by Lou Aronica
They parked in downtown Chester and visited galleries, shops, and the Artisans’ Cooperative. As always, Becky seemed fascinated with the handmade objects, but she seemed almost too taken with them. More than once, he found her staring at the same thing for an unusual length of time. What was going on in her mind? Why didn’t she feel she could talk to him about it? Here, of all places, in an easy setting away from their normal lives, was where Becky had always been most open with him, even recently. Not today, though.
“Want to go down to the water for a while?” he said as they left another shop.
“Do you think we can just leave?”
“Leave? Sure. Do you want to head over to East Haddam? Or we could go to Old Lyme if you want. We haven’t been there in a long time.”
“I was thinking maybe we could go back to Stan-dridge.”
Chris checked his watch. It was just past two thirty. He thought they had agreed to spend the day here. “You want to go home?”
Becky wrinkled her nose. “Is that okay?”
Chris shrugged. “I guess,” he said as he reached into his pocket for his car keys. They started to walk in the direction where they parked, Chris feeling thrown off by the abruptness of the change in plans.
The idea of a near-silent drive back to Standridge followed by Becky retreating to her room and coming out only for a quick dinner tore at him. For once, he knew with complete certainty that he hadn’t done anything wrong here. If this day was slipping away from them, it was her fault, not his.
He stopped sharply. “You know what? It’s not okay. What is going on with you?”
Becky seemed startled by the tone of his voice. She drew back on herself. “There’s nothing going on with me.”
“Look, let’s agree on one thing, okay? I’m not completely unconscious. I’m actually capable of noticing when your head is somewhere else.”
Becky looked down at the ground. “It’s nothing, Dad.”
Chris stared at the keys in his hand. “Nothing. That’s exactly my point.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind,” Chris said, snapping the remote control on his key chain outward and unlocking the car doors from a distance. “Let’s go.”
“We can go do Old Lyme if you want.”
“I don’t want to go to Old Lyme. I was suggesting that for you, Beck. If you don’t want to do it, then I don’t want to do it.”
“We can go, really. Come on, let’s go.”
“We’re going home.”
They spoke as little on the drive back as they did on the ride there. The difference now, though, was that there was no longer a question about whether or not something was amiss between them. Chris felt dominated by his anger. At this point, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid feeling angry if he had given it every bit of his effort. As was always the case when he got angry with Becky—as was still the case after all this time between them—he felt frustrated, cheated, and more than a little guilty because of it.
He took a quick glance over at his daughter and what he saw wasn’t the object of his current scorn, but a tenderhearted girl wrapped in her own emotions, someone who certainly didn’t deserve vilification and probably didn’t deserve her father’s recriminations even under these circumstances. She was a whole person, a good person, a person capable of exceptional levels of love. Just a brief scan of her face told him all of those things, things he’d known for as long as he could remember and rarely forgot even for a second.
He wanted to reach out to her. Yet he couldn’t. When had he become incapable of telling Becky how he felt? This wasn’t a new reaction. Only a newly acknowledged one. During softer days, Polly had once told him that she was impressed with the way he never let anything fester between him and Becky. If he sent her to her room, he went up five minutes later to talk to her about what had happened. If he sensed a breakdown in communication, he set out to repair it. How long had it been since that was true?
The playlist in the car ended and neither of them reached out to start another. They drove the last twenty minutes in silence. When they got back to the apartment, Becky headed toward her room.
“Is there anything in particular you want for dinner?”
Becky turned toward him. He wanted to understand her expression, but he couldn’t even begin to do so. “Whatever you make is fine with me,” she said politely. Then, avoiding eye contact, she went off to her room.
It was now 4:08. With the clock counting down one of the rare days he had alone with his daughter, Chris sat on the couch in the living room by himself, entirely unsure how much more of this he could handle.
“What do you want from me?” Becky said forcefully. Now that the words were out of her mouth, Becky realized how long they had been in coming, how much she needed this confrontation. Even if it was only happening in her mind.
What did he want from her? What was the big deal about coming back to town early? Did she screw up some Master Plan of his? Was the world going to end because they didn’t spend the whole day looking at trinkets? Maybe she should have told him that she felt her legs wobbling again. Maybe she should have let him know that she was worried about the stuff that was going on in her body. But that would have started an avalanche of him fawning over her that she wasn’t ready for. And it shouldn’t be necessary to tell him these things. It never used to be necessary.
Becky came out of her room when it was time for dinner. By that point, she was ready to forget about whatever had happened that afternoon and get on with the rest of the day. Maybe they could watch a movie together or something after they ate. But as soon as she saw her father’s face, she knew that he hadn’t forgotten about what happened that afternoon. He was still moping about it, still trying to make her feel guilty for having a mind of her own. And so they were right back in it again. She ate quickly, barely tasting whatever it was that he made for them. She didn’t say more than three words the entire time.
