Hope

The light is still on in the living room. I can see from the street. I know what window to look for, of course. I’ve spent the last seventeen years here.

My key still fits the lock, because of course it does. I shake my head at the realisation that I’d expected it not to. Like somebody’d secretly swapped out the locks so I wouldn’t be able to get back in. Like Dad didn’t want me back after the way I shouted at him. Which, of course, is still possible. Just not likely. I hope.

The smell on the stairs is eerily familiar, and it takes me a second of confusion to realise that of course it’s familiar, because why should it have changed?

Weird, that it has only been months since I walked up these stairs together with Ezra, still named Zoe back then. So much has happened since then. It feels like several lifetimes over. I was a different person, living a different life with different thoughts, feelings, goals. Seems like I was just a child then, that knew nothing of the world but arrogantly assumed it had everything figured out.

It doesn’t take me long to get up the stairs. It’s less tiring now than it used to be. Hope is more sportive than Christopher, among so many other things. She’s also more courageous. She is going to do what Christopher never had the guts to do. What he didn’t even consider an option.

She’s going to confront her father.

It became obvious the moment Ezra told me how he’d killed his own parents. It became obvious that we aren’t actually the same, because I don’t want to kill my father and if I’m honest, I don’t even want to not talk to him. Because however much I hate it, I still care. I just hope I can get him to care as well.

Of course I know Ezra’s situation is different. In his place, it’s so much easier to decide to kill a person. There’s no need for hate or any kind of resentment to gather the courage. I know that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I would very much miss Dad, and he doesn’t seem to miss his parents.

It’s weird. I don’t get it either. But it’s true.

Still, my stomach grows queasy as I walk up to the door of our apartment. It hasn’t changed at all, the welcome mat is still the same. And my key fits.

The door doesn’t creak, contrary to what I instinctively expect of it, in spite of knowing better. I halt for a long moment, breathing shallow, listening. But there’s nothing. Perfect silence.

Slowly, I take my shoes off, close the door behind me. The light from the living room illuminates the hallway, so I don’t have to turn on any additional light sources. And anyway. Even if it was dark, I’d find my way just fine.

I smell it before I see it. This distinct smell of cheap alcohol. I never bothered learning which one it was Dad liked, but the smell is heavy in the air. It stabs at my nostrils. It’s not usually this strong. Not unless he’s spilled a large amount. And then I feel dampness on my socks, just as I make it to the end of the corridor.

There are shards everywhere. He must’ve deliberately broken the bottles. Did he throw them at the wall?

Dad’s on the sofa. He’s lying perfectly still, his feet still on the floor. Like he fell asleep sitting and fell over. Like he….

My stomach turns. It only takes me three steps to cross the room. Adrenaline’s gushing in my veins and my vision grows a little fuzzy around the edges.

Dad! I want to scream, but I don’t. All that escapes me is a strained little sob as I crouch next to him, feel his hand.

Because of me! Because of me!

Tears sting my eyes, because I already miss him. Why did it have to be like this? Even when I’d screamed at him, I’d wanted him to be safe. Only that that was his death sentence, wasn’t it? I could have protected him from it. Had I only listened. Had I only paid attention. Yes, Ezra was the top priority, but I could have been nicer. I should have been!

Gently, I take his large and familiarly rough hand in both of mine and halt. It… isn’t cold? It’s quite warm actually.

My stomach flips once again and I lean in to listen for his breath. And there it is. Normal. Regular. The very same it was so many times before when I left my room for a glass of water late at night.

He’s alive.

Relief is held back by irrational anger. How dare he scare me like that?

But I know that’s dumb, of course.

With a sigh, I drop onto my butt as I turn and lean against the couch, right by him. There’s a burning sensation on the balls of my feet. I must’ve cut them when I ran across the room and now the alcohol is seeping into my wounds. Great. At least I won’t have to worry about an infection.

I’m tired. Even after having slept through most of the day, I’m already tired again.

Still, I don’t stay seated for long. I get up, head into the bathroom, wash my feet and put plasters over the cuts. Then I put my shoes back on – this time paying very close attention to avoid even the tiniest shards – and begin gathering up the bigger shards. Then I get a bucket and a mop and clean the floor as best I can in my current condition. I think I do an okay job? Even so, by the time I stop, the mop is full of tiny shards I most certainly won’t try to get out of it, so I just leave it in the bathtub. Then I briefly open the window and let in some fresh air.

It helps a little. The cold air stops my head from hurting momentarily and lifts some of the strain in my back and shoulders.

My efforts only made a dent in the mess of a living room I’m standing in. But at least now it doesn’t look any longer like a part of an active war zone. How ironic.

I meant to do more. I’d planned on tidying all the trash from the couch table away and maybe washing all the dirty dishes in the kitchen. I’m not entirely certain why myself. Maybe I want to be nice, maybe it’s just so I have a prim and proper moral high ground by the time he wakes up again.

