The Fault In Reality

Chapter Eighteen

I'm standing on the porch, looking at the ground between my feet and wondering why I didn't realize it earlier. Something suspiciously like fear has snagged my senses into overdrive. I lock onto the sound of the clock ticking in the house, the distant song of a bird.

And still I can't look away from the russet-stained planks of the porch. My consciousness seems stuck in a secluded corner, where all other thought is nothing but a dull hum in the indiscernible distance. Slowly the sensation melts away, and I'm left with goosebumps up and down my arms.

"I'm fine, Era. I just went to the clinic for some routine vaccinations and - well, I get a little faint around needles. Still not feeling myself, I'm afraid..."

Pat's words bounce around in my brain, seeking purchase on some ledge of rationality.

And comes up empty at the protest of another memory, still fresh from its afternoon reality.

Pat's fingers calmly taking the needle, slipping it expertly into the flesh of Devany's neck. Not a trace of fear or hesitation.

There's probably a perfectly reasonable explanation. It's most likely some kind of embarrassing medical thing - an ingrown toenail, an ill-placed rash, a bad bout of yeast infection.

These thoughts do nothing to appease my racing heart. I can't get the image of Pat's pale face out of my head.

Then a terrible idea creeps up on me, the way terrible ideas are prone to doing. With the likeness of a predator it pounces and lodges itself firmly in my throat. It begins to gnaw, an insufferable itch, demanding to be acknowledged.

What if Pat is pregnant?

I sink down onto the steps of the porch, face automatically finding a rest in my hands. It can't be, it can't be, it simply can't be. And, I remind myself with a steadying breath, it's probably not. There's no real evidence. Just a mysterious trip to the doctor's and a non plausible excuse to cover it up.

The sky is dark by the time I finally enter the kitchen. The others are gathered around the table, and I get a bemused look from my father at my late arrival. I ignore this and turn my attention to Pat, studying the curve of her stomach. No extra pudge to be seen.

This, above all else, finally smooths over my fears. I settle down to a plate of greek-style potatoes and chicken. Tangy lemon flavour replaces the sour stickiness of fear in my mouth. Before long I've forgotten about the russet stain on the porch - really a possible product of anything, anyway.

Later I lather plates and cutlery with soap, rinse them off, and stack them in the rack to dry. The stairs take my weight with a few good-natured creaks as I head to my room. I'm feeling remarkably relaxed when I pull open the door, ready to collapse into my bed.

Unfortunately it's already occupied by my father. There's an all too familiar look in his eye as he nervously smoothes the duvet he's sitting on.

"Ah, Era. I thought we should probably have a talk."

A talk. I know what that means. I've had plenty of experience with them, more than I feel is fair. I give him a wary look and try to discern exactly which lecture he's prepared.

But when he next speaks his voice is far gentler than I expect. Serious, smooth. He looks down at his hands and I realize there's guilt etched into his face.

"Era, I want to apologize for the way I've handled things," he says.

"What do you mean?" This is not what I was expecting.

"After the accident. The divorce. Everything. None of that was your fault, you know."

He looks up and meets my gaze, eyes shimmering.