Paris Hemsworth's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 2)

by Marlow, Francesca

  Then there’s my guilt over convincing her to go. If I hadn’t stuck my nose in and pushed her, she might not have gone, and her dad wouldn’t have lost it. The argument started because she stayed over at the house of a boy from school, Matt Cooper. I foolishly helped instigate getting her closer to him at his house party. I thought it might boost her self-esteem. She keeps referring to me as the ‘beautiful friend’ but she doesn’t realise her beauty, and it’s all her dad’s fault. He’s constantly picking at her and putting her down. He never has a nice thing to say. I’m not the only one who thinks it, either. So do my parents, especially my dad.

  He’s another reason stopping me from heading over there. When she turned up completely broken, he made me promise not to do anything stupid.

  ‘I’m not going to insist on a hospital visit and none of us are to ask any questions. Izzy is a Hemsworth now, and we respect that she will talk in her own time.’

  He seriously has to be kidding me. He obviously doesn’t know her quite as well as I do. Waiting for her to talk would be like waiting for the doctors to find a cure for cancer. The fire in my belly starts to ignite at the injustice of it all. A decent guy like my dad is suffering from this disease while an arsehole like Izzy’s dad gets to live his life, abusing women. At least I finally got her to promise she will never go back home. It breaks my heart that it had to happen in such a way, but I’m not going to deny that I’m happy to have her living with us, with the knowledge she is safe and away from harm. It also means I got to reveal a Hemsworth secret – one we have sat on for quite a while, in the hope that one day, Izzy would come to be a part of our family. In my eyes, it was the perfect birthday gift. It wouldn’t aid in forgiving or forgetting what she had to endure earlier during the day, but it could relieve her torment for a moment, making it more than worthwhile.

  It took the three of us a lot of effort and organisation to keep it hidden from her, especially with her random drop ins through the window or back door. We all decided together on how to decorate it. Her own bedroom. Even though he never said the words aloud, my dad always knew she would end up with us someday. My mum chose the black and white duvet covered with musical notes and handwritten scribbles, I handpicked the posters of her favourite bands to hang above the bed, and my dad lovingly built the wooden bookcase with shelf after shelf of books she adored. He even spent time lining the authors up in alphabetical order. Not my thing, but a small detail she would certainly appreciate, and he knew it. The love and devotion poured into that bedroom showed just how much we all wanted her to be with us, away from that pathetic excuse of a man.

  I recall the elated expression on her face when she walked into the bedroom just as I’m fiddling with the damping on the front suspension and catch my finger.

  “Ouch! Jesus Christ,” I shout out loudly, dropping onto my heels and clutching at my hand.

  While I waft it in the air, I can feel myself about to snap. The frustration of not fully being able to fix my bike or my friend bubbles away inside of me until I can no longer take it. I have to get it out of me. I have to say something. She deserves better, so much more than he’s ever given her, and someone needs to inform him of what a jerk he is.

  I get to my feet and reach for a rag on the side, quickly scrubbing the oil away from my hands before flinging it to one side and stomping out of the garage. All I can see is red. All I feel is total rage, and all I want is to hurt him the way he’s hurt her. I’m oblivious to the fact I’m wearing my old, dirt-covered joggers and a holey white t-shirt. Not to mention my hair slapped back in a bun, and the grease smeared across my face. I’m not convinced I smell the greatest either, but in my moment of madness, I’m not thinking of who I might bump into along the way or which boy could see me. All my vain notions fly out of the window along with my rationality.

  My flared temper sees me flying down the road and across the field like lightning. I barely remember getting from my house to hers. My feet pound hard against the ground as I fast approach her driveway; my arms tightly wrapped around my waist and my cheeks fiercely flushed. I’m ready to release all my pent up aggression when I catch a glimpse of Terry in the front window. Panicking, I hurriedly scurry to hide behind a bush, peeking upwards on my toes to try and watch what’s going on inside.

