My father brings home Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner. I’m not really one for fast food, but I didn’t eat lunch and my stomach is screaming at me to do something about the situation. The fried chicken smells so good that I have plates out of the cabinet before he’s even set the bag on the table.
I start tearing into the plastic bag, shoving a biscuit into my mouth while I separate the sides. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Macaroni and cheese. Everything is a varying shade of beige. Nothing colorful, not even green beans.
I can’t make myself care. I break open the box of potato wedges and throw some on each plate.
Then I realize he’s staring at me.
“What?” I say around the biscuit.
“One, you’re home.” He clears his throat. “And two, you’re eating.”
“I always eat.”
“No, Juliet. You don’t.”
I look at him. He’s so perfectly average it makes me wonder what my mother ever saw in him. She was vibrant in every way. She’d walk into a room and you couldn’t help but be affected by her light.
He’s completely unremarkable. Average skin, brown hair and eyes, stocky build. Like the food, there’s a lot of beige. He’s a nice-enough guy, I guess. We were close when I was little, but I think he was mystified by my first period and the resulting mood swings and decided to keep his distance after that.
“What changed?” he says.
“Nothing changed,” I say evenly. “I didn’t eat lunch. I’m hungry.”
“Okay.” He hesitates. “Want me to get drinks?”
“Sure.”
He helps himself to a beer and places a glass of milk in front of me, which makes me roll my eyes. Milk. Like I’m six. I’m surprised there’s not a straw.
I’m tempted to take a sip of the beer, just to see what he’d do. I’ve used up my courage for today, however.
We sit there and eat silently for a little while. I was excited by the smell of the chicken, but the skin feels slimy between my fingers, and I pull it all off. I slice into the meat.
“Did you finish all your homework?” he says.
He hasn’t asked me about homework since the day school started. I glance at him. “I have a little left.”
“Anything giving you trouble?”
I cut another piece of chicken. “School is fine.”
He goes silent again, but I can feel his attention. I’m tempted to take my plate and go upstairs with it, but I’m thinking of the day he was going to get rid of her gear and the way I treated him. Maybe it hurts him to keep everything here.
Maybe it’s hurting me and I don’t realize it.
I have to clear my throat and keep my eyes fixed on my food. My voice comes out smaller than I’d like. “You can sell her stuff.”
He draws a quick breath. “I don’t need to do that, Juliet—”
“It’s okay. I overreacted. It’s stupid to keep it here.”
He reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine. “It’s not stupid.”
I can’t remember the last time he touched me. My eyes fill before I’m ready for it. I like the feel of his hand, the connection, the warmth. I didn’t realize I’d been so far adrift until he grabbed hold of me.
I have to pull my hand away. He lets me go, but his hand stays there.
I press my fingertips against my eyes. “I was stupid. You probably thought I was being a hateful daughter.”
“Never,” he says quietly.
My shoulders are shaking. I can’t look at him or I’m going to completely lose it. I’m curling into myself so hard that my elbows are jabbing into my stomach.
His arm comes around me, and it must be like holding on to a rock. I didn’t even hear him come around the table.
Half-broken breaths are coming out of me in short bursts.
“You’re not hateful,” he says, stroking a hand over my hair.
“I miss her so much,” I say, and my voice breaks on the last word. “I just wanted her to come home.”
“I did, too.”
I want to fall into him. I want to let someone else carry this weight, even if it’s just for a little bit. But it’s been too long. He’s been too distant. I’d fall and he’d step back, leaving me to hit the dirt.
I sit there and shake. He sits there and strokes my hair.
Once I can speak without a hitching voice, I push a damp tendril of hair back from my face. “I meant it. You can sell her things back to Ian.”
“Well.” He sits back, but not too far. “Maybe we’ll wait a bit before making that decision.”
“They’re just taking up room on my floor.”
“They’re not hurting anything.”
I don’t say anything, and after a moment, he says, “If you don’t want them in your room, you can put them in the . . .” His voice falters, just a bit. “My room,” he finishes. “Not the basement anymore. I’ll watch out for them if you don’t want to.”
He doesn’t want them there. I can hear it in his voice. He never liked her occupation while she was alive; there’s no reason he should be head over heels for it now.
I straighten and pull away from him fully. “No. I’ll keep them.”
Suddenly, my appetite is gone. I can’t reconcile the doting father with the absent one.
My plate slides across the table. Only half my chicken is gone, and I’ve barely touched the mashed potatoes. “I’m done.”
“Are you sure—”
“I’m sure.” I bolt for the stairs, sure he’s going to try to follow me.
He doesn’t. My door closes with a whisper, and I’m alone in my room.
Her things are there in the corner, a pile of bags and equipment and gear. I don’t want to touch it, but a small part of me is glad that he doesn’t want to get rid of it yet, either.
Like in the letter from The Dark, my father was ready to smash the plates, but now he’s not.
I wonder what happened. What changed.
And what it has to do with me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
From: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]> To: The Dark <[email protected]> Date: Thursday, October 3 3:28:00 AM
Subject: Can’t sleep
I told my father he could sell my mother’s things.
He’s not going to do it, but I told him he could.
I didn’t realize that the cameras and equipment might be his version of plates full of cheesy crusts and roaming ants.
Maybe they’re mine. I’m not ready to throw them in the proverbial Dumpster.