Kind Like Katey

My sister Katey and I were in high school, and of course, there were boys.

It was late one night. And when I say late, I don’t mean we probably should’ve been in bed late.

I mean 2 a.m. late.

We were on the phone with some boys, and somehow we had decided that these boys were going to come pick us up.

At 2 a.m.

Because apparently teenage April and Katey thought this was a perfectly reasonable plan.

Somehow, my dad got wind of it. To this day, I don’t know exactly how. Maybe we weren’t being nearly as quiet as we thought we were. Maybe our brother heard us and went and told on us. Honestly, either one is entirely possible.

But suddenly, my dad came storming into my bedroom.

In his underwear.

And not just any underwear.

Red underwear.

That detail has somehow survived all these years crystal freaking clear.

He was PISSED.

He started telling us we were absolutely not going anywhere—and when I say telling, I mean yelling.

Now, two teenage girls who had just been caught trying to sneak out of the house at two in the morning probably should have realized this was a good time to shut the hell up.

We did not.

We argued back.

Because apparently Katey and I had absolutely no sense of self-preservation.

And that’s when things really got heated.

I can still picture my dad standing there in those damn red underwear, his face getting redder and redder while Katey and I argued our case like there was any chance in hell he was going to suddenly say, You know what, girls? You’re right. Go ahead. Have fun. See you in the morning.

There was not.

I know we didn’t go anywhere that night.

I know my dad never laid a hand on either of us.

And I actually do remember the boys. Well, at least one of them. He was my high school sweetheart, which probably explains why teenage me thought sneaking out of the house at 2 a.m. was worth facing the wrath of my dad.

What I don’t remember is how the whole thing ended.

I remember Dad storming into the room. I remember the red underwear. I remember the yelling. I remember Katey and me arguing back. I remember Dad’s face turning beet red.

And then…nothing.

Somewhere after that, the memory just stops.

And God, I wish Katey were here to fill in the rest.

I’d give anything to be able to call her and say, “Do you remember that night Dad came storming into my room in his red underwear because those boys were coming to get us?”

I know she’d remember something I’ve forgotten.

Maybe she’d remember who told Dad. Maybe she’d remember what we said. Maybe she’d remember how the whole thing finally ended.

Or maybe she’d tell the story completely differently, and we’d spend twenty minutes arguing about which one of us remembered it right.

That’s something I never realized grief would take from me.

When you lose someone who has been beside you for most of your life, you don’t just lose them.

You lose the other keeper of your memories.

There are stories that belonged to the two of us. Memories where she held pieces I didn’t, and I held pieces she didn’t. Together, we could usually put them back together.

Now I’m left with my half.

I remember the boy.

I remember the yelling.

And I will never forget those red underwear.

I just wish I could remember the ending.