The Crossing

10

The door to his daughter’s room was closed but Bosch saw the light on underneath it. He tapped lightly.

“Hey, I’m home,” he said.

“Hi, Dad,” she called back.

He waited for an invite. Nothing. He knocked again.

“Can I come in?”

“Sure. It’s unlocked.”

He opened the door. She was standing by the end of the bed, bent over and shoving a sleeping bag into a large, wheeled duffel bag. The trip wasn’t for a few days but she was putting together everything that was on the list they gave her at school.

“Did you eat yet?” he asked. “I brought some stuff from Panera.”

“I ate already,” she said. “I didn’t hear from you, so I made tuna.”

“You could have texted.”

“You could have texted too.”

Bosch decided not to go further into their communication practices. He didn’t want to set things off. He pointed at the duffel bag and the array of camping supplies spread on the floor of the room.

“So are you excited?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said. “I don’t know how to camp.”

He wondered if that was a criticism of him. He had never taken her camping. He had never been taken camping, unless his time sleeping in tents and holes in Vietnam counted.

“Well,” he said, “you’ll learn now. You’ll be with friends and it will be fun.”

“All people I’ll probably never see again after I graduate,” she said. “I don’t know why we — All I’m saying is this should be an optional camping trip. Not required.”

Bosch nodded. She was in a mood that would grow darker with every effort he made to cheer her up. He had been down this path before.

“Well, I’ve got some reading to do,” he said. “Good night, baby.”

“Good night, Dad.”

He stepped over and kissed her on the top of the head. He then gestured to the huge gray duffel bag on the floor.

“You should probably carry the sleeping bag separate,” he said. “It will take up too much room in there.”

“No,” she said curtly. “They said everything has to be in one duffel bag and this is the biggest one I could find.”

“Okay, sorry.”

“Dad, how much have you had to drink, anyway?”

“One martini. With your uncle. I left, he didn’t.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I left. I have work to do. Look, good night. Okay?”

“Good night.”

Bosch closed the door as he left the room. He reminded himself that his daughter was at a point in her life with a lot of stressors. She was learning to deal with them, but he was often the target when she let them out. He couldn’t blame her or feel bad. But knowing that was the easy part.

He did feel bad about throwing Uncle Mickey under the bus. He went into the kitchen to eat by himself.