My Dad... and the vision- again

"Clara, your phone's ringing! Mum hollers from the kitchen. I jump, startled. My journal lays open on my desk in front of me. On the page is a careful sketch of the back of the boys head, his neck, his tousled hair, the hint of cheek and eyelashes. I don't remember drawing it.

"Okay"! I yell back. I close the journal and slide it under my algebra textbook. Tommorrows Thanksgiving, and Mum's been making pies. She's wearing her fifties housewife apron and it's dusted with flour. She hold the phone out to me.

"It's your dad."

I raise an eyebrow at her in a silent question.

"I don't know," she says. She hands me the phone, then turns and discreetly exits the room.

"Hi! Dad," I say into the phone.

"Hi."

There's a pause. Three words into our conversation and he l's already out of things to say.

"So what's the occasion?"

For a moment he doesn't say anything. I sigh. For years I used to practice this speech about how mad I was at him for leaving Mum. I was three years old when they split. I don't remember them fighting. All I retained from the time they were together are few brief flashes. A birthday party. An afternoon at a beach. Him standing at the sink shaving. And then there's a brutal memory of the day he left, me standing with mum in the driveway, her holding jeffrey on her hip and crying brokenheartedly as he drove away. I can't forgive him for that. I can't forgive him for a lot of things. For moving clear across the country to get away from us. For not calling enough. For never knowing what to say when he does call. But most of all I can't get past the way mum's face pinches up whenever she hears his name

Mum won't discuss what happened between them anymore than she'll dish about her purpose. But here's what I do know: My mother is as close to being the perfect woman as is this world is likely to see. She's half angel, after all, even though my dad doesn't know that. She's beautiful. She's smart and funny. She is magic. And he gave her up. He gave us all up.

And that , in my book, makes him a fool.

"I just wanted to know if you're okay," he says finally.

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

He coughs.

I mean, it's rough being a teenager, right? High school boys."

Now this conversation has gone from usual to downright strange.

Right, I say. Yeah, it's rough.

"Your Mum says your grades are good."

"You talked to mum?"

Another silence.

"How's life in a big apple?" I ask, to steer the conversation away from myself.

The usual. Bright lights.. big city. I saw Derek Jeter in Central park yeterday. It's terrible life."

He can be charming too. I always want to be mad at him, to tell him that he shouldn't bother trying to bond with me, but I can never keep it up. The last time I saw him was two years ago, the summer I turned fourteen. I'd been practicing my "I-hate-you" speech big time in the airport, on the plane, out of the gate, in terminal. And then I saw him waiting for me by the baggage claim, and I filled up with this bizarre happiness. I launched myself into his arms and told him I'd missed him.

"I was thinking " he says now. "Maybe you and Jeffrey could come to New York for the holidays."

I almost laugh at his timing.

I'd like to.. I say, but I kind of have something important going on right now.

Like locating a forest fire. Which is my one reason for being on this earth. Which I will never be able to explain to him a thousand years.

He doesn't say anyrhing.

"Sorry," I say, and I shock myself by actually meaning it. "I'll let you know if things change."

"Your Mum also told me you passed Driver's Ed." He"s clearly trying to change the topic.

Yes, I took the test and parallel parked and everything. I'm sixteen. I'm legal now. Only Mum won't let me take the car.

"Maybe it's time wr see about getting a car on your own."

My mouth drops open. He's just full of surprises.

Then I smell smoke.

Yhe fire must be farther away this time. I don't see it. I don't see a boy. A hot gust of gritty wind sends my hair flying out of it's ponytail. I cough and turn away from the blast, swiping hair out of my face.

Tha'ts when I see the silver truck. I'm standing a few steps away from where it's parked on the edge of a dirt road. AVALANCHE, it says in silver letters on yjr back. It's a huge truck with a short, covered bed. It's the boy's truck. Somehow I just know.

Look ay the licenced plate, I tell myself. Focus on that.

The plate is pretty one. It's mostly blue: the sky, with clouds. The right side is dominated by a rocky, flat topped mountain that looks vaguely familiar. On the left is the black silhouette of a cowboy astride a bucking horse, waving his hat in the air. I've seen it before, but I don't automatically know it. I try to read the numbers on the plate. At 1st all I can make out is the large number stacked on the left side 22. And the four digits on the other side of the cowboy 99CX.

I expect to feel crazy happy then, excited to have a such an anormously helpful piece of information handed to me as easily as that. But I'm still in the vision, and the vision is moving on. I turn away from the truck and walk quickly into the trees. Smoke drifts across the forest floor. Then I see the boy, exactly the same as he's always been. His back turned. The danger so obvious, so close.

The crushing sadness descends on me like a curtain dropping. My throat closes. I want to say his name. I step toward him.

"Clara? You okay?"

My dad's voice. I float back to myself. I'm leaning against the refrigerator, staring out the kitchen window where a hummingbird hovers near my mums feeder, a blur of wings. It darts in, take a sip, then flits away.

"Clara?"

He sounds alarmed. Still dazed, I lift the phone to my ear.

"Dad, I think I'm going to have to call you back."