“I’m gonna go read in my room,” she said when they finished putting the dishes in the dishwasher. She wiped her hands on a towel and headed out of the kitchen.
“Becky,” he said, stopping her.
She took a deep sigh and looked at him. “What, Dad?”
He threw his hands out from his side. “I give up.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I give up. The ball’s in your court now.”
What was that supposed to mean? “If you say so.”
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Becky shook her head. “Not really, no.”
Dad looked right through her. He’d never seemed so far away from her before. “Maybe while you’re reading you can go figure it out.”
Becky felt the frustration well up inside of her. But rather than say anything, knowing if she did her father was likely to say something more hurtful, she just turned away.
You give up, Dad? Is this some kind of news? Didn’t you give up a long time ago? She could point to the exact day, maybe even the exact minute. It took him a while to show that he’d given up, but there was no question that from the minute he and Mom split up, he was never the same to her again. There was always something going on, something that made him seem distant, confused, or sad. They had never been like that before. If that wasn’t a form of giving up, then what was?
Becky sat on her bed and grabbed the book on her nightstand. But she didn’t even bother opening it. Instead, she leaned back on her pillow and stared up at the ceiling. If this was the way her father was going to act, then fine. She wasn’t going to let him get to her anymore. She wasn’t going to spend any more time wondering why they didn’t connect any longer. She wasn’t going to try to pretend that the time she spent in this apartment with him was an okay part of her life.
What do you want from me, Dad? Do you want me to pretend that you and Mom didn’t screw me up when you split? Do you want me to make believe that it’s okay that nothing has been the same between us since you left? Do you
want me to say that I understand why you aren’t the same guy anymore? Do you want me to ignore everything that we once had together and tell you that what we have now is perfectly fine?
Sorry, but you’re not the only one who’s giving up.
Becky put her hands over her face and closed her eyes tight. How could her father possibly tell her that he was giving up on her? What kind of parent said that to his kid? Given everything else that was going on in her mind right now, this was more than she could handle.
You’re giving up? What would you do if I told you I thought I was getting sick again? Would you run out of the house screaming and never come to see me again?
As soon as the thought came to Becky’s mind, she knew how untrue it was. Dad wouldn’t run away screaming, no matter what the last few years had been like. He would grab her and hold her as tightly as he possibly could. He would tell her not to be afraid, even while it was obvious that he was scared to death himself.
And he would do everything he could to help her and try to keep her spirits up. Just as he did the last time. Becky flashed back on those nights when she first got sick and couldn’t sleep. Mom was great, but Dad was there with her every night, wrapping her in his strong arms and staying up with her. She was so confused in those early days. She had no idea what was happening to her and no idea what was going to happen next. But when he came up with the idea of creating a fantasy world together and Tamarisk came to life in her head, Becky suddenly started to feel better. She sometimes wondered if Tamarisk had helped her more than the doctors had.
Tamarisk and her dad.
She’d thrown one away and the other had given up on her.
And here, at the end of an uncertain week, when nothing at all seemed right to her, Becky felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. She missed her father. Desperately. She missed knowing that he was always there for her. She missed being able to talk to him about anything. She missed playing with him, pretending with him. But the saddest thing of all to her was that maybe it was too late to ever get it back. Maybe the things they’d once had together were gone forever.
Becky flipped over onto her stomach, squeezing her face into her pillow. She felt the tears run along the rims of her eyes, across the bridge of her nose, and onto the bed. And with the sensation of these first tears came a torrent. She cried as hard as she ever had before, choking back the sobs to keep her father from hearing her. Even though a part of her wanted him to see her this way.
She continued to cry. Longer than she thought possible. But she couldn’t make herself stop. Every time she tried, she felt even sadder. Soon, she felt like she was all sadness and nothing else.
“I need something,” she said softly, to no one in particular. She’d take just about anything at this point. Really, just about anything.
6
The folder sat at her side, offering no more options on its twentieth reading than it had on the first nineteen. The hour was late and Miea knew she should try to get some sleep. Like every other day, she had a full calendar tomorrow. This time, though, along with the items on her schedule, she had one other appointment she dreaded keeping—a conversation with Thuja where she gave him her decision regarding the sterilization of the fields in Jonrae.
Still, as late as it was, going to bed was pointless. She certainly wouldn’t sleep and her thinking wasn’t likely to be any clearer lying down than it currently was sitting in this chair in her anteroom.
When she was a little girl, Miea sometimes found her father sitting quietly in a chair in his chambers. He would be looking off in the distance, seemingly focused on nothing and everything at the same time. He obviously didn’t want to be disturbed and she would creep out of the room hoping he hadn’t noticed her. One time, though, when she was eight or so, he called out to her as she made her way through the doorway. She turned back in his direction and said she was sorry to bother him.
