Overpowered Read online

  • • •

  By the time the taxi arrived at 33 Whisper Glen Road (I didn’t hear any whispering, much less see a glen, whatever that is, but that’s suburbia for you) it was just after eight p.m. and dark. I was exhausted and ravenous (I’d long since eaten my mother’s bag of food somewhere over the Pacific Ocean) that I actually fantasized about devouring a rich, creamy dish of panaeng goong over noodles followed by a huge bowl of Thai coconut ice cream with palm sugar. In my semidelirious, famished state I actually believed that my father would read my mind and have a big spread waiting for me when I walked in through the door. Surprise! That was the reason he didn’t come pick me up at the airport. Instead of doing rounds at the hospital, he was preparing a traditional Thai meal for me.

  Sami took my two suitcases out of the trunk and walked them to the front door while I snapped several photos of the house (soon to be number twenty on the hit parade of places I’d lived) with my phone for the record. I thanked Sami, paid him, and waved as he drove off. Then I practically skipped up to that bright cherry-red front door and rang the bell, expecting an idyllic father-daughter reunion. I told you I was delirious. I hadn’t seen my dad since he’d visited Bangkok a few months earlier.

  I hadn’t been back since I was two. I had never even been to this house, a cute three-story Victorian in a well-manicured neighborhood of similar homes. Well, at least not that I could remember. My father always preferred visiting me two or three times a year wherever I happened to be living at the moment. He thought it was easier on me and more fun. Made sense to me.

  Those days were gone. Now I was standing right outside the house that would be my home for the next few years, at least until I went off to college, and I felt like a complete stranger. Totally discombobulated. What a weird concept—my home. Doubly weird that I’d be sharing it with my dad, who—let’s face it—was basically my vacation buddy. Weirdest of all, though, was that Dad didn’t answer the door. No one did. I waited a minute, then rang the bell a second time.

  Again, no answer.

  I stood there staring at the house, assessing the situation. I realized there weren’t any lights on. Nor was there a car parked in the driveway. Dear old Dad was most definitely not at home. And he wasn’t answering his cell phone either. Now unless my father had been kidnapped or brutally murdered or suffered some equally heinous fate that left him incapacitated, it became crystal clear to me that he’d forgotten I was arriving. Some welcome.

  Instead of getting all weepy-eyed and feeling sorry for myself or pissed off at being forgotten by my own father, I took matters into my own capable hands. I fished around in my oversized suitcase and pulled out my trusty Swiss Army knife, which was handier than a horny prom date. (You’d be amazed how often in my travels I’d found I needed scissors, or pliers or even a screwdriver.) Then I circled around the house to the backyard for some privacy away from any prying neighbors’ eyes.

  Now, mind you, I wasn’t a professional burglar or anything, but a locked window never presented much of an obstacle to me. Moving around a lot had made me extremely resourceful, especially since my mother had an annoying habit of losing her keys about every other week. Anyway, I wasn’t about to sit on the curb all night waiting for Dad to have a sudden epiphany and remember that his one and only child was arriving and return home. For all I knew, he was hanging with some girlfriend—not that he’d ever mentioned one, but how was I supposed to know what went on between weekly Skype calls and his semiannual visits?

  I scanned the property and immediately found my point of entry—a first-floor bathroom window tucked away on the side of the house. After a quick look up and down the block to make sure no one could see me, I popped out the window screen (easy, really, with the aid of a nail file). Then I wedged my Swiss Army knife blade between the upper and lower portions of the double-hung window and tried to trip the inside lock. Not to brag or anything, but I was doing a good job of working the blade without breaking any glass or splitting the wood frame. Unfortunately, opening the lock was another matter entirely. It refused to cooperate. I couldn’t get it to budge even one millimeter, which was truly annoying. I’d never encountered this secure a latch on any window before.

  Then I felt a hand grab my shoulder. I whipped around in full self-defense mode (courtesy of my Muay Thai kickboxing training), fists tightly clenched, knuckles ready, and power punched my assailant in the arm. Imagine my complete and utter shock when I found myself standing face-to-face with my own father! All six foot two inches of him.

