Free Few Kinds of Wrong by Tina Chaulk Page A

always toted tools to him and brought small parts over. All while Mom watched TV or stayed in the kitchen baking or did the dishes. Mom seemed to take hours in the evenings doing the dishes. On Tuesday nights Mom went to bingo with Mrs. Murphy. That was the night Dad and I ate fast food in the truck on the way home and went straight to work on the car.
    Dad had never taken a vacation before he got Bessie. But in the six years it took to fix her up, he took three weeks each year. Every day of it was spent with Bessie, except one day in the second year when Dad wanted to take me fishing. Mom was invited to come but decided against it, sighing when she said, “It would be nice to do something as a family while you’re on vacation.”
    â€œThis is a family trip,” Dad said, touching Mom’s arm, an act as affectionate as I’d ever seen between them. “If you come with us.”
    â€œI don’t like fishing,” Mom said, pulling her arm away. “And you know it.” She went to their bedroom, shutting the door with a firm bang. Not a slam so much as an aggressive close.
    The next day Dad told me we weren’t going fishing. We were going to drive to Butter Pot Park with Aunt Henrietta’s fold-down camper trailer to camp for the whole weekend.
    We didn’t last one night. At about three in the morning we drove back to St. John’s. A small tear in the mesh around the trailer had allowed entry to tiny visitors. I awoke to a nightmarish choir of hundreds of whining mosquitoes and the feeling of them biting into my flesh. I started to cry. A rain that could soak you in seconds had started so Dad took me out of the trailer and into the truck in a garbage bag with holes cut out for my head and arms.
    Mom and Dad were dripping wet on the ride back, the silence in the car broken only by our incessant scratching and the monotonous sound of the windshield wipers that lulled me into a restless sleep full of insect nightmares. When I was settled into my bed at home, calamine lotion on my numerous fly bites, I heard them first talking, then yelling, the sounds of their anger muffled by the walls between us.
    On that day of my sixteenth birthday, I squealed in the rec room. As we were leaving to go to the garage, Mom came in and asked if everything was okay.
    â€œMom, look what Dad gave me,” I said, my voice trembling with excitement.
    â€œWow, he’s going to let you drive it. He’s never even let me drive it.” She smiled at me then looked to Dad where her smile faded.
    â€œNo, no, Mom, he gave her to me. Bessie is mine.”
    She stared at the key in my hand until finally she reached over, kissed me on the cheek and whispered, in a dull and breaking voice, “That’s wonderful. Happy birthday.” She turned and walked out, not even looking at Dad before she left.
    â€œYou didn’t tell Mom?” I asked, knowing that it didn’t seem right to make such a large decision without her input. Bryce followed Mom outside and I heard them whispering in the hallway.
    â€œYour mother don’t bother with stuff like that. I’d say she’ll be happy that the old car will belong to someone else. I think she might be a bit jealous of the old girl,” he said with a wink.
    Dad’s words didn’t change what I felt. As much as I wanted to get behind the wheel of that gorgeous old blue car, I saw something in Mom’s face, a sadness I wanted to make better.
    â€œMom,” I called out after her.
    Mom poked her head back in and I saw the remnants of tears in her eyes.
    â€œWant to drive her first?”
    I didn’t look at Dad, didn’t want to see how he might feel about what I was doing with this very generous gift. I just looked at Mom and saw her face fill with a broad smile. I don’t think I’d ever seen her look so happy and so sad all at once.
    â€œYou go ahead. Maybe another time,” she said, her voice thick with