1
My father’s long, pale, fingers slide across the keyboard, creating a familiar melody. Her song. My hands slip on the long knife, fingers wet with tears.
“Papa?”
My father turns. His eyes are bloodshot.
“Papa?” I repeat.
His voice is barely audible, raspy and weak.
“She’s gone.”
“To where?” I whisper. “Where has she gone?”
“I don’t know,” he says, “but she’s never coming back.”
****
The house feels quiet without her. Her long gowns, and those eyes that have countless untold secrets behind them. I open the door to her room, which is neatly organized into sections.
My father’s side of the room houses framed sheet music and stacked clothes. Tissues covered in blood litter the floor, and the rancid smell of vomit wafted from the adjoining bathroom.
The other half of the large room is my mother’s. Each piece of antique furniture is spotless, each dress in her polished closet is unharmed, and frankly, looks like it was barely worn. Her bathroom radiates cleanliness and the distinct smell of lavender.
In the center of the room is a large, king sized bed, with two little tables flanking each side. A small book lies on the pale sheets. I take it cautiously, eyes roving across the floral cover. There’s no protection on it – no lock, no password. It opens at my touch.
Hurriedly, I snap it shut and run across the hall to my room. I know it’s irrational, but somehow, it feels like she’s still here, watching me. Like her body – her spirit – has inhabited this house long enough to make a lasting impression.
I rush across the hall to my bedroom and punch in the combination for the small safe next to my bed. I quickly shove the book in and slam the door. I can hear the sound of my father heaving on the bottom floor, and turn my head to check the time. 18:27. Dinner.
The sound of my feet clomping down the stairs startles Freddie, my chubby orange cat who enjoys napping on the banister. I think that he senses that something is wrong in this house – though that may be because my mother usually feeds him. His eyes narrow, and he lets out a small hiss before falling back asleep.
I can see my father lying on the floor, eyelids flickering.
I run towards him, picking up his limp body and placing it on the couch.
I check his pulse. Still breathing.
“Matilda?” he whispers.
“Yes, Papa?”
“I’m tired.”
I smile weakly.
“Get some sleep,” I say. “I’ll make some food.”
As I begin to walk towards the kitchen, I realize something.
“Jamie?” I yell.
I forgot about my brother.
I sprint past my father, who is passed out on the couch, back up the stairs, and into my little brother’s room.
“Hey, Jamie… are you ok? I’m making dinner, it’ll be ready soon…”
Silence.
“Jamie?”
I hear quiet sobs coming from the closet.
Jamie is curled in the fetal position, resting on a pile of clothes.
“Hey, J…”
I wrap my arms around his shivering body.
“I’m making mac and cheese – your favorite!”
He sniffles and wipes his nose.
“Tilda? Where – where is she?”
I close my eyes, trying to hold back tears.
“I don’t know.”
“But you always know! You always know!” he rasps.
“This time, I don’t. Now come with me. You can have dessert before and after dinner.”
My brother picks at his food. His tongue is bright blue from the lollipop he had while I was cooking.
I smile and pat him gently on the head.
“Eat,” I scold. “You don’t want a stomachache, do you?”
He scowls, but starts to spoon his mouth full of pasta.
“Petra?” My father opens his eyes and looks around.
“No, Papa. It’s only me,” I say. “Would you like me to make you a plate?”
He nods, and I bustle around the kitchen to get him his dinner.
“Wait!” exclaims my brother as I start to head over to my dad.
I turn.
“It could be contagious. You haven’t been hugging him or anything, have you?”
Sometimes, even though I’d never tell him, I think my 9-year-old brother might be smarter than me.
I pull the collar of my green sweater over my nose and mouth, and proceed to give my father the food.
“Now, be careful there,” I say to Papa. “Eat as much as you like. If you feel nauseous, take a break. Ok?”
He gives me a small, forced, smile as he grabs his fork and digs in.
