Sliding Down the Sky

by Amanda Dick

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  He turned and went back into the room, and I followed him.

  “Where’s Steph?” I asked, noting that the armchair I’d seen her asleep in the night before was now empty.

  “I sent her home after you left. Irene’s staying with her. Remember Irene?”

  I nodded. Their neighbour, a woman about my Mom’s age. I met her once, years ago.

  “Is she okay?” I asked, as he poured me coffee from the machine on the counter. “Steph, I mean?”

  “I think so,” he sighed, his attention on the task at hand. “As much as she can be, anyway. We’re just… hanging in there. It’s early days yet. She was so young when her Mom died, I don’t know how much she really remembers about her. When I met Lydia, she was just a kid. She’s been more of a Mom to her than her own Mom got the chance to be. We were both lucky, finding her when we did.”

  He fell silent, and I could see his struggle. The long night was taking its toll. It was easy, being so far away, to forget just what he and Mom had been through, both individually and together. It can’t have been an easy road. I never thought of him as a father figure for two reasons. One – I barely knew him. Two – I had Tom.

  I knew what had happened to him – that he’d lost his wife, was left to raise Steph alone – but I didn’t know him. It’s easy to judge people from afar. It’s not until you see them up close that you see the little things, the pieces that make them into people. The love, the loss, the grief, the joy, the weakness and the strength – all of it, shaken around in a jar and poured out into a human-shaped form and sent off to face the world.

  Some people seem to handle the tough times better than others. They made it look easy. Tom was one of those people. When things got difficult, he called on an inner strength, one I was jealous of. I’d seen it time and time again, this triumph over adversity, but it was the first time I’d seen it in Coop.

  My behaviour last night came back to haunt me. It wasn’t his fault. He had enough to deal with.

  He handed me my coffee, and we sat down in the nearest chairs.

  “Have you talked to the doctors?” I asked.

  “About half an hour ago. The drugs aren’t doing what they hoped they would. They’re going to operate, we’re just waiting for her to be prepped for surgery. It could be another hour or two, I’m not sure yet. Everyone seems so busy here, I don’t want to bother them unless I have to.”

  Practical, sensible, selfless. No wonder Mom loved him. He was the polar opposite of Dad.

  “Where’d you stay last night?”

  “Motel, not far from here.”

  “I want you to come stay with us, at the house. Your Mom would want that.”

  I nodded, no strength to argue about that now. It all seemed pretty pointless when Mom was facing surgery.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He was clearly grateful, and I took a sip of coffee. For hospital coffee it wasn’t bad, and I should know, I’d had my share of hospital coffee over the years.

  “Your Dad came in, after you left last night.”

  I refused to look at him, my heart racing. Instead, I stared at the coffee in my hand, forcing a lid on my emotions.

  Don’t let him get to you.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to talk to him.”

  I took another sip, a larger one this time.

  “I know you don’t, but I think you should. He’s here, and you’re here… I think it’s a good time.”

  “A good time?” I snapped, glaring at him.”My mother’s in a coma, about to have surgery. You really think that’s a good time?”

  He held his hand up, trying to pacify me.

  “Just hear me out. He’s not trying to force anything on you, he just wants to talk.”

  “You weren’t there,” I said, reining in my temper. “You didn’t see what he was like to live with. You didn’t see the way he treated Mom.”

  “No,” he said evenly. “But she told me. And if she could talk to him civilly, then maybe you can, too? You wouldn’t be doing it for him, you’d be doing it for yourself. I think it’d help, just like it helped her. Just think about it, okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

  I’d done nothing but think about it, all night. I took another large sip of coffee.

  “I’m going to see Mom,” I said, putting my coffee cup back on the counter. “I want to see her before she goes in for surgery.”

  He regarded me closely from over the top of his cup, as if sizing me up. I didn’t care what he saw in me. I was beyond that now.

  He followed me out of the room and over to her bed. There was only one nurse with her now, and she smiled at me as we came closer.

  “She’s doing okay,” she said, making way for us. “We’ll prep her for theatre in an hour or so. Until then, you’re welcome to stay with her.”

  “Thank you,” Coop said, as I sat down on the chair beside her bed.

