CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The sun is hot, beating down on me with a strength that has me yearning for the cool refuge of shade, but there is none in sight. Around me, the places that should be in shadow are filled in with light, as if the sun is coming from every angle at once. I wipe a hand across my brow, sweating.

“Hot today, huh?” Sarah asks, appearing suddenly beside me on the deserted street. I look sideways at her and nod, squinting in order to make out her features.

“You want to go to my place?” she asks. “It’s nice and cool inside.” Again, I nod, and she takes me by the hand, pulling me across the empty road as I look at the ground, shielding my sensitive eyes from the sun.

When we reach the other side, I look up, and there stands my house, its garden full of blooming flowers, its lawn neatly mowed, its fence graffiti free. Sarah pulls me right up to the front door, which opens before we even get the chance to knock.

“Sarah, darling,” my dead mother says, barely acknowledging my presence. “Come on inside.”

I look at Sarah quizzically and lean over, whispering, “I thought you said we were going to your place?”

When I pull back, she’s frowning. “This is my place,” she says and let’s go of my hand, walking inside. I follow her in.

“Oh, honey,” my mother says, grabbing Sarah by the shoulders. “You’re sunburnt.”

 I stand just inside the door watching them, my heart punching the walls of my chest every time I breathe.

“I’m fine, mum,” she says, rolling her eyes.

My mum smiles, saying, “I’m glad you are,” and pulls her into a hug.

And then, as they embrace, Sarah looks over my mother’s shoulder at me.

And winks.

When I wake, there’s a horrible feeling in stomach. In slithers and slides, like it’s alive and waiting to strike. And then it does, sudden snapshots of my dream flying through my mind, making my stomach revolt and roar until my insides feel broken. I stare at the ceiling and wait for the feeling to pass – for the horrible last image of Sarah winking to fade from my mind.

But it never does, and in the end, I just get up and get out of bed anyway, getting on with my life as I always have, constantly pushing, pushing, pushing away the pain.

A mirror on one of the walls reveals that my hair is a mess. I don’t have a brush, so I run my fingers through it repeatedly until I look semi-decent. I check my breath and nearly gag. Not too much I can do about that.

And then I sigh, because there is something I can do.

Just do it, I tell myself, meeting my icy eyes in the mirror. Go in and come out. It’s just a house.

But it’s not just a house – not anymore. It’s a living, breathing thing that threatens to break me every second I’m near it.

I have to choose. Stinky breath or a trip home?

Damn it.

My decision made, I walk downstairs, where, conveniently enough, Caden and Rand are already awake and ready, finishing off their breakfast.

“What time is it?” I ask, searching the walls for a clock.

“A little after nine,” Rand replies. “Did you sleep well?”

I nod. Then: “Is it okay if we stop off at…my place on our way to the council meeting? I need to get some stuff.”

Caden looks up, slightly concerned. “You sure?”

I nod.

“Okay,” Rand says. “Do you want some breakfast before we leave?”

I shake my head. “Let’s just go.”

They subtly exchange looks, but obviously not subtly enough, and then they’re both up and clearing the table, as well as making last minute preparations to leave. I walk to the front door and lean on it, waiting.

Then I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

It’s just a house.

-:-:-:-:-

But it’s not a house that awaits me when Rand cuts the engine out the front of my place. It’s a looming memory, poking and prodding at the walls that I’ve put up around my mind.

Just go in and come out. Simple.

I step out of the car and walk up to the front door. Remembering that I don’t have any keys, I raise my hand to knock. Which means that dad will have to answer the door and I won’t be able to avoid him. My plan goes flying out the window.

No, not simple. Definitely not simple.

It’s a while before the door finally opens, and when it does, I find myself standing face to face with my father, large bags resting beneath his tired and pained eyes.

“Melissa? You–”

“I’m just coming to get my stuff,” I interject quickly and step past him into the house.