“No need to apologize,” he said. “I was just trying to gain a little perspective.”
“Perspective?”
“Yes, at least a little. It has been a trying few days and I thought maybe I could make sense of some things if I looked at them from a new angle.”
Miea stood next to his chair and looked out in the direction he’d been looking. “Is this the new angle?”
Her father laughed. “That really was just a turn of phrase. What I’m doing doesn’t actually have anything to do with angles.”
Miea tried to focus on the spot where her father focused until she interrupted him again. “Has it helped?”
He touched her on the head and nodded slowly. “I think it has a little. You know, at some point you realize that every resolution leads to new complications, but I have some new thoughts about this particular problem.”
“So you’ve ‘gained a little perspective’?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Maybe I could gain a little more if my daughter would join me in a game of Kem.”
Miea leaned back in the chair in her anteroom and thought about the four-dimensional board game with shape-shifting pieces. Maybe that’s what she really needed now: someone with whom to play Kem. Certainly, she’d gained all the perspective she was likely to gain from staring off into space.
Had her parents ever had a decision this significant to make? She knew they hadn’t sterilized during the Great Blight. Had they ever seriously considered it, though? Had the king and queen ever been forced to think about eradicating the scourge by dooming several species to extinction? It had turned out not to be necessary then. Would Tamarisk be as lucky this time as it had been the last? If it wasn’t, where would the extinction end?
Maybe she could discuss this with her father. Since he died, Miea had “spoken” to him numerous times, talking to the picture of him she kept in her office and imagining his responses. It always helped—some times more than others—and Miea believed that it kept her close to his spirit. She’d never discussed anything this portentous with him, though.
Miea leaned her head back and closed her eyes. If she were going to have a conversation of this magnitude, she needed to clear her mind of everything else and focus on her father’s face, voice, and wisdom.
“I need something, Dad,” she said softly.
Miea studied the darkness. Slowly, her father’s image emerged. It was only his head and it seemed rather inchoate, but Miea recognized it for what it was. As she felt his presence, Miea began to feel lighter, as though she were becoming weightless, as though her chair wasn’t actually holding her any longer. Yet as disorienting as this feeling was, she knew she shouldn’t open her eyes. Something told her that she needed to allow herself to feel this new sensation fully. A part of her was floating now, even though she was certain her body wasn’t moving. She surrendered entirely to this non-space. She felt warmed. Peaceful.
“Hello, Brightness,” her father said in his syrupy baritone. He’d never called her “Brightness” before, but Miea liked the nickname.
“I miss you, Dad,” she said plaintively.
“Missing enriches.”
“It also hurts. I’d gladly trade this ‘enrichment’ for more days with you.”
“Our story is longer than this, Brightness. Our story is eternal.”
“I know.” Miea believed that, though it didn’t make her feel his loss any less severely.
Her father tipped his head forward and Miea felt a warm wave wash upon her. He smiled and Miea smiled in response. For a long moment, they remained this way. Miea had rarely received this much comfort trying to feel her father before, and she longed to bask in it. At the same time, though, she knew that she needed more than his support.
“We have a problem in Tamarisk, Dad.”
“There are profound dangers.”
“It’s like the last time, and we don’t know anything more than we did then. We never knew what stopped it the last time. Now Thuja wants me to sterilize Jonrae to keep the blight from spreading.”
“That answer enriches nothing.”
>
“I know that. Of course, I know that. I know it in my soul. Unfortunately, I don’t have any other answer.”
“Imagine and embrace, Brightness. Don’t eliminate.”
As peaceful as she felt, as comforted as she was by her father’s presence, as certain as she was about his message, something about this conversation with her father felt off.
“Dad, you don’t sound like yourself.”
Miea had always assumed that the conversations she had with her father came from her memory of him. Why, then, was she “hearing” him differently now?
The image dimmed for a few seconds and Miea feared it was going to fade away. Instead, when it had become nearly invisible, it reanimated with more vibrancy. Miea swore she could detect the scent of her father’s shaving cream.
“Hi, love.”
Miea felt her face warm and her eyes water. “Hi, Dad.”
“Thuja is not a fool. He is actually extremely good at his job.”
“I know he is, but—”
“—He’s very limited in his thinking.”
“That’s a gracious way to say it.”
“That’s an accurate way to say it. Thuja and his people can be very helpful to you in this crisis. They understand the land. However, they need to know that you make the decisions. Make it clear that you’ll consider any reasonable suggestion but that the chain of command stops with you.”
“I can’t let him sterilize Jonrae.”
“Absolutely not. It was a bad idea during the Great Blight and it is a bad idea now. Tamarisk needs to remain whole.”
Miea nodded, though she was relatively certain her actual body remained stationary. “I know, Dad. I know.”
“An answer will come.”
“I hope so.”