No Pills

Just like dad

The most beautiful things in the world can not be seen, heard, or even touched. They must be felt in the heart.

*
My jaw drops.

A Colt 45 revolver and a dozen transparent bags of pale pink pills appear. It takes me more than a second to stop gawking and wonder.

Where from all these?

He wasn't a crackpot or a drug dealer, right? Oh Mia, you dad gangsta? Oh, sis, what if the police jump in? Oh damn, the cops can never find this. He smoked weed a few times with his pals, but this is different. Are they even for him?

The more I look at them, the more surmises crowd my thoughts. I can not let them suffocate me. Resistant, I zip up the suitcase. Fortunately, that quells my inner voices a little. I rub my temples. It's too much thinking for a brain numbed with grief - a grief that is now my only sanctuary away from this... insanity.

Even if it was for dad, what should I do with it? Unsure, I focus on packing his other stuff in duffle bags. Aunt Lisa joins me when I am practically done, only helping to carry the load when I collapse in the backseat of the cab for a quick breather. We end up hurling everything into the guestroom back at home.

"Argh," Aunt Lisa grunts as she drags in what should be the last luggage left in the cab. As it comes to view, I have to use everything in me to not yell at her. "Why are you bringing this suitcase?"

"Your stupid ass left it," she scowls back, dropping it at the front door," tomorrow, we'll make garage sale posters or something. I'm done for today." Ignoring her, I glare at the suitcase as she vanishes into her room.

Now, what?!

I sit on the bed and think. Two minutes later, I rise, drag the suitcase into my room, and lock the door. I have a spot where I can keep it hidden. The problem will be how long I have to conceal it and to what end - to what end will this lead me? Is this going open up secrets my dad may have shielded me from? I still can not imagine him owning either of them. The pills? A revolver? Did he know how to shoot? Had he shot someone before? Did he have bad connections?

Ok, now I'm starting to stray to the island of the judgemental. Dad does not deserve these doubts - especially not from me. I know my dad. He's a good person. Maybe it belongs to someone else. But who? No one has lived in the apartment since dad's arrest, and indeed, Mr. Jones would have noticed if anyone was sneaking in. Also, except for the dust, everywhere was practically the same way we left it in the last two years.

*

Later in the day, after boxing most of dad's stuff that didn't fit the bags, I head to work, pushing back thoughts of the suitcase.

"Hey, you." Josh, my co-worker at Pizza Hut, breezes, ruffling his wolfcut. He is always the first to come to work, so it's only natural I meet him cleaning the place.

"Hi." I unconsciously wave.

"I'm sorry about your loss - hey!!" He cuts himself off to frown at the muddy footprint I made, then back at me.

Remorse snaps me back to Earth. I don't know what I am even thinking about; it's just hazy conspiracies of nothingness. I reach for the mop to fix my mishap, but he shakes his head.

" It's ok." He rewipes the floor, and I mutter an apology before signing next to my name on the attendance slot for today. I'm not necessarily supposed to be here - since Casey told the boss I need a break to deal with a family emergency - but I need a distraction now.

Among a dozen wooden dice tables spread between four colourful bricked walls, one has a newspaper on it. Josh catches me seeing it and chuckles, " I have been trying to read the news these days. For vocab."