Free Stranger, Father, Beloved by Taylor Larsen Page A

what was in the bag.
    Eventually he began to get drowsy and could not turn down a chance, any chance, to finally get some sleep. He edged the car back onto the road and drove very slowly half a mile to the Exxon gas station, where he parked in its lot away from the pumps and fluorescent lights. Then he crawled into the backseat and easily fell back asleep in the quiet, lying on his side in a fetal position, wondering to himself why he didn’t do this more often. It was such a nice, secret location for sleep.
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    When Michael awoke in the sun-heated car and sat up, the side of his neck was sore and rigid from holding its cocked position. The day was startlingly bright. The air was still sharp and cool, but summer was trying to come through the dazzling sunlight. Soon the days might be too bright, the air too lazy, but for now spring still hung on. Cars were streaming into and out of the gas station, and looking at the clock, he saw that he had only thirty minutes left until Nancy would be coming home.
    Driving up the coast toward the turnoff for his house, Michael remembered the smaller home they had owned before buying this one seven years ago. Upon returning to that house at the end of the day,he had come upon it with dread. He saw it as compressed, squeezed into its lot, wedged in between the two houses on either side, its gray cement driveway sprawling out toward him like a deranged tongue, sick and hot. Michael had never been comfortable there, and he sensed that nine-year-old Ryan had felt the same as he did.
    Back then he had fantasized about moving to a more expansive property, and when they had visited their friends Will and Mary out on the Peninsula, the idea of moving there became his obsession. They had drunk wine on the porch on a shifty, misty night. The clouds would occasionally expose a full moon. He was bewitched by the landscape, the weather, and the wealthy community nestled in the forest. Once he heard that two celebrated writers lived there, he became determined to move. He had inherited a good amount of money when his father died, and that, combined with his salary, allowed him to have more than enough money to move to this beautiful area. The move was seamless, and the first year it seemed as though the house itself were enough to keep them happy. The yard, the forest, the ocean, and the sense of seclusion, with no other house in sight, made the locale seem gothic. In such an elegant place, their peaceful cohabitation felt guaranteed.
    Michael turned and passed a trail head for a hiking area. When Ryan had been in middle school, she and Michael had taken many hikes out into the woods by their property. They had made a rudimentary trail with some cedar chips and logs and built a fire pit for campfires in the backyard. They had often walked to an expansive pond that mixed fresh and salt water, with mussel shells that had been picked over by the gulls that glimmered light purple and black in the shallow water by the weeds. Ryan liked to throw stones in the water and watch them plunk across the surface and then disappear into the sandy bottom. In the summer, they’d swim in the pond, thewater warmer than the shocking Atlantic Ocean nearby. They did go to the ocean, too, to swim, and Michael would hold Ryan while she kicked around in three feet of water, Nancy watching with her hand at her brow, squinting into the sun. After a day spent outside in the fresh air, at night Michael and Ryan read their books together in Michael’s study. The ritual always included a mug of hot chocolate for her. She would sprawl out on the rug and flip through her books, occasionally glancing up at him to check if he was still reading. That little face—so trusting, so perfect. He had taken her into work with him several times on a Saturday because she wanted to read her books near him while he worked, didn’t want to be separated from him. He had been so proud at how well behaved she was at the office, at