Chapter 21

21

The girl's father kept promising to bring her a puppy one day but never did. He did that a lot—made promises. "One day we'll go to the ocean. We'll walk on the beach and pick up seashells and sea glass." The girl had talked about it for days. She drew pictures of the seaside and read about the Pacific Ocean and all manner of sea creatures from the set of World Book Encyclopedias on the bookshelf.

"Did you know that the blue whale is the biggest animal in the world, but its throat is smaller than my hand?" she said, holding up her fist in demonstration.

"He's lying, you know," her mother said, flicking through a magazine. "He does this all the time. It's never going to happen."

When the girl thought about it, she knew her mother was right. Her father was always saying things like this. Two years ago, he promised to take them to Disney World but balked when she kept bringing it up. "Do you think I'm made of money?" he snapped. "I don't want to hear another word about it."

And last year, he started talking about taking a trip to the Wisconsin Dells that had a hotel with a water park right inside. It seemed like this time they might really go, but then her father came home and said, "Sorry, I've gotta work."

But still, the girl was hopeful that he'd bring her a dog—a cat even. She started standing on the chair beneath the window so she could hear the rumble of his truck's tires. Each time her father came through the door, she stared at his jacket pockets hoping to see movement. That happened sometimes on television—the dad would come home with a puppy tucked in his pocket. But there was never a dog.

She had finally given up when one day her father came home carrying a big cardboard box. The girl's heart soared. Finally, she thought. He set the box on the table and the girl rushed over in anticipation.

"Brought you something," he said.

"Can I open it?" the girl asked, and her father nodded. Even her mother was intrigued and came over to see what he brought.

The girl lifted a flap on the box and expected to see a tiny nose poke out. Instead, a musty, dry scent filled her nose. She lifted the second flap. Inside were books. Dozens of books. Old ones based on the smell and the shabby covers.

The little girl looked up at her father and did her best to hide the disappointment. Books were nice. The girl loved books, but there wasn't a puppy in the box and these books were dog-eared and not well cared for.

"What?" her father asked sharply. "You don't like them? I made a point to stop to pick these out for you and I don't even get a thank-you?"

The little girl sniffed and rubbed her eyes. "Thank you," she said blinking back the tears and reaching into the box. She pulled out one with a coffee-colored stain across the front of it.

"I don't even know why I bother," her father said knocking the book from her hand. The girl shoved her fingers into her mouth to take away the sting. "Ungrateful little shit," her father muttered pushing the cardboard box from the table. The books spilled to the floor with a crash and the girl watched as her father stomped up the steps and locked the door behind him.

Later, after he left, her mother pulled the girl onto her lap. "See," she said, stroking her hair. "I told you he lies. It's better not to get your hopes up."