The memories come rushing in so fast that I feel as though someone has punched me in the stomach, forcing all the air out of my lungs. There’s the photo on the wall from when I was six and missing my two front teeth, the one of my mother and I at the aquarium, the TV sitting in the living room to my left, the old, familiar dining table to my right. I resist the urge to squeeze my eyes shut, knowing that when I open them I’ll be disappointed that I’m still here, in this house, and not a million miles away.

My eyes trace the wooden floorboards, worn from countless feet pressing down on them – my feet, my father’s, my mother’s. I look up and there’s the staircase, the one I’ve walked up and down countless times, and as I get closer to it, the air around me gets thicker and harsher, tearing at my throat as I gasp it down, forcing it into my oxygen-deprived lungs.

I place a foot on the first step, preparing to walk upstairs when his voice reaches me, floating over from the doorway. “Where have you been?”

I turn, taking my foot off the step, and ready a sentence in my head. “A friends place. I’m planning to stay for a little while longer, so I need to get my things.”

His face holds a turbulent mixture of concern and sadness, and when, a minute later, he still hasn’t said anything, I turn away and continue up the stairs, feeling shaken and pained by my brief encounter with the man I called father for over a decade, but am unable to anymore.

Once upstairs, I head for my room and dig around in my closet for a large bag to pack all my things in. I eventually stumble upon my old Country Road bag, and I lay it open on my bed and begin stuffing as many clothes as I can in, pushing them right into the corners of the bag. When I’ve packed all the clothes I need, I grab the laptop that I never use off my bedside table and toss it on top, along with another pair of shoes just in case I accidently ruin the ones I’m already wearing.

Then I’m off to the bathroom where I collect my toothbrush and toothpaste, my hair brush and hair supplies, and other toiletries I may need. I bring them hurriedly back to my room to randomly shove them on top of everything else. Satisfied, I reach for the zipper, but my eye catches something else and I let the zip fall from my hand as I walk around the bed towards the photo sitting on one of my shelves. I pick it up, blowing the thin layer of dust off its glassy surface, and look at the happy, smiley faces that have been immortalised on the paper. It’s a picture of my mum, my dad and I out the front of the first house I ever lived in – the one on the farm.

I smile at the memory. But then my brain throws a thought to the forefront of my mind: To think that I had already been swapped and no one knew. My smile drops from my face.

It’s strange to think that after everything that’s happened, the people in the picture are still smiling – still young and carefree. Surely those smiles should have faded by now? Surely a memory like this can’t exist in the world I live in?

Unable to part with the photo, I place it on top of all the things I’ve packed and zip the bag closed. I lift the now-full bag up and sling it over one shoulder before turning to leave. But then I remember one last thing, and I grab my phone off the shelf it’s sat on silently for almost a week, collecting dust. Looking at it reminds me of Caden and I smile. If I had his number, I would send him a text, but I don’t, and I shove it in my pocket and exit my room, knowing full well that I will probably never see the room again.

Downstairs, I find my father seated at the dining table, staring unseeingly at the wall in front of him. He doesn’t make any indication that he’s noticed me when I step in front of him, and my heart starts to throb painfully in my chest as I realise that this will probably be the last time I ever see him as his daughter. Everything in me wants to hug him, but we’re both wearing short sleeves and I can’t risk my skin coming into contact with his. I don’t want his last memory of me to be one of searing pain.

Instead, I open my mouth to say goodbye, but shut it soon after. Maybe it’d be better if I just left him to himself. I’ve hurt him enough as it is – saying goodbye will probably only remind him of all he’s lost. I let out a breath and, as much as it hurts me to do so, I continue on towards the front door without a word.

It’s not until I’m outside and the door is closed behind me that I realise that I’m crying, and Caden is there beside me in an instant, wrapping his arms around me in a hug. I rest my head on his chest as the tears leek silently from my eyes, pain spilling out of me in the form of rivers down my cheeks. I’ve lost and destroyed the lives of everyone I’ve ever cared for since I was a young child. My mother is dead, my father is drowning in depression and I’ve just spent the last ten or so years tearing apart the one real family Sarah will ever have.

