No Surrender | Eddie Munson

Chapter Twenty-Three: One Night

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: ONE NIGHT

TIME AFTER TIME — CYNDI LAUPER

Sometimes you picture me
I'm walking too far ahead
You're calling to me, I can't hear
What you've said
Then you say, "go slow"
And I fall behind
The second hand unwinds

——————

The lab is gone by election day.

A mysterious tape found its way to several major newspapers. A chemical leak is what they're calling it — a leak that led to Barbara Holland's death.

So it's over. It's gone. I can breathe a little easier.

And now it's my birthday again. Eddie greeted us in the morning, ready with a brand new mixtape for. He said he would've been more creative, only Springsteen's new album came out in June and he knew I'd been silently dying to get the songs on something more permanent than MTV showings.

It plays in the car. Hopper pretends not to approve but I can see that moment when 'Born in the USA' comes on. His hands tighten around the steering wheel but, gradually, he starts to beat out the rhythm. "So, uh," he awkwardly begins, wary not to give me too much satisfaction, "this guy was in Vietnam?"

"He was drafted when he was nineteen. Didn't go, though. Heard he filled the forms out all weird. I mean, this whole album is about his guilt over it."

I wait for his reaction. Whatever history he had with the war, he never talks about it. "Don't blame him," he admits. "There was a lot of guilt, lot of regret."

Shifting in my seat, I focus on the dark clouds that come over his eyes. "Dad?" He hums, his lips twitching into a weak smile at the name. "Did you— Did you fight? In Vietnam?"

"Not in the actual sense. But, yeah, I was drafted right out of high school. Younger than you, now, I guess. I thought— Well, your mother and I, we graduated a couple years apart. Figured we were high school sweethearts, you know? Soulmates or some kind of crap like that. Married when I came home... had you."

I notice the way he changes the subject. It's almost subtle.

But maybe this is my chance.

I huddle further into my coat, tortoise-like. A frown weighs on me despite the fluttering I feel when I hear the next song — gentle pipes, a guitar; Led Zeppelin. I can already picture an unfamiliar kitchen, a spatula microphone, a bush of dark, frizzy hair bouncing along to the music as the tempo picks up. I quickly clear it from my mind and look to Hopper again. "Can we talk?"

"Well," he awkwardly chuckles, "sure, but I don't know what you think we've been doing so far." After a brief silence, the humour in his tone fades and he nods. "Go ahead, kid."

"It's just been on my mind for a long time and— Look, I barely even remember being Sara. Sometimes it feels like it never happened, like all of this is some big lie. And every time you call me that name it gets worse because I know I can't be who you want me to be."

That came out a little more strong than I had intended. Pausing to catch my breath, I wait anxiously for his reply.

For a moment, I worry that he might not. "Oh," he finally utters. "I— I'm sorry, Kid. God, I'm so sorry. Look, I'll start calling you 'Beth' now, okay? Can't promise I'll get it right away but I'll try my best. Don't go easy on me, though. If I slip up, you correct me right away."

I'm already crying. It would be a little humiliating if I didn't see the tears brimming in his own eyes. "Thank you."

"No problem."