The responding vibration came back less than a minute later.
Sorry, on a date.
Then another:
Wish me luck!
I scrunched up my face, trying not to be too jealous. She was allowed to date. She’d just spent a week with me in another state; I could hardly expect her to hang out with me every second of the day.
After the world’s quickest shower, I took the stairs two at a time till I reached the kitchen. As promised, Mum’s note was stuck to the refrigerator in plain view. I walked over and snatched it out from the magnet’s grasp, crumpling the corner in my hand.
To do list:
Clean house
Get groceries
Spend quality time with your father
Seeing the words hurt. Quality time with your father.
Stab, stab, stab.
I screwed the paper up into a tiny ball and let it loop through the air on its journey to the bin. I couldn’t deal with lists, and forced bonding right now.
I made myself some tea and sat on one of the backless stools lined up at our kitchen bench, staring at my mug. Its soft-brown hue was pretty, I decided. Little bubbles of milk gathered at the sides of the cup, and I focused on them, watching them explode into the deep sea of tea, one by one. Concentrating on that felt easier than concentrating on everything that was happening inside this house. Concentrating on that felt real.
I don’t know how long I was in my reverie, but when I finally took a sip of tea it had turned lukewarm, and the sun was no longer streaming through the window but rather dwindling in the corner. I let one side of my mouth rise in mild amusement. It wasn’t like I had anything to do today, anyway. I didn’t have tour. I didn’t have any commitments for the year ahead, thanks to my lack of college applications due to full-time rock star girlfriend commitments. All I had to do was within this house.
The stark white walls started to feel very close, the air thick and stifling. My heart speed up and I wondered what was wrong with me. Why was it so hard to breathe lately?
My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps again, and I could feel a pounding at my wrist that must have been my pulse. I wasn’t normally so aware of my body and its movements. This wasn’t me. This wasn’t … wasn’t natural.
I needed to get out. Now.
I jumped from my bench seat and burst out into the yard, clutching my stomach. Out there, the air was cool. I doubled over and sucked it all in, big, shuddering breaths that filled my chest from the top of my lungs to their very pits.
Slowly, I felt my heart drop its frantic pace. Slowly, I stopped being so aware of my pulse, and became more aware of the thin rays of light still streaming into the yard and gently bathing my arms and legs in warmth.
Breathe.
It was going to be okay.
“Hello.” Dad’s voice sent my heart rate back to regular speed again. He was leaning in the kitchen doorway, resting on the wall for support. He sounded normal.
“Hi.” I barked the word out.
He stood there, watching me as I studied the grass and the filtered shadows running through it. This was okay. Maybe this would be a one day, or a minus three day. We could be normal.
“You go on tour?” A stilted sentence. That was all it took. “K … kiss that girl …” He sung the words a little. He’d been to almost as many of Dave’s gigs as I had before he disappeared. It was almost ironic he was the reason I wasn’t with Dave & the Glories now. Nor would I be, ever.
“Nope.” I kicked a small stone that lay next to the path and watched it crush a tender blade of grass where it landed.
I hoped it hurt.
“L … let’s get coffee?”
I pursed my lips and studied him, his even frame, folded arms. He looked normal in his checked shirt and blue jeans, nothing like the man who’d shown up drunk at graduation.
If I were honest with myself, no, no I didn’t. I wanted to stay at home, watch some bad movies and throw a pity-party.
One day, he’s going to die.
“Okay, let’s go.”
I locked up the house, grabbed my bag, and we hopped into my little yellow car. Dad didn’t say much as I drove through town, searching for a coffee shop I hadn’t been to before, one where I would run the smallest chance of seeing someone from school. I deliberately drove toward the business district, away from the usual places kids my age hung out.
When we passed the building Dad used to work in, I felt his body stiffen in the seat beside me. He averted his gaze to the road in front. Seconds later, his arm started twitch, just like his leg had the day before.
I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t know what to say.
Our silence wasn’t so much awkward as it was forced. I still didn’t really know how to act around him, and I guess he either was embarrassed, or could sense my reserved hostility. I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was hard.
“So, how was living in care?” I eventually said, chancing him a quick look as we stopped at some traffic lights.
“Good.” Dad shrugged. His arm was still on its flicking mission, but he didn’t seem bothered by it.
“Were the nurses nice?” What do you ask someone who has spent the better part of the past year in a home?
“Not as n … nice-as-your-mother.” Dad gave a toothy smile. I pressed my lips together in a thin line. He’d seemed fine before. Why was he acting funny now? Had I done something to bring it on? Was it asking about the home, or seeing his workplace? And if he missed Mum so bad, why’d he run away in the first place?
I parked in a nearby lot and we got out, walking toward the shops like two strangers who just happened to be going to the same place. Dad stayed a few steps behind me. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was charging ahead, or if he was deliberately keeping a slower pace.
Either way, it had to stop. I loved him. He was my father.
“Come on.” I stopped and motioned for him to join me. He didn’t say anything, only nodded and loped to my side.
