out of something.

  “I know the last couple of years have been hard for you.”

  I snorted. Hard was the understatement of the century.

  She paused, as if my noise distracted her rehearsed speech. She looked at Dave and he gave her a nod. I rolled my eyes. Would she just get to the point?

  “You’re an adult now, even if you do have one more year of school. We can’t have you pulling any more stunts like you did with the skunk. You need to take on some responsibility.”

  Like I hadn’t heard this lecture a bazillion times already.

  I chomped down hard on a tortilla chip, hoping to drown out her voice. My fingers reached for my hearing aids, to flip the little switch off. Mom watched me lift my hand, so instead I just ran my hand over my head. The absence of hair was still distracting. She exhaled.

  “Your Uncle Grant called last night and asked if you would be interested in heading up to Minneapolis to work with him. He just got promoted to general manager. Dave and I thought it would be a good idea for you to get out of Albert Lea and work for a while.”

  My brain quickly raced through the possibilities. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what Grant did for a living. I knew he was young, only ten years older than I.

  “But what about my friends?” Not that I had many of those now that Candie had betrayed me. She hadn’t even tried to contact me since that horrid morning.

  “They will survive a few months without you. You’ll be back to finish your senior year.”

  “What about Teddy? You need me to babysit.”

  “I’ve already spoken with Candie. She’s thrilled to babysit this summer. Listen, you’ll work a lot of hours. This will be great for your college fund.”

  Mom had no idea that Candie was a backstabbing bitch. If she did, she wouldn’t be so keen on having Candie babysit. But I couldn’t tell her that. It would just lead to more questions that I didn’t want to answer.

  “We’ve been over this. I don’t need a college fund, Dad’s life insurance will pay for that.”

  “Well then find something else to save up for.”

  “I forget what Grant does.”

  “Grant is the general manager of Haunted Valley. The amusement park.”

  No way.

  “I hate roller coasters.”

  “You love them.”

  “I hate them. You can’t make me go work there. You know why.”

  I clenched my fists together and my stomach knotted. This was what anger felt like. I took a couple of deep breaths trying to bring back the nothingness. It was better than this. Roller coasters. No.

  Mom exhaled.

  “Your father has been dead for two years. You can’t keep pretending he’s going to show up one day and you can start where you left off. He would want you to do this. Besides, you don’t have a choice in this matter. Grant will come pick you up on Tuesday. You can sulk tonight, but tomorrow you’ll need to pack.”

  I escaped back into my room and paced next to my bed. Roller coasters. Why would she do that to me? I must’ve really pissed her off this time. I’m not sure which stunt got me sentenced to the summer of hell, but it was either the dead skunk or my hair. I suppose it also could have been the tattoo. Mom was none too pleased when I walked into the kitchen sans watch and she spied the ink on my wrist.

  “Savannah,” she had scoffed, “why would you want that permanently etched on your skin?”

  For a second I had thought about telling her, but then remembered that she wouldn’t have understood, so I took a bite of a bright yellow apple that I hardly tasted and left the kitchen without answering her. It was nev
er mentioned again.

  Which was why I thought my punishment was more about the skunk or my hair. Probably the hair.

  I sat down at my desk and checked out Grant’s Facebook profile. He hardly ever posted anything. He worked at Haunted Valley, his employees loved him (seriously, the only posts on his wall were from his employees saying things like, “You rock Grant.”), and he was single. He didn’t even have a picture of himself, just the logo for Haunted Valley. In spite of myself, I was curious as to who he was. Would he be like Dad? Or did he escape the family curse? I’d find out soon enough. I couldn’t believe I had to spend two whole months in the eighth level of hell called Haunted Valley.

  I started pacing again. I looked around. I didn’t want to leave the only place where I could hide out. The wall at the foot of my bed had two bulletin boards. One was completely empty. Previously, it had contained pictures of my best friend, Candie. A week ago though, the day of the infamous hair incident, I had taken all those pictures off the board and torn them up. The shreds still littered the floor. I picked one up that had her face on it. It was from two years ago. In the background was a Ferris wheel.

  She had a sad smile on her face. That day at the fair was the last one before I had to leave to spend the summer with my dad. Candie had cried on and off that whole day because she didn’t want me go. Two weeks later I unexpectedly returned, my dad dead. She didn’t leave my side for the rest of the summer. She’d sit on my floor and sing songs or jabber on about stupid things, while I lay on my bed in a grief stricken stupor. Once, she brought a book and read to me. The week before school started, I agreed to go out for ice cream with her. She was so happy she cried.

  I couldn’t figure out how she could cry from happiness, when I was so depressed I couldn’t even summon a single tear. Still couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. I crumbled the picture and dropped it on the floor.

  The second bulletin board was filled with pictures of Amsterdam, Brussels, Zurich, and chocolate. Lots of chocolate. In the middle of the board was a map of Europe with all the best chocolate shops marked. I took off the map, folded it carefully, and put it in my backpack. I’d put the map above my new bed at Grant’s house. It would remind me that the summer, no matter how hellish, had a purpose.

  I looked down at my watch. It was still early. I sat on my bed and stared at the chocolate bulletin board again. Then, before I could think about it too much, I dug my phone out of my pocket and dialed.

  I almost hung up when my stepmom, Gina, answered. I’d only talked to her a handful of times in the last two years. She sent me chocolate every month and I always sent her a thank you note, but neither one of us could stomach being on the phone with each other for more than a few minutes. The memories were too raw.

  “Hey, Gina.”

  “Oh, Savannah, I was going to call you this week. How are you?”

  “My summer’s gonna suck.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s going on?”

  “Mom’s making me work with Grant this summer at Haunted Valley. Did you ever meet him?”

