The Death Date

chapter twenty

My bedroom had always been my sanctuary, the place I count retreat when life got hard, which it did. Often. As I lay belly up on my bed, hands cupping my head, I stared through the ceiling, wondering why the walls no longer contained me, why they seemed transparent. Anyone, I felt, could walk right in and see what I worked hard to keep hidden.

I rolled onto my side. Stuck into the corner of my floor length mirror was a picture of Nick and me. It was taken the month after we started dating; Nick had his arm wrapped around my shoulder and was pressing a kiss into my cheek swollen from laughter. A snapshot of our history. A single moment in time, one where the two of us were genuinely happy.

Closing my eyes, I turned to the other side. That was a long time ago, I thought.

The same night I had had lunch with Vi and Meghan, I drove to Nick's to share my plans with him. His response was numbing. He didn't know I wanted to work with animals, he didn't know I was thinking about doing something other than working at the coffee shop, he was okay with me going to school if I wanted to.

And that was it.

No other questions, no other comments.

I felt empty. No, I felt furious. In truth, I didn't know what I felt.

Did Nick not care? Was it that simple? And if he were to tell me he was doing something new, something that challenged him, would I care?

It was when I returned to my original position, back against the mattress, hands clasped behind my head, that I realized what I had known the whole time: I didn't want to be with Nick anymore.

The phone suddenly rang. Odd. No one ever called the landline. Hurling myself off the bed, I scurried to the kitchen, picking up the phone on the last ring.

"Hello?"

"Delia?" a stiff voice said.

"Yeah, speaking. Who's this?"

The answer arrived before the man told me. "Delia, it's me. It's Dad."

The phone slipped from my hands, its fall cushioned by the carpet. For a second, I gazed at the phone lying on the floor. I could leave it. I could leave it and run to my bedroom again, shutting myself away. But then I remembered how bare my bedroom felt, how bare it made me feel.

Cautiously, I stooped to grab the phone.

"Delia, Delia? Are you there?"

"Yeah," I croaked.

"Delia, I - I can't believe it's you."

"It's me," I said.

"How - well, how are you?"

"Fine."

"How's school?"

"I'm not in school," I said, wondering how old he thought me.

"Oh. I just figured - well, doesn't matter. You sound good."

"Thanks."

"Did you... did you get my letter?"

"Who are you talking to?"

I snapped towards the hallway to find my mom, unmoving, eyes rapt. We were far apart, feet separating us, but in the moment, it was like we were one person. She knew my thoughts, and I knew hers. Her anger was brimming, darkening her eyes, and I could sense her tasting my fear.

"N-no one," I said, hanging up and then removing it again from the cradle, so my father couldn't call again. She knew I was lying. I could feel it; we were enmeshed.