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She walks over, and just before she sits, her phone lights up in her pocket. She looks at me questioningly, and I wave her off to answer it. But.
She lifts it up to see who’s calling.
And I’m not looking on purpose, but I see the caller’s name.
‘Dad.’
I freeze.
She freezes.
The name ‘Dad’freezes on the lit-up screen of her phone for a few more seconds until the call goes unanswered and the screen goes dark again.
The notifications still show.
‘Dad called’the notification on her phone says.
Dad. As in, her dad. The same person who single-handedly destroyed me and her, my academic career, and pretty much caused my grandfather’s heart attack. White-hot rage fills my vision and everything else disappears, until there’s only rage left.
Pure, unadulterated rage.
It wipes everything else clean.
“On second thought,” I say, slowly getting up. Everything is moving slowly, as if I’m underwater. Everything is sharp with the focus of my anger. “You’d better leave.”
“I’m—I’m—” she takes one look at my eyes—I’m sure they’re spitting fire, not to mention pure hatred—and stops short.
I swear, if she says ‘I’m sorry’ I’m going to lose it.
There are not enough ‘I’m sorry’s in the world to make what she did right. What her dad did. His name on her phone’s screen brings the brutal reality back with force: she is his, has always been, will always be. More than she ever was mine. And when push came to shove, she chose him.
Reallychose him.
Even if it meant my complete and utter distraction.
She’s walking as fast as she can to the door, picking up her phone. Her hands are shaking so much she nearly drops it twice. She hisses, dropping to her knees to catch it.
“Hey, Eden!” I call out to her, my voice hard with fury. Her eyes, round with fear and guilt, meet mine, from the floor where she’s crouching. “After you answer that call, don’t bother coming back.”
She disappears as quickly as her legs can carry her, the door closing quickly behind her. And then I’m left alone with the piano. And the image of that‘Dad’on her phone.
I close my eyes, letting my head drop to the keys with a cacophony of chords.
‘I came here for you,’she said.
And then I yelled at her until she left.
I wonder if it’s too late to start believing in God again.
Eden’s phone
Dad,
I shouldn’t be writing this. I shouldn’t be sending messages to you.
I know your number doesn’t exist anymore, but even so, what I’m doing feels wrong. I was warned by both the police and my therapist not to try to do this.
But I got into the habit of telling you everything, once upon a time, and habits are hard to break. Fairy tales are hard to break. Even a cursed one, like you.