  “Your Dad’s brother? A few times. Your Dad never talked about him much. He seemed nice enough. He was quite a bit younger than your Dad, but was always more responsible.” My stomach tightened at the mention of my father.

  “That’s good. Do you remember a few years ago we talked about doing a chocolate tour of Europe?”

  She laughed. What a strange sound. “Yes, I do. We were supposed to go during Christmas break of your senior year. You said it would be an early graduation present.”

  “That’s this coming year.”

  Her voice lost its cheer. “Oh, honey, I—”

  I interrupted her before she could continue. “I don’t expect you to pay for it. That’s what I was calling about. For the last couple of years, I thought it was just a pipe dream. But if I work this whole summer and save the money, I should have enough to actually go. I want you to come with me. It won’t be same if I go alone.”

  She sighed on the other end of the phone. Gina only ever sighed before giving bad news.

  “I wish I could, but I’m going to be tied up at Christmas. I was hoping you would be available to be here with me.”

  I creased my eyebrows, confused.

  “Why?”

  “It’s been two years. I’m getting married and I want you to be a bridesmaid.”

  I nearly dropped the phone. What right did she have, his wife, to move on when I couldn’t even summon a single stinking feeling? She couldn’t get married and be happy again. That wasn’t fair. I took a deep breath. She spoke again.

  “Will you be my bridesmaid? I really want you there.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ll be in Brussels.”

  I hung up the phone.

  WE MET AT CRACKER BARREL, which was just mom indulging me. My favorite meal in the whole world was biscuits and gravy from Cracker Barrel. If I could I’d subsist on chocolate alone, but I tried that right after Dad died and nearly ended up in the hospital.

  “Grant just texted me that he already has a table. We’ll eat and then you two need to get on the road,” Mom said.

  I recognized him immediately even though I’d only met him twice before, once at a family reunion and then again at the funeral. He had the same dark hair and eyes my dad had. Except skinnier. Grant gave my mom an awkward hug and shook Dave’s hand. They all smiled at each other. I sat down before he could touch me at all.

  He tugged at his collar and smiled at me. It wasn’t a real smile, it was the kind of smile you gave when you felt like you were supposed to smile but didn’t really want to.

  “So, Savannah, how was your school year?”

  “Oh, fine. I got suspended, barely passed my classes since I wasn’t allowed to take the finals, and got dumped by my boyfriend.”

  This was a test. If he were like my dad, he’d say something funny to lighten the mood. Dad hated anything serious.

  Grant frowned and fidgeted with the menu. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope this summer will be better for you.”

  Fat chance of that. I rolled my eyes. He seemed so unsure of himself. Which was odd, because Dad was always the life of the party and completely in control of social situations. This aspect of him I didn’t inherit. Well, I did. I used to have it, but then he died and I threw it away.

  They made small talk until the food arrived. Grant didn’t try addressing me again. Probably didn’t want me to tell him how horrible my life was. Just as the food arrived I hiccupped. Damn. My mother glared at me and Teddy giggled.

  Hiccups are part of the family curse. Through my dad’s side, of course. We didn’t just hiccup. We made a loud and obnoxious noise that was more like a crow cawing. There was no way to get rid of them, I just had to wait them out. My mother always had new suggestions on how to stop them and they never worked. My hiccups were unbelievably embarrassing in class, but mostly they just reminded me that I’d inherited a curse that killed my great-grandfather during the Depression, my grandfather after Vietnam, and most recently my dad. There were other signs of the curse, but the first was always the hiccups. When I was little I thought the whole thing was about the hiccups, that my grandfathers died of hiccups. It wasn’t until a few years before my dad finally died from the wretched curse that he tried to convince me that hiccups had nothing to do with it. Sometimes, I still thought the hiccups were going to kill me.

  “Damn curse,” I muttered.

  Grant put his fork down. “Not you too.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Your Dad was always going on about the curse. It doesn’t exist. He made it up as a party story to deflect attention off of his hiccups.”

  “That doesn’t make it any less real. He’s dead, isn’t he?” I met his eyes. Those tiny almost-black eyes that were just like Dad’s.

  “From a disease, not a curse.”

  “Disease, curse, same thing.”

  He put his fork down and crossed his arms. “It is not the same thing, if your Dad had
recognized it as a disease then he would not be dead.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but my mother cleared her throat. Grant and I looked at her and then turned our attention back to food.

  The rest of dinner was tense and silent. Except for Teddy jabbering on about Thomas the Train. To try to distract myself I listened to him intently. Half way through dinner, Grant looked at me but spoke to my mother.

  “Savannah will have orientation on Tuesday. She’ll have to spend tomorrow getting up to dress code.”

  My head jerked up and I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I asked.

  “Your nails can’t be black. You can paint them a light pink, but no black or bright colors. You’ll have to remove the ring in your eyebrow.” I dropped my fork. This would not do at all.

  “What about brown, can I paint them brown?” I wanted to continue, to explain that my nails were not black at all, but a dark brown of the richest chocolate. The kind that comes from Argentina. They couldn’t be black, because I threw the black nail polish away after Candie betrayed me and I shaved all the hair off my head. Before I could finish, he shook his head and took a bite of his omelet. I glared at my mom.

  “You didn’t tell me they were going to make me change the way I look.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t know. But you’ll do it.”

  “I can’t remove my eyebrow ring, it will close up.” My palms began to sweat. This was not the way I’d envisioned my summer. Pretending to be someone else. I was eighteen and they weren’t going to boss me around.

  Grant scowled.

  “If you want a job you will,” he held my gaze, which was hard because it was like staring straight into my father’s eyes.

  “I don’t want a job anyway.” I shoved a biscuit in my mouth, emptying my plate, and waited for him to retort. He just looked at my mother and sighed. Perhaps he thought he was getting a docile little girl that would do whatever he wanted. The eyebrow ring would stay. I’d see to that.