Charade

Lily

"Dad, tell me where we're going."

I glared at him from the backseat, watching miles and miles of dark, shadowed bush run past our car. Dad, stern and serious, watched the road with a furrowed brow and remained silent.

"We're not even in the city anymore," I protested. "You can't just pick me up and ship me off somewhere. You know I'm getting sicker."

He didn't even look at me. Anger boiled inside me. Furious, I clenched and unclenched my fists, staring at my chewed nails. We'd been driving for hours and he hadn't said a word; not about where we were going, who was after us, or why we had to leave.

But then I thought about Benji. Biting my bottom lip, I glanced over at him His head was leaning against his seatbelt, eyes closed, with dried blood staining his hairline. I'd cleaned most of it with a packet of tissues from the middle console, but I'd missed some as well. A sick, nauseous feeling filled the pit of my stomach. If it wasn't life or death, we wouldn't be going. I told myself.

I sighed and leaned back in my seat, staring out at the dark saltbush and the vast night sky. The full moon winked at me, shining like the billions of tiny diamonds surrounding it. I hadn't been out of the city in almost six years. I'd almost forgotten what a clear night sky looked like.

I looked up at the highway. Our high-beams were leading the way when I spotted a dirt road turning off to the left. I furrowed my eyebrows. Slowly, Dad turned the car to the bumpy red-dust road and took off, leading Benji and I to a small, run-down cabin. The closer we got to it, the more details I could make out. It was made of wood, maybe oak or mahogany, and was in shambles. One window had been smashed and boarded up, glass shards still scattered across the front porch. Half the porch roof had caved in on the other side, obscuring the view from the other front window. Two steps to the front door were snapped, as if someone had stood on them and they had just given way. There was the smallest yellow glow coming from under the door and in the cracks of the boarded-up window. Somebody was home.

Dad parked the car and pulled Benjamin out, holding his lifeless body in his arms, and we approached the front door. I told Dad to watch the broken steps, but he already knew they were there. When we got to the door, Dad nodded at me to knock. Ever so hesitantly, I did.

There came a loud groan and a set of heavy footsteps thundering up to the door. My heart pounded in my ears, drumming away like a marching band. I glanced nervously to Dad, but he wasn't looking at me. In fact, he looked just as scared as I did.

The door swung open and an old man stood there. He was greasy, sweaty, and dirty, with a beer belly that hung over his gut, and a face that hadn't been shaved in weeks. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and looked up at my dad. His eyes widened and shock filled his features. At first, I thought it was because Dad was holding what looked like a dead body, but I soon realized that the man wasn't even looking at Benji. He was looking directly into my father's eyes.

"Victor," he whispered.

I looked to Dad.

"Dad, who is this guy?"

"Dad?" The man echoed, looking at me.

I fell silent under his emotional gaze. His eyes darted between the two of us, then landed on Benji.

"What did you do, boy?"

"Nothing," Dad said. "But I need your help."

The greasy man stepped aside and Dad walked in. I paused, standing on the broken porch, as confused as I've ever been. The man looked at me with kind eyes and gestured for me to enter.

"No," I said. "Not until somebody tells me who you are."

Tears filled the old man's eyes and a shaky smile stretched across his face. With the smallest trembling voice, he said:

"I'm your grandfather."

© A.G. Travers 2015