The Swailing

Optima: Guilty

"Geeze, Ember, you scared me!"

I startle and sit up, squinting in the bright light my dad has just flipped on. I shield my eyes with one hand and see him standing in the doorway of his bedroom, bracing himself against the frame.

"Why aren't you in your own bed? Did you have a nightmare?"

I try to remember. I do feel as if I'd been having a nightmare. Something about chocolate chip cookies and chubby babies and crabs peeking out from their holes on the beach.

I rub my eyes and my stomach grumbles, and then I remember. Camden.

I don't realize I've spoken his name out loud, but my dad's face falls, so I must have. I look around on the bedspread and find the photo tucked under my leg. I shove it accusingly at my dad.

"I have a brother? Or, had a brother?"

He steps into the room and lowers himself slowly onto the bed next to me. He smells different – like citrus and cloves. I wonder, briefly, if that's the smell of guilt and spilled secrets. He sighs heavily and squeezes his forehead with one hand like he does when he has a headache.

"Is he ... dead? Did he die with mom?"

From what I understand, my mom died in an auto accident, which is very unusual. Autos are incredibly safe. I don't know all the details but I assume Camden could have been with her. My dad is quiet for a long time and I try my hardest to be patient. He is a quiet man to begin with and if I pepper him with questions he is sure to shut down. Especially if I'm forcing him to talk about painful memories of the death of his wife and son. So I sit next to him, inhaling the unfamiliar scent from his clothing. It is feminine and ... vaguely familiar. Maybe not guilt after all. Or at least not the kind of guilt I had originally thought.

"No," he finally answers. "At least I don't think so."

"You don't think so?"

"Oh, Em. It's a long story."

I give him a look. He knows me well enough to know that I will not be satisfied with that lame answer.

Suddenly my dad stands up and walks to the closet and reverses the actions I performed just a few hours ago. He takes out the key, unlocks the secret cabinet, removes the leather case and returns to the bed.

"I guess you know about my hiding spot now."

I nod, feeling a little guilty. Even with this incriminating evidence, I know I shouldn't have snooped through his things.

But my dad doesn't give me a lecture. He just unzippers the case and digs around inside before pulling out the other key – the one to the liquor cabinet – and disappears into the hallway.

He returns a moment later carrying a glass and the bottle I almost took a sip from earlier. He sets the glass on the dresser.

"I should probably give you a speech about respecting privacy and all that, but honestly it'll be a relief to get this out." He pours clear liquor into the glass. I'm amazed how much it looks like water. "Fourteen years is a long time to keep a secret," he adds.

My dad takes a sip and grimaces a bit as he swallows.

I must be watching him more intently than I realize because he holds the glass out to me, offering me a sip.