Grandma's pale, wrinkled hands shook terribly as she attempted to slice her red velvet birthday cake. Because of her uncontrollable trembling, the red and white candle in the shape of a ninety-one toppled from the buttercream icing and onto the counter.

"Help your grandma cut a piece, Mesa," Dad said from the kitchen sink, where he cleaned out the ice chest we were to use for the fish we caught at Shit Creek. "After this we're gonna head out to the cottage, Ma."

I placed a deep-red slice on a paper plate and licked the white frosting from my finger.

Grandma coughed and adjusted her oxygen tubes around her ear. "I told you not to worry about celebrating my birthday. Before you know it, you'll be celebrating the powder I turn into. So what's the point?" It took her a while to say her words, but they disturbed me. It hurt deep down in those hidden parts of me when she talked so morbidly. Home should be lively and the celebrations festive.

"Stop it, Grandma." I gave her a look. "I don't like when you talk like that."

She booped me on the tip of my nose with her bony finger. "And I don't like coming in between your much-needed daddy-daughter time. I know how much you both need to break away from my stresses and me. It's normal. It's healthy."

I glanced up at Dad just in time to see him wink and flash a bright smile. Something inside told me to return the smile, almost like the habit switch clicked on, but I didn't. I went ahead and gathered my stuff in a small suitcase for a weekend stay at our home away from home.

"Make sure you stay away from those old dead trees along the trail to the lake," Grandma said. "I don't want you two coming back with more scratches and injuries on your neck and face."

Again, I had the urge to glance at Dad after that comment, but I fought it.

In no time we were on the road, only stopping to put air in a spare tire and fill up the gas can we kept in the back of the truck for emergencies. It was routine, precautions we carried out every time we went to the middle of the isolated desert.

"So glad to finally get away from the city." He heaved a sigh a relief. "I've been thinking about this weekend all month." He cut his once striking gray eyes to me. "How 'bout you?"

"Yeah, me too. I can't wait," I said in mocked enthusiasm.

The way he nodded told me he wasn't convinced, but I didn't have it in me to persuade him of my honesty, especially since I wasn't all too convinced with what came out of my mouth either. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly why I wasn't cheery and playful as usual.

My body just wouldn't perform the way I knew he wanted me to.

A couple hours later, we're finally separated from the rest of the world by the dusty trail we left behind as we pulled up to the cottage. By now the damned place was in much need of repair. The last couple years, the expanding and shrinking of the wooden planks that made up the porch caused some of the boards to severely loosen. Due to the danger of the whole thing collapsing, and the lack of excess money we had to fix it, Daddy and I spent an entire afternoon tearing the porch down.

Weeds and brush replaced the space as they grew uncontrollably over our two absent years. Now we would have to push our way through the thorny branches, past the pile of old and splintered porch wood, to make our way inside. It amused me knowing we would have to work extra hard just to enter. No sign was more apparent other than the words KEEP OUT that should have been plastered over the front door and each window.

He parked the truck, leaving the keys hanging in the ignition, prompting glimpses of memories I wished to forget. I shook my head to prevent that heavy haze from entering and clouding my thoughts.

"You're such a good girl, Mesa." He playfully pulled the strands at the end of my ponytail. "And good girls do anything for their fathers, right?"

"Yes, Daddy." I nodded. "It's just us now. Through sunshine and storms." My words came out empty and rehearsed.

He leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on my cheek. "That's my girl. Come on, let me fix you something to drink."

He exited the car, taking the keys from the ignition and pocketing them.

Why was I so reluctant to follow?

After a few seconds to myself, watching him struggle to get into the house with luggage in one hand and grocery bags in the other, I stepped out of the truck and paused when I caught a glimpse of the barren backyard.

Like a rush of icy-cold water to the face, bizarre visions flashed through my mind, catching me off-guard, paralyzing me in the moment.

Images of Dad on top of me, his body weight crushing me to my bedroom floor for the first time, leaving evidence of his violation and my innocence on the pale wood as an uneven tarnished spot. Another image of him pinning me down outside in the dirt, straddling me, the blood from his injured eye congealed under my fingernails. And then another image of my thigh-high hosiery and pink lace panties strewn around his room. More visions played in my mind like a dirty movie. But the image that moved me to tears was that of his hand inserting puzzle pieces into the puzzle one by one, each time after every incident.

Like the life I had created to seem more normal, were my memories creations too, brought on by the need to mentally escape, to physically endure, to survive?

I shook my head. No, not me. That was them, not me.

I shook the pictures from my mind. Confusion crept up my spine so thick it took on a physical form, blanketing me in a foggy haze, forcing my body to react with uncontrollable spasms.

It was the girls, twelve, twenty, fifty girls who had been forced to live that agony. It was them whose only escape from the anguish was to die, to be killed, so they didn't have to experience further torture at his hands.

Them.

Not me.

Daddy loved me. He hurt those girls, not me.

The girls...

I rushed to the backyard and fell to my knees. All those years and the backyard forever remained barren. With my bare hands I scooped the dirt away, digging a shallow hole. When scooping didn't prove enough, I clawed at the compacted soil, trying desperately to find what I was looking for through my tears. The girls. Where were the girls?

Screams surfaced from under the soil a distance away and crept closer and closer until they were directly beneath me.

"Help us! Help us!" familiar voices yelled in unison until their words mingled into one long, agonizing scream.

I cupped my hands over my ears, nearly overwhelmed by the noise. Dad's words enter my mind, louder than the violent screams, providing a brief reprieve.

"We'll bury it where it will help grow green grass instead of the yellow weeds. Because that's what you do when something dies."