  “God, Dad! Trying to get yourself killed?” I yelled, realizing I had actually punched him. My heart practically exploded out of my chest it was pumping so fast.

  “No more than you’re trying to get yourself arrested,” he quipped back, rubbing his arm. “You got quite a right jab.” It was clear he was equally surprised to find me standing there. He quickly added, “By the way, what are you doing here?” He gave me an awkward hug. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you.”

  What was I doing there? The words hung in the air, as I thought about how I had just flown halfway around the world to move to stupid Barrington, Colorado, of all places. “Uh, last I heard, moving in with you, Dad.” I stared at him in disbelief and plenty annoyed. Clearly somebody had gotten some major wires crossed.

  “Tomorrow, Nica. You were supposed to arrive tomorrow morning.” He scrolled through his BlackBerry, rechecking my flight information.

  “My original flight got canceled, so they put me on the one arriving this afternoon. Mom said she called you. Didn’t she?” I brushed past him on my way back to the front door, hoping he wouldn’t see the hurt in my eyes. Even if my mom had forgotten to call (which was totally possible), my dad could have shown a little more excitement at seeing his only daughter.

  “Oh, she probably left a message on the home phone. I’ve been on call since last night.” Don’t think for a minute I believed that one. Mom had spaced, and Dad was now covering for her. Despite their divorce almost fourteen years ago, Dr. Marcus Ashley still defended his ex-wife every chance he got. In fact, I’ve never heard him utter even a mild criticism of my mother. Sometimes I suspected that he still (inexplicably) loved her. Perhaps that was why he never remarried. My father always claimed it was because of his demanding job. But I couldn’t help but wonder if he just used his job as an excuse. Another one of life’s elusive mysteries I won’t ever get.

  My dad turned and followed me across the front lawn, obviously concerned. “Honey, I’m really sorry about the mix-up.” I could tell by the tone of his voice and the expression on his face he felt pretty awful about such a major screwup.

  “That’s okay. It’s not your fault.” I’d already decided I was willing to give him a pass for the less than ecstatic greeting. I was never one to hold a grudge, at least not against my father. He always went out of his way to be Mr. Responsible (unlike my mother), and I was so hungry and tired that I didn’t have the energy to make him feel any guiltier than he already did.

  “Well, glad to see you made it. Safe and sound.” My dad always used these quaint catchphrases when he was trying to act all parental with me. I think it was due to his ultratraditional upbringing in Youngstown, Ohio, with my grandparents, who were teachers at the state university (Grandma taught literature and Grandpa economics) and only bought American products. In any case, I so didn’t get why, much less understand what, my dad was trying to say. “It’s just a colloquialism,” my mom would respond when I complained. But to me it was like he was speaking Urdu or something.

  I just looked at him and shrugged: “Yeah, I made it all right.” If life with Lydia had taught me anything, it was that I wouldn’t be too disappointed if I just relied on myself. I started to feel cold and asked if we could go inside.

  My father took out his house keys, which dangled from this silly lanyard key ring I had given him for Father’s Day five years ago when I lived in Botswana. I had actually woven the braided rope out of red, green, and black leather stri
ps I’d bought in a Gaborone flea market for about two dollars.

  He stood at the doorstep, keys in hand, for what seemed like an eternity, deep in thought. I looked over at my dad, waiting for him to unlock the door. He glanced back at me, and I thought I detected a flash of anxiety in his expression, which was quickly covered over with a forced smile.

  “C’mon, let’s go inside. Through the door,” he said as he unlocked the front door for me and grabbed my big suitcase. I picked up the smaller suitcase and crossed the doorstep into my new abode.

  • • •

  Home sweet home it was most definitely not. I surveyed the marginal furnishings in the large living room—worn black-leather sofa, streaked glass coffee table, and a battered nineteen-inch television set that was most definitely older than me. The walls were white and bare, except for a lonely Escher poster titled Relativity; one of those freaky black-and-white mind benders where faceless people walked up and down a series of never-ending staircases. At the bottom was a quote: I walk around in mysteries. Imagine waking up to that every morning.

