181 Days of Madeline Jesty

Prologue

When I heard someone gently push the door, I was nervous that it was Dad. Between Mom and him, Mom's the kinder and the more lenient parent; Dad, on the other hand, was an authoritarian. He wouldn't allow me to play with my toys when I scored low in my exams, cook vegetable-filled dishes and ban sweets and chips at home, stare at boys in our neighborhood so they wouldn't dare to look at me, and so on and so forth.

But even though he was firm and strict, he never cussed at and hurt me—at least physically—unlike Mom who cried like a kid and told me to fuck off when I accidently broke her favorite watch. I was just four at that time, and I could vividly remember how they fought. Not in front of me, yes, but their loud exchange felt otherwise.

There were times he would buy me things I liked even without any occasion worth celebrating, which made him unpredictable. With Dad, I didn't know how to act.

So when he opened the door, I pushed back my tears and blankly faced him while sitting on my bed.

"Hi, Dad."

"Happy seventh birthday, Maddie," he greeted as he entered my room. I raised a brow and got excited when I saw him holding a box, seemingly from a bakeshop, but I didn't dare question why. "I brought you cake."

I smiled. A cake. Great. If I told him I got a failing grade in my math exam just because I didn't notice I was missing an entire sheet, he might not allow me to eat. I already imagined him repeating what my teacher said—that I should've checked before I started answering—and thought it would be better to have a taste of that cake before I admit my mistake and witness him take it away from me.

"Thanks, Dad," I replied.

"Did something happen at school?" he asked as he sat beside me. I was able to peek at the transparent part of the box and saw that the cake was shaped like the gelatin desserts Grandma usually prepared, only it wasn't made of gelatin.

If I lied to him now and he'd find out, I'd be facing more punishments in the upcoming days, and I might not be able to eat desserts again. Safe answer, Madeline, I thought.

"I just want cake."

"Okay, we'll eat this downstairs, and then we'll discuss what happened. What about that?"

"Deal," I said. "Won't we be waiting for Mom?"

"I actually thought she was with you. Where's she?" He looked at his watch and then at me.

"She said she forgot something in her office. She'll be back."

"Okay, we'll get a bite of that cake and make your mom regret that she forgot something in her office on your birthday, among all days." Then he winked at me.

That was a memorable moment. That wink. I thought that was very fatherly of him, so I gave a wider smile and held his hand as we went downstairs. He prepared the saucers and the utensils for the two of us while I started pouring juice into our glasses.

He was slicing the gelatin-shaped, chocolate-filled cake when his phone rang. I just stared at him because I knew he knew someone was calling but he had priorities—and his priority was getting ourselves a slice of that cake.

After he put a slice on each of our plates, the call ended . . . and then his phone rang again. I thought he was going to take the call, but then he rejected it. He didn't know how happy that made me.

"Happy birthday, my dear Maddie," he said before we clinked glasses.

My dear Maddie. Why was that unlikely of him? But I'd take that unlikeliness at any day.

Just as I took a portion into my mouth, Dad's phone rang again. Before he took the call, he also had one bite.

The cake tasted different from the other cakes I had eaten. It was sweet, yes, but there was something that made it taste funny. I was about to take one more when Dad stopped me, cussing and grabbing my wrist at the same time. His hold was too tight that I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying. I knew he didn't intend to hurt me.

"Maddie, stop eating," he said before letting go of my wrist. "I'll just buy you another one."

I wanted to ask why, but I was already too scared because of Dad's tone. Plus, it might be because of the taste; maybe Dad realized the cake he bought was past its expiry date . . . that's why it tasted that way.

But maybe that didn't matter anymore. What mattered more was the shift of mood and . . . the hourglass over Dad's head. What made it weirder was how I knew the pile of sand meant four hours, as if that knowledge was ingrained within me.

"Dad, you have an hourglass over your head," I commented. When he turned to look back, he had a scary expression, which made me regret that I spoke.

"It must be the rum, Maddie," he sternly replied. He then picked up his phone, dialed a few numbers, called Suzie—our house maid—to clean up the mess, and went outside the house. He came back just to instruct Suzie to make sure I couldn't eat the cake. In fact, I heard him tell her to eat whatever she could and then share what was left to the neighbors.

I frowned. If Suzie could eat it, then it wasn't past the expiry date . . . or else that would make Dad evil, and I wasn't ready to accept that.

When I was about to ask to Suzie why, I realized she also had one—an hourglass over her head. There was so much sand on the upper glass bulb unlike the one I saw with Dad.

"Twenty years," I whispered.

"Yes, dear?" she asked. "You're still seven, not twenty."

"There's an hourglass over your head, Suzie," I complained as I helped fixing the used saucers, but I only ended up breaking one of them. "And it says twenty years."

"Maddie, dear, just sit there. Let me do the cleaning," she responded as she picked the broken pieces of ceramic.

"But there's an hourglass over your head!" Frustrated, I started throwing tantrums. Only Mom and Suzie knew this side of me because I was afraid of Dad.

"Maddie, give me that attitude and your dad will know."

Defeated, I went outside, just in time to watch Dad drive away. I wasn't even able to kiss him goodbye, which he'd usually remind me.

Before I went inside our house again, I saw our neighbor, an old lady, watering their outdoor plants. She saw me and waved.

She also had an hourglass over her head, and I wondered if she would believe me if I told her that the grains of sand on her hourglass meant one hour. But she didn't know me that well anyway, so I just waved back.

I felt dizzy as soon as I settled on our couch. Suzie even ordered me to go upstairs, but I could no longer push my body to do so. Before falling asleep, I said, "Suzie, the cake tasted funny . . . and there's an hourglass over your head."

She laughed. The last words I heard from her were "It must've been the rum. Kids get drunk that fast?" Then I dozed off.

Five hours after, I woke up . . . or more like I was awaken by the red and blue lights flashing by my window and by the wailing sounds coming from different people. One was from Mom.

It was then I realized that the old lady I saw earlier passed on.

And that Dad was no longer coming back.