***
I tuck Jamie into bed and extinguish the candle by his bedside table. My father’s digestive system and the macaroni clearly didn’t get along – the heaving in the downstairs bathroom is louder than ever. But I leave him alone. At this point, I can’t do much more than feed him and clean his vomit off the floor. I need to focus on getting out of this godforsaken place – and finding her.
Later that night, I sit on my bed, running my fingers across the cover of the book. The door to my room is locked, and I finally feel like her ever-present eyes have closed for the night, and she can’t see what I’m about to do.
I open the book and begin to read.
2 – The Diary
04.09.93 23:47 am
The stars are gorgeous tonight. It’s just the right temperature.
I could see Jeb through the glass. He’s bent over, working in the field. I haven’t spoken to him since graduation.
I look up at the ceiling as if it holds all the answers.
I can hear my parents arguing through the thin walls of our flat.
There was a knock on my window.
“Jeb?” I asked.
He taped a note to the window, winked, and climbed downwards, out of sight.
The note was a love song. I can feel the tears threatening to spill over as I tear it into small pieces. I can’t be distracted by a silly serenade.
Do I love him? I’m not sure.
But even if I did, I couldn’t.
Shouldn’t.
David Foster.
That’s his name.
From what I’ve heard, he seems like a stand-up guy. Plays piano. Likes animals. Rich. That’s good enough for my parents – and I guess it should be good enough for me.
Dearest Diary, you feel like the only thing that will listen to me these days. I haven’t even talked to Imani in weeks.
As much as I miss Jeb, I miss her more. She’d be able to talk me out of being my usual stupid self.
Yesterday, I tried to send her a letter. My parents found it. I don’t know what the sudden change in heart is all about. Up until recently, I was allowed to hang out with Imani whenever I wanted.
Between her big brother being in the army, and the security systems on the house, safety was certainly never an issue.
I feel like I’m going mad without them.
You know what?
I don’t care what my parents say. They marry me off to some nerdy loner for the extra cash.
If I ever have kids, I’ll NEVER treat them the way my parents treat me.
I’m better than that.
I’m better than them.
And, tomorrow, darling Diary,
I’m going to find my friends.
3
I look up, eyes wide.
I feel like I violated her trust – and David Foster?
That’s my dad.
I never knew that they had an arranged marriage – but it explains a lot. The long silences, the cold stares.
But something that I never thought would happen just did.
I feel like I can relate to my mother.
That determination. Knowing something’s up,
Even though I may not be as close to her as I am to my father, I’ve idolized her.
Thought she was perfect.
It’s funny, really. How she complains about her parents. How she says she’ll never be like them. But she is them. Almost an exact carbon copy.
The materialistic hunger. The tight leash she holds her children on.
But somehow, I admire her even more than before.
At least I understand her motives, her spirit.
I feel a sudden rush of anger.
Even if she didn’t love my dad, that gives her no right to leave him – us – in the time that we need her most.
Through my anger, a sudden idea flashes in my mind. It’s odd that I didn’t see this immediately.
My mom didn’t grow up here. She was born in the town of Milesea. And it sounds like this man that my mom liked, Jeb, grew up there too.
So I’m going to get there.
***
I stand in front of the van shop. Billy stares back at me defiantly.
“How many times do I have to say this? I want to rent a van.”
“Kid, how many times do I have to say this? You’re a minor. You can’t rent.”
I sigh. This is my last resort.
I slap a large wad of bills on the table.
It’s now Billy’s turn to sigh.
“Do you want it furnished?”
An hour later, I leave the store in a large camper van. The inside had been renovated a few months earlier and now holds a small kitchenette, a little couch, a bunk bed, and a small chamber pot hidden in the corner.
Luckily, I got my driver’s license last month, a few weeks before my mom left. It was one of the few times in my entire life that I had actually left the palatial grounds of my house,
The van’s big wheels scrape on the rough rocks of my thin driveway.