And even after having cause all that, I still can’t work up the courage to tell my father all the things I’ve wanted to tell him for so long, to apologise as the person I truly am and not just as the daughter I’ve been pretending to be – the daughter that has expected him to be a real father when even I was a fake.

I feel like my heart is being ripped in two.

“Come on,” Caden says eventually. “The meeting starts soon.”

I pull back and wipe away the tears on my cheeks and under my eyes. Caden just stands and watches me as I put the pieces of myself back together with a glue we both know won’t hold.

“You alright?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” I say, and I’m determined to make it true. I find the switch within me that controls what I feel and turn off my emotions. Problem solved.

“Let’s go,” I say and head towards where Rand is waiting inside the car, watching me approach with concern in his eyes.

I slide into the backseat and dump my bag at my feet. Caden slides in after me.

“You okay?” Rand asks, twisting around in his chair.

I fasten my seatbelt and force a smile. “Yep.”

It’s not very convincing, seeing as my eyes are still ringed with red and I can’t stop sniffling, but he smiles back anyway. He may not be convinced now, but he will be, and so will I.

Rand lets out a breath and turns back around in his seat, starting the engine. He presses down on the accelerator and we drive off, quickly losing sight of my snow covered house. And as we drive, I tell myself that I’m fine, repeating it over and over again until its echo is carved into mind, because I desperately want it to be true, and I know that it never will.

-:-:-:-:-

There’s a big warehouse a couple kilometres away from my house. It looks as if it’s been there forever with its flaky painted walls and the large letters on its front that are faded beyond recognition. In all the times I’ve driven past it in the car, I haven’t once given it a second look or thought that beyond the rusted metal fence that surrounds it and all the junk that litters its base is a place that has a purpose – a place that is so abandoned and desolate that is has once again gained a use.

When Rand pulls up in front of it, I’m surprised, but I know I shouldn’t be. What better place is there for a secret meeting than a deserted warehouse that no one has entered for years?

Caden gets out of the car and I take a second longer to look in the review mirror and confirm that the tears have dried from my eyes. They have. I get out of the car and walk up to the fence. There’s no lock, and all I have to do is give it a gentle push for it to swing slowly open, a high pitched screech escaping into the wintry air as it does.

“Eerie,” I say, and look to Caden. “That’s encouraging.”

He just smiles. 

We head towards the front door, dodging a variety of old and broken things, including cars, flower pots, metal and, strangely enough, a couple electric fans. There are rusty and bent nails all over the dirt floor, some sticking straight up, and I keep my eyes on my feet, ensuring that I don’t step on any as we continue towards the large metal structure that looms over us.

When we reach the warehouse, I allow Rand to step in front of me, and without knocking, he pushes the front door inwards and heads inside. I step in after him, closely followed by Caden, and then suddenly, the deserted warehouse doesn’t feel all that deserted anymore. I look around at the people milling about inside and feel my eyes go wide with surprise. I had always thought of a council meeting as a small get together of maybe five to ten people. Not a mass of thirty or more.

I walk forward, following Rand as he leads us to the centre of the warehouse, passing through chairs that have been assembled in rings, all facing inwards. Half of the chairs are already occupied and I look at all the faces, searching for someone familiar. To think that all this time I had been surrounded by people just like me and I didn’t even know it.

“Ethel,” Rand says, coming to a stop behind a woman with light brown hair wearing a black coat. She turns around and as my eyes land on her face, I realise that I know her. I stand in shock as she greets Rand.

“Rand!” she says, delighted. She reaches in for a hug. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” he replies.

When they part, she turns to me and smiles kindly. But before she even has the chance to open her mouth, I blurt out, “You’re the school nurse!”

She laughs. “And you’re the girl who came to me covered in blood.”

“I thought your name was Edith,” I say, recalling the nametag that was pinned to her white nurse’s coat.

“Melissa, Ethel is head of the council,” Rand says before Ethel/Edith can reply.

I stare at her with wide eyes. “The school nurse is head of the council?” I feel like laughing.

She extends a gloved hand, “It’s nice to meet you, Melissa.”