Cold Tomorrow

[8]

CHAPTER EIGHT

We explain everything. Abilities, spirits, ghosts, the council and the prophecy. I tell him about all that's happened, all I've learnt, even going as far as the Origins, the Anarkk and Avexyr.

It takes hours. By the time Sarah and I finally shut up, the clock on the wall reads midday, and my father looks dizzy and tired. "I think we need to take a break," Sarah says. "Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" she asks my father. He looks at her for a second then nods. "Down the hall, on the left. It's near the back door."

She nods and stands, disappearing down the hall.

"Do you want a minute?" I ask. "To let it all sink in?"

He nods. "Yeah, that would be...uh..." He leaves his sentence unfinished, already lost in his thoughts. His eyes almost look like they did Before, when he spent his days tired and sad, and I can tell the information-dump has taken a toll on him.

I sit in silence, allowing him to think things through. After a moment, he stands, crossing to the window and bracing his hands against the frame as her stares out into the light.

I give him a couple more minutes before speaking. "Look, dad, I'm-" I'm sorry, I want to say, but my words get stuck in my throat. I want to apologise for leaving him, for getting his wife killed and causing his car crash, for impersonating his daughter and forcing him to move from city to city, and then returning weeks later and dumping my messed up life into his lap. The guilt is too great and it swarms uncomfortably inside me, its dark fingers spreading to even the farthest reaches of my body.

"It's okay," he says after a minute, as if he can tell what I was trying to say. "I understand."

I have to hold in a laugh. "You do? I just left you. What possible reason could I have for doing that? I got mum killed and I just left. I don't even know what I was thinking. How could you not hate me for all I've put this family through, all I've done?"

He turns to face me. "I could never hate you, Melissa."

I look down at my hands and shake my head. "What happened to you?" I ask softly. "You've changed."

"For better or for worse?"

I look up and meet his gaze. "Better. Clearly."

His eyes flick momentarily to the fridge, where his post-it notes cover more than half the available surface. "I wouldn't say that."

I frown, but then as I look around again, understanding dawns. When I first walked in, everything appeared bright and organised; the house seemed to be brimming with positivity and warmth. But a closer look reveals the truth: the strict order to every object and piece of furniture; the uncanny cleanliness, as though the entire house has been scrubbed to the bone again and again. Even the post-its look irregular, their positive words suddenly seeming a lot like shouts, like commands.

A look at my father reveals what I didn't notice before, what I mistook for freshness and clarity. His hands are calloused and tinged red. His clothing is too straight, too neat, and so is his hair, every strand combed obsessively into place.

The house no longer looks warm and inviting. It looks severe and uniform.

"About a week after you left, I realised I only had two options-" he says, "live cooped up in this empty house for the rest of my life, or move on - make it a home, make myself a life. But my early attempts at making the place liveable turned obsessive. I arranged and rearranged every object, plucked every stray weed, vacuumed every speck of dust. And I cleaned. I cleaned everything - twice, three times, four times, until my hands throbbed and my eyes were stinging from the chemicals. I can't stop. I only leave the house to do the shopping and then I get right back into ordering, fixing, cleaning. And the worst part is, I can always find something more to do, and then I'll be doing one thing, and I'll think of another, or two, for five, and I'll dash inside and add it to the list, sticking it on the fridge. I don't know how to stop."