Jamie stands on the porch, waving at me. I hop out of the van and ruffle his hair.
“Go pack,” I say. “We leave at 10:00.”
***
I brush my hair out of my eyes and pull it back into a slick ponytail. I put on a pair of fraying jeans and a black hoodie over a green polo shirt. It’s the clothes I usually wear to help Mrs. Lynn in the garden – but I guess it’s good for driving. I turn and start to zip up my bag – and stop. The little stuffed rhino that I’ve had since I was born stares at me pleadingly. I’m 16, but I still sleep with it. So I grab it and shove it in my bag before Jamie can see. He teases me about it – even though he has one himself. But he’s 9.
I only packed one suitcase for myself. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone. But I packed two for my dad. One filled with clothes, the other with medicine and towels that we can soak in water when his fever gets too high.
In the living room, Jamie sits atop a suitcase in a t-shirt and baggy jeans. His curly hair looks like someone tried tame it back and failed miserably, resulting in a worse frizz than ever.
My father sits on the couch, dark circles that are always under his eyes more apparent than ever.
Supporting him, we head over to the car, and I help Papa into the bottom bunk.
We’re resigned to protecting ourselves from whatever disease he has – because if it’s contagious, we probably already have it.
Before starting the van, I help Jamie get situated in the top bunk, where he soon gets comfy with his book.
As I climb down the ladder, I see my father murmuring in his sleep, and I don’t really think anything of it – but I check his forehead. Hot.
So I make use of those towels. After covering it in icy water, I place it on his head, hoping to give him some relief.
I don’t know how much it did, but I start up the car. If we want to get to Milesea in the next few days, then we better get going soon.
I’m driving well into the night. My eyelids flutter as I try to stay awake.
Suddenly, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn my head around.
My father is standing behind me, a crazed look in his eyes.
“Papa, go back to sleep. At Milesea, we’ll find a doctor for you, and you’ll feel all better.”
He gives me a big grin, but in one swift motion, shoves me off the seat and gets in himself.
“Papa!” I shout. “You’re sick! You shouldn’t be driving!”
His eyes are bright and shining with an almost demonic happiness, but tears run like waterfalls down his sunken cheeks.
“Petra. Petra. Petra. For Petra.”
I know what’s about to happen.
I rush up the old wooden ladder and wrap my arms around my brother’s sleeping form.
“I love you,” I whisper into his ear. “Always.”
Then everything goes black.
Epilogue (Six Months Later)
I open my eyes. My bedroom is dimly lit and small, but it’s what we can afford.
We both work, and our jobs don’t pay very well – but we get by. Three months ago, we made enough to buy our own house.
Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. Big backyard.
It’s beautiful, but not nearly what I’m used to. And I’ve tried to be fine with that, but I find myself missing the riches my old life came with.
“Petra?” Jeb’s head peeks through the door frame. “Hey, sweetie. How are you feeling?”
I muster a small smile.
“Better than yesterday, but I don’t want to jinx it.”
I walk up to Jeb and give him a small kiss on the cheek.
He pulls away, smiles, and bends down.
“Morning kiddo!”
And then he plants a kiss on my belly.
For the first time in forever, I finally feel at peace.
I walk into the bathroom and stare at myself in front of the mirror. My floral dress sweeps on the wet bathroom tiles.
My hair is braided loosely down my back, a sharp contrast to the harsh bun I wore when I lived at the mansion. I feel so free these days. Yesterday, I spent hours curled up on the couch under a blanket, drinking hot tea, face buried in a book. And the day before, I decorated the nursery in hues of pink and blue. The bedroom for my new baby girl.
I hated my life before, but I didn’t hate my children. I couldn’t bear to tell them about how I grew up. How I met their father. How I never loved him. So I stayed silent.
I’m sending them a letter today explaining everything. I’m hoping that they’ll come to meet their little half-sister when she’s born.
But for now, I’m going to focus on what I have, not what I left behind.