  The dining room was even more pitiful. It only had a collapsible card table (the prefab faux wood type) and four folding chairs, probably courtesy of Staples or OfficeMax. I mean, I’d lived all around the world and moved so many times—from a stone house in northern Morocco to a vast sheep farm in Patagonia—but my mom hung up photos and a few personal knickknacks and always tried to make our temporary digs feel like home. My dad, on the other hand, had lived in his house for twelve years, and it still looked like he’d moved in only last week.

  It was like a bachelor pad without any of the cool stuff. I knew he was a dedicated cardiologist, not to mention an extreme workaholic, but the decor was beyond tragic.

  “You’ve certainly put your personal stamp on the place, Dad.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been hearing motel minimalism is ripe for a comeback,” he said glibly, getting me to smile. No surprise where my sense of humor came from.

  It was then I noticed that all the doors and windows, and I mean all of them, had a series of major locks on them exactly like the one on that bathroom window I’d tried to open. And not just the usual dead-bolt or window-latch variety. These were like super-duper industrial-strength megalocks. The kind I’d seen used in bank vaults and jewelry stores.

  “With just the right accent of high security,” I muttered flippantly as I wondered exactly what valuables my father needed to protect. It certainly wasn’t the furniture.

  “Would you like to see your room? It’s upstairs.” He was just about to take the first step when I interrupted the royal tour.

  “Actually I’m dying to see the kitchen first. I’m starving.” I desperately needed to get some food in my empty stomach before facing what I imagined would undoubtedly be another sad white cell (aka my new bedroom).

  Dad directed me to the airy, traditional kitchen that ran along the back of the house. It was a pleasant room with big windows and a set of French doors, which opened onto what looked like a brick patio with a built-in barbecue. I couldn’t imagine Dad throwing any parties out there, but maybe he had a whole other secret life that I didn’t know about? That thought was wiped away once I opened the fridge and saw what was inside.

  “Sorry, honey,” Dad said. “There’s not much food.”

  “That’s an understatement.” The upper shelves held four eggs, a jar of mustard, two bottles of white wine, some Tupperware containers with unidentifiable food groups, plus a ziplock bag with the remnants of a half-decent-looking chopped salad.

  The bottom shelves of the refrigerator were less appetizing, if that’s possible. They were crammed with all sorts of vials, IV fluids, and medicine bottles. It looked like a hospital infirmary or something.

  “Thankfully, you’ve got plenty of penicillin, should I get a sudden attack of strep throat.” I shut the refrigerator door. “Can we order sushi? Do you have any decent sushi in this town? Or is it strictly burger country?”

  “Actually, we’ve got everything. Even sushi.”

  Relieved, I picked up the phone and was about to ask Dad for the number of the nearest Japanese restaurant when he added, somewhat hesitantly, “Unfortunately, everything closes at nine p.m.”

  “Ha, ha. Nice try.” I shot my dad a dubious no-way-I’m-gonna-fall-for-that look, totally convinced he was playing one of his practical jokes on me. He was known to do that. And I always fell for them. Like the time he convinced me that you could make popcorn without a microwave by just surrounding the bag with four simultaneously ringing cell phones. My dad assured me that cell-phone radiation could really pop those kernels. I even enlisted seven friends to help me prove it was true. I felt like such a moron when we all stood there for several minutes waiting for the kernels to pop, and nothing happened, except that my mother yelled at me to turn off the phones while she was trying to work. Anyway, I was now sixteen and not about to be so easily snowed. Except that one look at Dad’s face told me he wasn’t kidding.

  “Nothing in this town is open past nine p.m.? How’s that possible? I mean, this is America. Land of perpetual consumption, twenty-four-hour supermarkets and fast-food joints giving you whatever you want whenever you want it. I know I’ve been away for a while, but something’s always open for business.” I couldn’t quite wrap my head around this concept.

  Not in Barrington, apparently. “Barrington prides itself on being a sleepy, family community,” Dad curtly explained.

  “Sleepy? More like comatose.”

  “People like having a curfew, Nica. Makes everyone feel safe.” He nonchalantly slipped that in, almost as an afterthought. Talk about burying the headline.

