To this day, Eve can’t stand caramel, not the sight or taste of it. It happened on the longest car ride, when she was 12.

It was in the darkest morning hour on May 17, while the rest of town lay in a deep slumber. Her little sister Celia was curled into a ball on the back seat of the car, fast asleep. The road stretched long and lonely, with no other cars or signs of life as they passed. In the front, a wall of silence divided her mother and father, as they stared out as far as they could see in the distance.

Johnny Cash had been playing on the tape deck, ironically stuck repeating “We’ll Meet Again” for the entire ride. The blurry lines of the headlights on the road, and the smooth ride of the highway hypnotized her. Eve picked out a piece of caramel candy wedged in the back seat, quietly unraveling the clear plastic before her mother could scold her.

The sweet notes of the caramel filled her mouth up quickly. Eve rested her head against the cold metal rim of the car door, humming the words she knew in her quiet voice. Suddenly, they were stopped somewhere she didn’t know.

Eve was last to get out of the car. She dragged her feet out to join her family. Her mother was wiping her eyes, Celia was picking at the dandelions at her feet, picking them to pieces.

“Evie, I’ll be seeing you,” he’d said in his gentlest voice. “Real soon. I promise.” She nodded, without really understanding what was happening. And it hit her all at once, like lightning coursing through her body. He spoke as if he were going to the store, he’d be right back. The change in his voice gave her a funny feeling. Maybe he might never be back. And the taste swirling in her mouth felt so bitter and rotten.

He bent down on one knee. She was a small bird swallowed up in his arms, trying to wrap her skinny arms around him. The fabric of his Army uniform was coarse and stiff, but she grabbed a fistful of his collar with her hands.

Summer

LISTEN: Letter #12 (May 30, 2002)

Uncle Frank had been two hours late, smelling like chewing tobacco and Red Bull.

Eve heard his heavy footsteps as he trampled in the house, his eyes bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept.

The fishing trip was her mother’s idea. He didn’t have his own fishing pole, instead, Uncle Frank took her father’s, promising he was just borrowing for the day. She carried the box of baits, pieces she and her father had collected over the years. Her lucky lure, the sparkly blue Berkley Havoc Pit boss she picked out when she was nine, it was always the one on top.

The boat docks were silent and deserted, heavy laid in cobwebs from the previous winter. It was still early in the season, with the absence of the crowds, the smell of barbecues, and whirring of jet skis. He steered the boat cautiously out on the open water.

“You’re real quiet. Just like your dad,” he laughed, proud of his observation. “So serious on the water.” Eve reluctantly showed him where their favorite fishing spot had been, but the guilt wore on her, as if she’d betrayed their secret. The first time on the lake was the best part of summer, but everything about it seemed wrong.

Everyone is usually dying to ask. They ask if her father writes her, where he’s at this week, when he’s coming home. But not Uncle Frank. They sat back to back, lines in the water, waiting for what should come next.

“You’re a real pro.” He peered around to see where her line ended up. “I ever tell you the time your daddy hooked me with his fishing lure?” He leaned over into her view, pulled down his bottom lip to show her. “Six stitches.”

It was barely past three when they packed it in. They were just about to pass Mom & Pop’s Dairi Shack off the highway. “Ice cream?” Uncle Frank suggested excitedly, childishly. Eve kept staring out the car window. “Nah,” she said, numb to the idea.

 Winter

The first snow came in like a fury. Just past noon, her mother’s still at church. Marcus was late meeting her at the top of the hill.

“Hey-o,” he called out as he sees her. Out the corner of her eye, she spotted right away he was wearing a plaid wool hat strapped over a matching tomato-red beanie. He looked ridiculous.

Eve was fixated on the old, faded-brown ’86 Chevy pickup belonging to her father. She dug deep to the ground, picking up a pile of snow, shaping it carefully, but it still crumpled under her mittens.

“Lame.”

“Easy, Jethro.” She did a double take. “I can’t believe you wore that. You got to stop letting your mom dress you,” she said, with a cutting sarcasm as she tugged on the corner of his hat. 

“Your dad write you yet?” Marcus backed away, leaning on the wooden fence.

“Nope.” Boff. The snowball was tiny, but made a decent smacking sound against the side of the car.

“Not once.” She took her time with the next one, throwing it dead on with more force. Boff!

“Better.” He added mockingly, “10 points.”

“No way! That was a good one.” She grabbed a fistful of snow and slung it hard as she could at the hood, making a tiny impression. Pop. And over again, until her shoulder started to feel a little raw.

Marcus handed her one the size of a softball. BAM! The impact made her jump back, and there appeared a long crack spread across the windshield.

“And she’s back in the game!” He shot his arms straight up over his head.