But once I’ve closed the window again, the heaviness returns almost instantly and I sit down just for a moment, to gather my strength. I sit right next to Dad, in what used to be my favourite spot when I was little. I don’t think I sat on this sofa a lot in the last decade.

I really meant to do more, but bare seconds after I’ve sat down, my eyes grow heavy and at that point, I’m too far gone to realise that just for a moment is a bait and I readily take it.

-

I’m warm. Comfortable. It feels like I’m caught in the beautiful memories of long-gone times. A childhood dream. I’m curled up under the covers and I feel small and safe. The air smells of eggs and toast and I know that once I’m awake, a feast of a breakfast will be waiting for me. But until then, the covers are still warm and so perfectly comfortable. In a few minutes, Mum will come into my room and kiss me awake, her beautiful hair tickling me as she leans down…

Except she won’t, because she’s no longer here.

A dream.

I’m awake at the snap of a finger. My eyes open and I raise my head to look around.

I’m still in the living room, but somebody – probably Dad – put a blanket over me. Mine, if I’m not mistaken.

He is not here anymore. Not on the sofa, not in the room, anyway. Going by the smell of eggs and toast that still fills the air, it’s not hard to guess where he is.

As if to confirm my suspicion, the ventilation system in the kitchen turns off and there’s the sound of eggs being scooped onto plates.

Seconds later, Dad comes into the room, carrying a tray with two plates, filled to the brim with bacon, toast, and his special eggs. I’ve never eaten eggs like these somewhere else. It must be the spices he puts in. Stuff that isn’t just salt and pepper. There are also glasses there. Two. With what looks like orange juice.

He slows briefly when he sees that I’m awake and suddenly he gets this scared look on his face, like I might shout at him again.

So I smile at him instead, even though it feels weird, and he comes over to set the tray down on the couch table that is now free of all the trash I’d planned on cleaning away.

Can I just not remember doing it myself or did he do it?

Must’ve been him, right?

“I…” He licks his lips nervously. “I made breakfast,” he says finally, giving me a nervous smile.

He sits on the sofa, cautiously, a little too far away from me and glances at me nervously.

“Thank you.”

It’s awkward, knowing what we should talk about, waiting for the other to start.

Before either of us can gather the courage, though, my stomach breaks the silence with a loud growl.

Dad jumps, then hands me one of the plates with shivery hands.

I take it, suddenly hungry, pick up one of the toasts where Dad neatly piled everything on top, just like he used to, and bite.

To be honest, I don’t remember exactly the way it used to taste, but this could very well be it. The bacon is hard and salty and it cracks and crumbles between my teeth. The egg is soft, but not watery, and tastes of just the right herbs. I follow up on the first bite with a sip of orange juice – my finger’s already greasy on the glass, but I don’t care – and realise it’s freshly pressed.

Fruit.

In a few days’ time, there won’t be any more fruit to have in this city. The supply chains will go on ice until the war is over.

“I got them from Mrs Parker,” Dad says in a low voice. “She’s still living on her own, can you imagine that? She still buys too many.”

Mrs Parker is the old lady living in the apartment above us. I used to love visiting her when I was little. She always had oranges for me; sometimes even chocolate. Even then, she seemed unbelievably old.

He doesn’t say anything more as I eat. Just sits there, occasionally glancing over, not touching his own plate.

Only when I’m done, once I’ve swallowed the last bite and taken the final sip, he looks up, his lips pressed together, his eyes glittery, and says, “I’m sorry, Hope.”

It’s weird, hearing my new name from his lips. It seems like he should use my old name or… avoid the new one, since it is, just like him, kind of, part of a past life of mine.

It’s probably also weird that I get hung up on that of all things.

“For what exactly?” I hear myself ask and it is not because there’s so much to apologise for – even though there is – and I want him to list it all and feel shitty about it. I’m simply curious. It’s like with Ezra that first night, when I was so angry but then I saw him and… nothing.

It’s strange.

Maybe better this way. I doubt screaming would help much right now.

He leans back, takes a heavy breath. “Being a bad father, drinking…. Leaving alone with all this, most of all.”

And there it is. Just what I wanted to hear. The words I’d come here hoping to hear. And what does that change? Doesn’t it flip everything in this relationship around? Isn’t there hope now, that someday in the distant future we can be father and daughter?

“Do you…” he starts but trails off. “Do you think… we can be okay again?”

Probably, right? Hopefully. Might take some time.

If we survive this war.

My nose is suddenly running and I sniffle. But I nod, try to seem confident. “I just wish you’d come to see me earlier. There was just so much. And even if you’d just… asked.”

There’s a pause when I don’t know how to go on, because what’s the point of telling him all this?

But then he says, haltingly, “What… happened?”