  “Curfew? This stupid town actually has a curfew? I mean, even Amish and Mormon communities allow teenagers out until midnight.” I was horrified. “Is it a legally mandated thing?”

  My dad tried to put a positive spin on this bombshell. “What Barrington lacks in nightlife it more than makes up for in livability. Great schools, low unemployment, and almost no crime.” He sounded like one of those lame marketing ads states use to drum up tourism. (“Virginia is for lovers!”) But my bullshit meter was bouncing off the charts. I wasn’t buying what he was trying to sell.

  “House arrest will definitely keep criminals off the streets,” I said, “and everyone else for that matter.”

  Dad laughed. I guess I was trying to make light of the depressing situation I found myself in, because I didn’t want him to feel bad. I didn’t know what else to do. The fact was, this wasn’t some boring little town I could drive through and forget the next day. I was stuck here. This was going to be my life—one with a tragically limited social existence and a way-too-early curfew. I mean I’d seen sleepy towns and all, but this, doors locked, all inside at nine p.m. was ridiculous. It wasn’t like Barrington was in the middle of a war zone or even had a gang problem. Even Sami the cabbie had said it was the safest town in Colorado.

  “What do you do if someone has a heart attack at ten p.m.? Text your diagnosis?” I was unable to hide my irritation at this point. I think I also used the words “stupid” and “insane.”

  Fortunately, my dad swatted away my comments; he always was way more even-keeled than my mother. “I’m allowed out if someone needs a doctor.”

  “What a huge relief,” I said, not hiding my sarcasm. “Though what happens if, like, your car gets a flat or you can’t get home in time? Not that I’m planning that or anything.”

  “I hope not. I’d hate to have to bail you out of jail your first week here,” Dad replied jokingly, but with a definite undercurrent of seriousness and caution. Then his expression darkened as he stared me right in the eye. “Just promise me you’ll respect the law. That you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Of course.” I nodded, taken aback by the harshness in his voice.

  My father quickly steered the conversation back to the crisis at hand—my growling stomach. He apologized for being so woefully unprepared for my arrival and cheerfully said
we’d have to “wing it.” He pulled out the bag of leftover chopped salad, which he said he’d prepared the night before, and he also took out a couple of frozen enchiladas to nuke them in the microwave. The next day, he said, he’d do major shopping. And then he handed me a pen and a pad and said I should just make a list and write everything I wanted on it.

  “Sushi, most definitely,” I muttered, as I started to fill up the page.

  • • •

  After I devoured the enchiladas and salad, I felt ready. “Okay, let’s see my bedroom,” I said, heading up the stairs. Dad quickly got ahead.

  As he led me through the upstairs hallway past his bedroom—which was pretty basic with a large bed, two nightstands, a chest of drawers, and a comfy reading chair—a sky-blue tiled bathroom, and a linen closet, he was trying to give me a pep talk.

  “Honey, I know you never envisioned living in such a small town like this. But you’re here, and we might as well make the best of the situation. And the thing about Barrington is, as long as you abide by the rules, you’ll find it’s a great place to live.”

  “I’m sure it is.” I tried to be upbeat, but that word “rules” sounded so rigid and constrained. It was such an alien concept for me. I had lived in many different communities and countries with lots of diverse people—from the Masai in Tanzania to the Mapuche in Chile—and never once had anyone ever said that word to me much less tried to limit my freedom.

  Then Dad stood in front of the closed door to my room. “Here we are. It’s not much, but it’s all yours.” When he opened it, I saw a surprisingly cool and kind of perfect bedroom. In fact it was far and away the nicest room in the house. Painted a pretty shade of pale yellow, it had a large picture window with a built-in seat, which overlooked the tree-lined neighborhood. The furnishings—a big bed with an upholstered brown suede headboard, plus a sleek white dresser and desk set—were funky and modern with a sixties retro vibe. On the dresser was a framed photograph of my dad and me trekking through northern Thailand back in February. We’d celebrated my sixteenth birthday in the provincial capital of Chiang Mai, riding elephants and getting soaked during the water-splashing festival of Songkran, honoring Buddha. It was one of the best times I’d ever spent with my dad.