  The moment my eyes lock on her sad, defeated face, my hostility towards Cath begins to subside, replaced with sympathy. She looks to have given up all hope, crushed and overpowered by the tall bully stood over her. I’m not surprised she appears so dejected. What chance does a frail, worn down woman have against a man like that? I continue to watch him berate her, and the one thing running through my mind is thank god Moffy has escaped this hellhole. No matter how much empathy I have towards her mother, I can’t help but hold my best friend’s welfare priority. My dad was right. She’s a Hemsworth now, and she doesn’t need me making the situation worse for her. No matter how satisfying it would be to tell him exactly what I think, it wouldn’t change anything. He would still continue to abuse women, and my dad will still suffer from cancer.

  Slowly standing up straight, the realisation of that hits me hard. Lashing out at others might make me temporarily feel better but it doesn’t change the situation. If anything, I’m grateful. Selfishly I am, because now I have Moffy with me by my side all the time. I need that, and privately I think knowing that she’s safe helps comfort my dad in some way, too. The pair of them should be my prime concern, not seeking revenge on a middle-aged man who should know better and deserves to be slung in jail.

  Lazily dragging my sorry arse back towards my house, I begin to feel a little ashamed of my actions. Losing my temper in such a way was just another example of my hot headedness. The one my dad keeps warning me about. I need to start listening to him more often. He talks sense, although I’m too stubborn to admit that out aloud.

  I cast my mind back to recall all the stupid things I’ve done in the past six months, and there’s one important one I’d rather forget; Losing my virginity to Karl Hopkins. My stomach churns at how easily I gave it up. Of course, I played it up to Moffy – told her I was ready, how amazing it was, when in reality, I regretted it. It wasn’t that great and looking back, I wish I had waited for someone special. I thought after that incident I had learnt my lesson, but it seems I keep making mistakes. It’s safe to say my behaviour has become questionable, and with that thought, I begin to run. I need to get home. I need to find Moffy and give her a huge hug. I desperately want to find some strength from her. She is tough. A fighter. We hold each other up through the tough times, and this is no exception. I just hope she’ll keep her promise and never go back, because whether she knows it or not, I need her more than she needs me. She’s my guiding rock.

  Three

  March 2000

  “Are you sure you’re up to this, Dad?” I ask, supporting his arm as his tired, worn body slowly walks across the wet field. I have a bag over my shoulder and a fold up chair pinned under my other arm.

  “Paris, I am fine. I promise you,” he replies in his usual, reassuring voice.

  “You know if Mum finds out I brought you here, especially on the bike, she’s…” I falter, not wanting to criticise, but I am unable to bear yet another argument with her.

  “I will deal with your mother. This is important to me. We need to do this,” he insists.

  Admiring the strength he has portrayed throughout the whole of his illness, all I can do is mutter, “Okay then,” and offer him a weak smile.

  Since being told his cancer is incurable, my dad has been strangely positive and accepting. Well, in front of my mum and I, he has. He's made a list of all the things he wishes to do. All I’ve been able to do is cry in private. He’s not improving, and I feel like the impending date is looming, but not knowing when or where petrifies me. The thought that I may go to sleep one night and wake up to him gone is petrifying. Witnessing his strength, I have made a vow to myself: to spend every possible minute, of every damn day I have left with him, re
fusing to show him anything but care and support. I don’t think we've talked as much in my entire life as we have done this past month – sharing my childhood memories, listening to stories of his younger days, how he met my mum, his passion for motorbike riding, what my grandparents were like. Izzy has sat with us, too. It’s a godsend having her around. While we’ve supported my dad, in private, we’ve comforted each other.

  Making our way over to the tree house, my bag drops to the floor. I quickly open the chair up for him to sit down. His frail body is unable to stand for long periods of time. As I cover him with a blanket from the bag to keep him warm, his hand reaches out to tenderly touch my cheek, causing me to gaze quizzically up in his direction. “What’s wrong?”