We walked on in silence, this awkward gait where I’d speed up, and then stop to wait, aware that I was probably making him feel bad. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want him to feel like I hated him.
But a little part of me did.
I was going to hell.
We walked into the new coffee store I’d heard about a few months ago, a place called Sideways. It was very cool, lots of retro lounges and chairs, with gorgeous black and white framed hand-drawn artwork hanging on the walls. The tiles on the floor were large checkers, making the whole place feel like a 50s diner.
I pulled out a chair for Dad at one of the little round red tables. He sat down and I resisted the urge to push his seat in for him.
I chanced a look around. There were only five other groups in there, three couples and two groups of four. They all looked to be in their forties, and not one of them had so much as glanced at Dad.
Feeling more confident, I walked up to the counter to place our order, my eyes trailing over to the art on the way. They were all these little scenes: a pair of shoes, a ball, a wave—but all captured in such exquisite detail, like the artist had noticed every particle of every moment and somehow jotted it down.
“One mocha and one chocolate milkshake, please,” I said, too captivated by the artwork to pay much attention to the man behind the counter. That is, until I looked up to hand over my cash and found myself face to face with the strange guy from the counselling centre. He pushed his floppy hair back out of his eyes and smiled at me, dimples aglow.
“Are you following me?”
“No.” My jaw dropped. “How would I even know where you worked? I saw you in a centre over an hour’s drive from here.”
“Relax.” He gave that easy smile again. “I was kidding.”
“Oh.” I felt about two-foot tall. “So was I.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire. But he didn’t call me on it, thank goodness. He looked different here; same brown hair, same muscled physique, sa
me liquid chocolate eyes that just seemed to go on and on forever, but something about him seemed more real, though. There was a heaviness to him I hadn’t noticed at the centre when he’d been all whimsical and fancy-free.
“Been running much recently?” He tilted his head to the side and his hair fell across with it. I had an almost irresistible urge to reach over the counter and flip it back, tuck it behind his ear away from his eyes.
Almost.
“Not really,” I said. “Been smoking much recently?”
“I said try everything once.” He winked at me, reaching behind the counter and pulling out two glasses. “And it didn’t capture my attention enough to make me want to try it again.”
“Hmm,” I said, my mind a million miles away. He’d been at the centre; what had he been there for? From what I understood, they counselled all kinds of youth there, from those whose relatives had Huntington’s to parents with cancer.
I angled my body so he wouldn’t see my dad. I didn’t want to expose myself when he might not have any similar scars to show. “Actually, I think I might make those to go.”
“Are you sure? Who are you here with? I could go on break and join you.” I blinked. The offer was unexpected, to say the least.
“I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble …” I dismissed his comment with a wave of my hand.
“My brother and I own this place. He’s kinda the boss, though.” He smiled again and walked over to the coffee machine where he started grinding some beans. I took a few steps with him, again trying to position myself so Dad was hidden from his view. Maybe, if I stayed here and talked to him, then took the drinks myself he wouldn’t even come near Dad.
A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed what I’d already suspected. From here, Dad looked totally normal, sitting down, shoulders rounded, flipping a pack of sugar around between his fingers. His arm was jerking a bit, but with the sugar twirling he was doing, it almost looked on purpose.
Perfect.
“So, when did you start this place?”
“Three months ago.”
“Aren’t you kind of young to be owning your own business?” I wrinkled my nose.
“Aren’t you kind of cute, thinking I’m so young and helpless?” A flirtatious smile spread across his face and I felt my eyes widen. That dimple … “I’m twenty-two.”
“I’m eighteen,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Old enough, was what I was thinking. “Twenty-two is still kind of young, though. Shouldn’t you be travelling around the world or something?”
“We started this place ‘cause we had to. Our dad passed away.” His voice was soft. He bit his lip and focused on the coffee machine. “Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.” My hand flew to my chest. “Your mum?”
“Heart attack, ten years ago.”
“Oh—God, I am so sorry, I … I …”
Ground, this is the deal. If you open up and swallow me, I’ll promise to turn into lovely, earth-friendly compost.
“Don’t be.” The boy shrugged. The noise of the coffee machine as it spluttered into life made it hard to speak. He looked down at the jug, making the milk dance into little foamy ringlets.
While he studied that, I studied him. He was wearing glasses, thick-rimmed black ones, and I wondered why he hadn’t been wearing them the other day. Perhaps he only needed them close-up. His dark T-shirt looked a little too short for his somewhat tall frame, making his body look even longer than it was. There was something about him I was drawn to, attracted to, even though I didn’t know why. He wasn’t the stereotypical rock-god hot like Lee, or even indie hot like Dave. He was just so—normal.
And with my current situation, maybe normal was my type.
I looked back at Dad and was struck by the reality of it all again. At least I knew now why this guy was at the counselling centre. He’d been through some horrible times, but he had his whole life ahead of him. If he were like me, with the potential to die, he wouldn’t start his own business.
Would he?
And, if Dad died, would I be able to move on, just pick up the pieces like he clearly had? What would Dad’s death be like?
A pang of guilt washed over me, and I hated myself for being so horrible. I didn’t want him to die. I didn’t.
