CHAPTER 50
I was back in my neighbour’s living room. As I’d suspected earlier, it was now as dilapidated as the bedroom before.
The sofa cushions were sunken and ripped, their foam spilling out at the corners. The fireplace was crumbling and damp. The coffee table was covered in a layer of grime and mouse droppings, scattered among the remnants of a broken bottle. I briefly imagined those bitter, green shards slicing my throat as I tried to swallow them.
I shook the thought from my head and fingered the thread in my hand instead. Two knots. Two challenges down. Two more to go.
I got back onto my feet. It took a couple of tries. I was feeling worse for wear. The adrenaline wasn’t keeping the pain out of my side as much anymore. I didn’t want to know what all the running and ducking was doing to whatever injury I’d sustained.
I picked up the axe.
The stink in the living room was dank and oppressive, as if there was no air here. Or what little air there was had been eaten up by mould. How strange it was to finally see it. If this was what the cottage above truly looked like. After all the different ways I’d imagined this side of the house—a tidy hermitage, a hipster party pad, a luxurious temple to the feminine divine—seeing it for real was anti-climactic somehow. Knowing it was just an empty, old place left me feeling… complicated, somehow. Like when a cheating lover cries when you confront them and you can’t quite feel pity for them but you’re not as righteously angry anymore. There’s only that creeping awareness that they’re just an animal, just like you, just like everyone, all bumping into each other and trying not to fall over and choke on our own tongues.
At first, I tried to shrug the feeling off, but then I let it settle in the pit of my stomach for a bit. There would be time to investigate that later, I hoped. For now, there was only onwards. There was only the third knot.
I turned to the door under the stairs and made my way down to the basement.
This time there was no music, no inviting light and warmth drawing me to the next level. There was only the soft echo of my own footsteps and a pale grey light revealing the next few stairs ahead. I gripped the axe close, preparing myself for whatever horror I would find at the bottom. I wondered what would be next. A parade of all the women I’ve ever judged, poking pins under their nails? That arsehole from my math class slowly peeling off his own skin with a sharpened spoon? The tribe of barking brats beating themselves in the face with their own shoes? I could handle that. Maybe.
The stairs became soft underfoot. The carpet grew thicker and more frayed. The light grew gently until bit by bit, I realised I was no longer descending, but walking up a grassy hill on an overcast afternoon. The air grew cold and a frigid wind whipped down the slope. I rubbed my upper arms to try and put warmth back into myself, wishing I’d thought to bring a jacket with me.
And then suddenly, I could smell the sea.
The hill levelled off and I was on the cliffs above the beach close to the town where I’d grown up. Below were the ruins my family would come and explore on bright Sunday afternoons. The sun was a pale gold disc behind the cold clouds and the sea stretched out forever, slate-grey and unforgiving. Someone’s tartan scarf went flying over the cliff edge.
With a sinking feeling, I realised I remembered this day.
I turned to my right and there they were. Just as I feared.
My father, wrapped in a fleece and a waterproof, was anchoring himself into the grass as he gripped a fine spool of string. Its other end flew out of the yellow plastic handle, like a laser beam, up to a fluttering yellow kite swooping and dancing against the grey skies. Sunset was coming and with it the light that made me think of endings. Two little girls, with the prettiest curls and sweetheart faces, a perfect pair, leaned into my father’s legs, giggling and smiling as he passed them the kite string. The Grayson girls.
“There you go,” he said. “You’ve got it now. Look at it fly.”
An older couple passing by smiled approvingly at the sight. Perfect family picture. Total Kodak moment. My father smiled and nodded bashfully as they waved.
“This day and age, it’s good to see a man embrace fatherhood.”
Except neither of the smiling, happy girls were my father’s daughter.
I knew that because I—his actual daughter—was also there, standing where I was now, flat-haired, dull-eyed, sullen. Watching. I’d wanted to play with the kite. We were all around the same age. I knew the girls from school, though we didn’t really play in the same circles. I didn’t understand why my mother had pulled me away to the side to watch instead. She smiled and made conversation with the approving passers-by. She explained to them that the girls’ parents were getting divorced, so we were taking care of them for the day.
“That’s a shame,” the older couple said. “But how lucky they are to have you two. That’s very good of you to keep an eye out for them.”
My mother had explained things slightly differently to me.
They don’t have a father anymore, she’d said, so let them play with your dad. It’s good to share.
Back then I’d agreed. It was good to share what you had with those who didn’t have the same, but it had left me feeling odd. It was an oddness that had stayed with me over the years as the girls had continued to come over to my house for dinner, for weekends, for birthdays, then a couple of Christmases. My parents explained their continued presence in our lives as an ongoing part of that care they’d shown all those years ago.
“We’re just going to look after them while the Graysons go on a trip together.”
“We’re just going to have them for the day while the Graysons go to marriage counselling.”
“We’re just going to take them out for the afternoon while Mr and Mrs Grayson are at mediation.”
“Mr Grayson and Ms Morgan are having some trouble agreeing to the girls’ visitation schedule, so we’re going to give the girls a break with us.”
“Lucy’s been having some trouble adjusting to the divorce, so she’s coming to stay for a while. You don’t mind sharing a room, do you?”