So I tell him. I tell him about the explosion, about Zoe, about the school, about Emily, about Will, about Lady Iaso. I tell him about the prophecy and how Zoe gave me my new name and the party. My throat constricts around the words when I get to the night when Ezra’s powers manifested and I have to swallow and drink a little and wait for it to open up again, but he doesn’t say anything, just gives me the time I need. And then I continue. I tell him everything and he listens. I feel his eyes on me, even when I’m not looking at him because I’m fighting tears.

But I don’t stop when I’ve made it to the present. Instead, I go back to the explosion and I talk about all my dark thoughts and then I go back even further, to my youth, my old school, all the days I spent outside because I couldn’t bear anybody’s company, my childhood, the day Mum died.

I don’t know when I started crying, but I am by the time I get there. I still talk, but my voice is a little shivery and tears are openly flowing down my face.

I see him move right from the start. I feel the way his gaze intensifies and feel him shift his weight on the sofa. I see the tension in his legs as he pushes himself to the side. He moves slowly, giving me every chance he can to move away, to keep my distance. But I don’t. I can’t.

Instinctively, I lean into him when he lifts his arm to put it around my shoulders and as my cheek comes to rest against his chest, something comes loose. It’s like a pipe that had before been clogged by bitterness and a petty resolve not to call for help has finally opened and a stream of emotion I held back for over a decade can now stream freely. It’s like I’m that little boy all over, kneeling on the street, begging his Mum to come back, sit up, wipe all the blood away and tell him it’s going to be alright. Except I’m not a little boy. I’m a little girl, and I don’t know if that changes anything, but somehow, the thought makes me feel different about it. Maybe even better.

Dad holds me, his hand gently rubs my back and it’s so confusing that it feels like he knows what he’s doing, but it feels so good. Like everything is going to be alright if I just stay here, in his arms, for long enough.

“I never blamed you,” he says after what feels like hours, when I’ve finally started to calm down. “And I know you told me it was your fault at the hospital, but somehow…. I know it was stupid, but I assumed you knew it wasn’t. I never meant to abandon you, I really-” his voice breaks and he pauses. When he picks the thread back up, his voice is firm, doesn’t shiver. “I think your Mum’s death… it hurt me. Really, really badly. For weeks after, all I could think about was wanting to see her again, following her. But you were there and I knew I couldn’t.”

Funny, how the thought had never occurred to me. That it could have been worse. That the fact that he was still there at least, was something.

“But I couldn’t make myself talk about it. I just… couldn’t.”

His hand had stopped moving while he talked, but now it’s rubbing my back again, thoughtfully.

“So I focused on providing for you at least. Focused on… keeping myself going, so you’d have at least something. And I waited for you to heal on your own. Convinced myself you had. And by the time I realised you hadn’t… I think I was scared of making it worse?”

He pauses and I mumble, “That’s so stupid.”

And I feel him nod. “Yes. Yes, it is.” There’s another pause before he continues. “I was scared of getting the confirmation of just how shitty a father I’d been. I think that’s it, mostly. I was just really, really scared. And not at all ready to be a single parent.”

It’s weird, realising that your parents are… human. I knew on a logical level, of course, but emotionally?

All my memories seem different, suddenly. I’d known Mum’s death had hurt him, but…. So many things I refused to see. It’s a world-shattering realisation, really. Realising that your parents are just people trying to wing it, growing, even as they teach you to grow, becoming smarter, wiser. And sometimes they’re just idiots. And of course that’s horrible and they’re supposed to know better, but the reality of life is that sometimes they just don’t. Life is life.

And then I realise that in spite of this show of vulnerability, he’s still being strong for me. Calmly sitting next to me, holding me, letting me be the child I am. Apologising, not crying, waiting for me to unload all this pent-up emotion on him, never questioning me. I know that this can’t be the way he really feels and I can’t help loving him for it. Because that’s exactly what I need. A place where I can be weak because life just won’t let me. I never asked for an opportunity to save the world. I don’t want any part of it, but since nobody’s asking me, I’ll at least take his support.

And suddenly, there’s a thought. It’s been a moment since either of us talked and my voice sounds small in the quiet when I ask, “What was Mum like?”

I feel him tense for just a moment, then he relaxes. “She was… amazing. She always had this smile that would light up entire rooms and even though she always said she was absolutely clueless about life, it sometimes felt like she’d already done all this before, like she was… living for a second time?” He shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe she was. She had this way with people, being nice and respectful, no matter what. Everybody who talked to her ended up liking her. She was… just unconditionally a good person.”

I wonder what I’d have ended up like with her there. Different, certainly. Less rude. A better person. Like Ezra.

Suddenly, I feel ugly. Not only on the outside but on the inside as well. I’m such an ugly character. Always rude, always pessimistic, an absolute pain to be around.

“We’re not very much alike, huh?” I whisper thoughtfully.

A thrum runs through his chest. “I think you’re a lot more like her than you realise. And I know that if she’s watching, she loves you. Exactly because you are the way you are.”

SeptemberMorgan

Yooo, this one's definitely one of my favourite chapters. Do you think I managed to redeem the father/ their relationship?
Have a lovely week!