“Is that your dad over there?” the boy asked, interrupting my thoughts. I looked where he was pointing, frightened of what I would see. Dad was sitting down, staring vacantly out the window. My stomach sunk.
“Yes.” No point denying it.
“It’s cool he’s hanging out with you,” he said, as he handed over my coffee in a takeaway cup. He walked over to the other side of the little kitchen area behind the counter and prepared the milkshake while I stood there, pondering his words, replaying them over and over in my mind.
It was cool he was hanging out with me. Cool because he didn’t have a father to hang with him? Cool because old men spending time with children was nice, in general? Or cool because he’d sensed Dad was sick?
What exactly did he mean by, “cool”?
“Whatever,” I said, and twisted the cup in my hands. It had one of those corrugated cardboard rings around it. I spun it from side to side. “I like this cup.”
“You do?” He smiled at me again, and for a second I forgot about Dave and Dad and disease. The three Ds.
“Yeah, it feels nice.” I studied the walls of the place again. “This place is really … different. Looks like a cool place to work.”
“You’re looking for a job?” The question took me by surprise, and I let it settle over me. No, I hadn’t been looking for a job. I’d been looking forward to a summer of touring the country and making out with my boyfriend, then pursuing a career in event management.
However, now it appeared that my schedule was a whole lot clearer.
“Yeah, I am actually.”
“We might have a vacancy.” The boy paused. “I have a few commitments, and we both go to the counselling centre a bit more than we’d thought we would. Would you be interested in working here?”
I froze and studied him. His pink lips were slightly parted, his eyes focused. He appeared to be serious.
“But you don’t even know me,” I protested.
“And you don’t know me.” He shrugged, pouring milk into the milkshake jug.
“But I could be a terrible waitress,” I said. “I’m clumsy, and I’ve never done anything like it before.”
“Can you pass me back your coffee?”
“Um … sure.” I handed him back the cup that I’d been playing with. He took it from me, gave the ring a little twist and smiled, handing it back over in a matter of seconds.
“See? You just handed me a drink. Now you’re experienced.” He turned and scooped some ice cream into the glass.
“It’s not the same. What if I steal from you?”
“Will you?”
“Well, no, but I could, and—”
I was interrupted by the roar of the milkshake maker. The boy looked at me and mouthed I can’t hear you over the din, all the while a wicked grin adorning his face.
“Great. I’ll talk to my brother, but I’m sure we’ll get you in for a trial,” he said. “We’d love to have someone like you working here.”
I quickly turned my back to the counter, taking a big sip of coffee. My tongue burnt from the heat. I had no idea why I was so embarrassed by that last statement. He’d love to work with me. Big deal. It was probably because he’d love to have a few afternoons off per week.
But what would I love to do with him …
I gave myself a mental slap. What was I talking about? I’d loved Dave; this guy had good dimples, and that was about it. He was no replacement.
He walked around the counter, milkshake in hand, all the way to the table, and I completely forgot any reference to a job. He was taking the milkshake to Dad! I wanted to stop him, but I couldn’t. It was like watching one of my horror movies. I was kind of curious to see the blood.
“M
ilkshake’s for you, I’m guessing?” He placed the tall cup down in front of Dad, a straw poking out the hole in the top.
“Thanks,” Dad said in his slightly slurred way. I studied the boy’s face to see if he flinched, or gave a weird look as Dad spoke. Nothing. Not even a hint of interest.
“Thanks for stopping in, guys.” He gave Dad a slight tap on the shoulder. “Your daughter’s gonna be working here, you know.”
“That’sh good.” Dad grinned. His eyes were unfocused, darting around the room. “Kate’s a—she’s a hard worker.”
“Not a thief?”
“No.” Dad shook his head emphatically and I groaned. What was with this guy?
“Here’s my number.” The guy pulled a card out of his back pocket, one of the “Buy eight coffees get one free” variety. Down at the bottom was a mobile number with the words Text your order ahead for speedy service.
He was back behind the counter before I even had a chance to ask his name. I sank down in my chair, and took a sip of my takeaway coffee. Clearly, I was drinking in.
I was just so shocked at his easy state of unknowledgeable acceptance.
“He likes you.” Dad said, with a surprisingly quiet voice. I blinked, then followed Dad’s eyes to where they were focussed, on the man behind the counter.
“The coffee guy?”
Dad nodded sagely, reclined in his chair and took a giant slurp from his straw. I tried to ignore the urge I had to look at him again, to see if a quick study could reveal some potential interest in me.
Not like it mattered, anyway. No guy would be interested in me if they knew the truth. Dave had made that abundantly clear.
I’d never stand a chance with this guy, someone who I’d have to tell about Huntington’s.
Realisation: Dave had flat-out left me when he’d found out about the disease; both Dad having it, and me being a potential victim. No other guy would want to be with someone like that, someone who couldn’t risk having children in case they passed the disease on.
Was this one of the seven stages of grief? Had I reached acceptance?
And if so, acceptance freaking sucked.
The Problem With Crazy Page 10