  “Thank you for doing this for me.” His tired, breathy reply fills my heart with a mixture of happiness and sadness, all at the same time. I would do anything to help him; I just wish the circumstances were different.

  I pull the metal box from my bag and remove the lid. I can’t help but nosy at the items he has brought with us to bury. An old watch he had converted to a key ring has a picture of him and Izzy inside. A bottle of blue-label Johnnie Walker, a picture of our family tree and a pair of laceless Converse, which I pull out, scrunching my nose up in distaste.

  “Seriously, Dad, a girl needs Jimmy Choo’s on her wedding day. Not these. There’s no way I would ever consider wearing these on mine.”

  “Well, it’s a good job they are not for you then, isn’t it? Izzy is always rushing around everywhere. These are her favourites, and besides, she may need them to jilt the groom at the altar if she changes her mind.” He laughs hoarsely. Rolling my eyes at his joke, I laugh, too. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  “Put the lid back on and let’s get started. You need to dig over there, Paris,” he demands, pointing towards the stump of the tree.

  I do as he asks, placing the lid back on and grabbing the trowel from the bag, shuffling over to where he has specified. I can’t help but wonder if he has done the same for me, or if this is just for Izzy. I guess I’ll never know. I can’t exactly question her without giving the game away, and I want him to believe I can do this task for him. I want to make him proud. Leaning on my knees, I begin to break away at the soil in front of me. I realise it may take longer than anticipated. Listening to my dad quietly talk about the specifics of what to do, and what to say when Izzy’s Wedding Day arrives, time starts to pass, and I almost shut off, I’m that engrossed.

  Repeating himself, he says, “It’s important that you remind her, her dad didn’t deserve her as a daughter, and when you hand over the family tree, tell her I wish she had been born into our family. I’m her borrowed father.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it, Dad.”

  He continues to grill me. “I know I’ve already said this, but you must make sure you tell her, Paris. I know how forgetful you can be.”

  My eyes snap to where he is sat. "What am I? Like, five? I'm not going to forget. I won't screw this up. I promise." I’m slightly hurt by the fact he’s not one hundred percent trusting in me. I dig harder into the ground, until the hole is finally big enough to fit the box in.

  “Think I’m done.” I sit back, breathing heavily and mopping my brow.

  “That’s my girl, Paris.” He smiles.

  Glancing over at him, I’m all too aware of how hot I am and how cold he looks.

  “Are you warm enough, Dad?” Crawling to my feet, shrugging my jacket off and dashing over to where he sits, I gently place it around his shoulders. His icy cold hand finds its way to the top of mine. “Don’t worry about me. I’m okay, sweetheart.” His brave words are attempting to comfort me again, keep me safe. Feeling the urge to hurry up so I can get him home, sooner rather than later, I hurriedly grab the box, lowering it down into the hole.

  While my hands scrape at the freshly upturned soil, dragging it back over the box and covering it up, my eyes catch a glimpse of him, delicately pulling an envelope from the inside of his jacket pocket. He begins more instructions. “When the time comes, please ensure Izzy is the one to dig the box backout. You hand the items to her from it, but she must dig it up herself.”

  Curiosity getting the better of me, darting my eyes back and forth between the soil and him, my distracted reply slips out. “What’s that?” Shrugging off my question, clearly not wanting to go into too much detail, he merely responds, “A letter for Izzy.” Inquisitive thoughts burn my mind.

  A letter? What’s he written to her about? Am I mentioned? Have I got a letter?

  Eager to ask all these questions, but knowing I should allow the privacy he plainly wants, all I can say is, “Okay.” He continues to the lick the edges, sticking them down at the same time as I finish up hiding the box, forcing all intrigue to the back of my brain.

  Leisurely standing up, I can feel the exhaustion with the muscles in my arms aching painfully. The breeze picks up, welcome on my sweaty, red face. My arms fold around my body as I saunter back over to my Dad. I take a minute to make a mental image in my mind of him sat in his chair. He has a content expression written across his face. He’s organised this well-thought-out gesture for Izzy, and I’ve helped him. Proud to have been a part of it, I suddenly fill with a sense of satisfaction. It dawns on me that the message in the letter doesn’t matter. This is a moment I will treasure forever. Not just a future memory for Izzy, but a here and now memory for father and daughter. Cancer may have changed him in many ways physically, but his heart is still huge, beating powerfully, and filled with love. It can never take that away from us. Never.

  Sliding my jacket back on, I turn to him, admiration wrote all over my face. “Are you ready to go?” I can tell he’s tired by his short answer and the small sag of his shoulders.

  “I am.”

  Bending over, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, overwhelmed by the need to kiss his cheek and remind him… “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too, Paris. Thank you for today.” He squeezes tighter before letting go. I’m unsure if he’s even aware it should be me thanking him as I reply, “It was nothing.”

  Dad’s hand reaches out, handing me a letter; his request sounding choked. “I need you to put this somewhere safe, until the day Izzy decides to get married.” For the first time, I can sense how much he’s hurt by the comprehension that he’ll never see Izzy or I get married. The father of the bride role is being stolen from him. Swallowing down the lump building in my throat and stuffing the letter into my pocket, my voice is strained. “I promise, I will not let you down.” I mean every word of it. I know I’m flaky, and I’m easily distracted, but one thing I definitely am true-hearted, devoted to doing this for my dad. I will keep it locked away until the day it’s required, just like the memory of this day, cherished for the rest of time.

  My Dearest Isabella,

  I remember the first time you landed on our back doorstep, cold, shaking and frightened. I took you in and watched you quietly. It was then I felt my “firsts” with you. Curiosity, nerves, dread and excitement – just like when I held Paris for the first time after she was born. Having my daughter, I know the depth of that relationship, and so I was certain then, at that moment, we would have a strong bond. Fate brought you into our lives, but falling in love with you, as a father, I had no control over.

  Watching you grow into a young woman, alongside my Paris, has been an amazing journey, one I’m glad to have played a big part of. I am proud of you, Isabella. Through all the torment, tears and laughter, you have discovered who you are. You are a beautiful, intelligent and confident girl. You have a fighting spirit, which will always shine through. I hope as your life journey continues, you can find peace with your past and continue to glow like the bright star you are.

  Look out for my Paris. She’s not as sensible as you are. She has a wild streak in her, one she inherited from her mother. God knows, I love her and would never change her, but I do worry. Help keep her strong, and never lose sight of the fact, together you can
accomplish anything.

  All that remains for me to say is this... I love you, and we didn’t need to be blood to know we were father and daughter.

  With you always,

  Your Dandy

  Four

  May 2000

  My dad continues to tick things off his to-do list over the next two months while his health deteriorates at the same pace. Once the last item on there is complete, it’s like he is done, too. I provide support as and when I can around my schoolwork. A-Level exams are just over a month away, and it’s safe to say I’ll be lucky to scrape through. Moffy has applied to Leeds University, receiving a provisional place. She’ll get her grades. English comes naturally to her just like me applying to the same university comes naturally to me. They do have a reputable fashion design course, but that’s not why I applied. Anyone who knows us understands I can’t bear to be away from her for three whole years. We’ve been through so much together; I can’t imagine taking this big step without her by my side. As always, I need her strength to guide me. I’m not confident I can achieve it without her. It’s also provided my dad with a great sense of comfort to know we will be together, especially after he has gone.

  The heart-breaking news was broken to us a couple of weeks ago. The doctors say there is no longer anything they can do for him. The cancer has spread to his vital organs, and the best any of us can do for him now is make him as comfortable as possible. The suggestion of a hospice was discarded without us having to think about it. There’s no way that’s happening while we are all here to take care of him. Luckily, Mum, Moffy and I are wholly agreed on this matter. He is a man first, a cancer patient second. He needs his dignity. We want him at home with us, where he feels relaxed and content. Well, if that’s even possible, given the pain he’s so obviously in.