  I reached for her hand as the machine beside her bed pumped oxygen into her lungs. The rhythmic hiss-thump was like a soundtrack to the moment, cementing it forever in my brain.

  Her hand was cool and soft. She felt fragile, and I was reminded of Sass. She was fragile, too. Someone else I needed to apologise to.

  “I’m sorry Mom,” I whispered, leaning forward as tears burned my eyes. “I got here late last night, but I had to go. I’m not going anywhere today, though. I’ll stay right here until they kick me out. Promise.”

  Coop squeezed my shoulder in silent support.

  I stayed there until they came to prep her for surgery. Coop and I talked to the surgeon, who explained what they were going to do and how long it would take. Then we went outside to get some fresh air. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do but wait.

  I folded my arms across my chest, the cold air nipping at my ears. I should’ve brought a jacket with me, but I’d forgotten to pack one.

  “Do you want to go back inside?” Coop asked.

  “No, not yet. It’s claustrophobic in there. At least out here I can breathe.”

  “You’re right there,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  He seemed to be taking this so much better than I was. My brain was whirling in circles, and even though I hadn’t eaten anything, I wasn’t hungry. Instead, I felt sick.

  “Are you gonna call Steph?” I asked, as he checked his phone.

  “Not yet. Irene’s with her, and there won’t be any news until Lydia gets out of surgery. I’ll call them then.”

  I nodded, and we slipped into silence again. The hospital balcony was quiet, just us and the chilly air.

  I heard the door behind us open, and assumed it was another lost soul looking for fresh air. I thought about calling Sass, but I wanted to do that in private, and I didn’t want to leave Coop alone. After my behaviour last night, I owed him.

  “Callum.”

  I turned at the sound of my name, only to find my father standing a few feet away from me.

  My blood turned to ice water in my veins. He looked older. And he was clean-shaven. I’d never seen him clean-shaven before. The lines around his eyes were deep, carved into his face as if they had always been there, even though I didn’t remember them. His blue eyes were clear, not clouded by booze, as he stared at me anxiously, waiting. He was almost completely gray, his dark hair gone. It softened him, made him look less menacing than I remembered, but it didn’t alter my bone-deep response to seeing him standing right in front of me, after all that time.

  My fists clenched at my sides as I prepared to defend myself physically. It was a knee-jerk reaction, one I had no control over. I had flashbacks of him standing over me, shouting at me, spittle flying from his mouth, reeking of stale booze. Years of watching him bully and belittle Mom in front of me and anyone else who happened to be around. Cowering in a corner as he let fly with a torrent of verbal, and sometimes physical, abuse. He was a mean drunk, a nasty drunk, and I hated him f
or it.

  “I was hoping we could talk,” he said, his voice nothing like I remembered it.

  It was unsure, hesitant. Not commanding and imperious.

  It pissed me off. He had no place here. She had Coop. She was happy.

  I lunged at him, grabbing his collar and shoving him back through the doors behind him, back into the hospital corridor.

  “Callum!”

  Ignoring Coop, I forced Dad up against the next wall we met, stopping our momentum.

  I wanted to scream at him, but I couldn’t make a sound. Instead, I fixed him with a glare that would’ve cut glass. In it, I silently warned him to stay the hell away, from both of us. There was fear in his eyes. He was afraid of me. Or was I getting confused? There was fear in his eyes when I threw him out of the house that day, I know that. I blinked away the confusion. I didn’t care. If he was scared of me, good. Now he knew what it felt like.

  I drew my fist back to punch him as chaos erupted around us.

  I didn’t even feel the moment my fist connected with his face. My body was numb, but my brain was working perfectly.

  I remembered Robbie’s face as the car swallowed him up. I remembered Dad coming home drunk, day after week after month after year. I remembered the smell on his breath as he shouted at me. I remembered the sound of Mom crying, even after she’d sent me to my room so I didn’t actually see him hit her.

  I remembered everything.

  I let the hospital security guys drag me off him. I let them haul me to the elevator, escort me to the front door and throw me out into the parking lot. People were watching me, huddling together away from me, afraid of me. I didn’t care, about any of it. It was worth it.

  He deserved it.

  I didn’t have to walk for long before I found a bar. There was always a bar close to a hospital, just like there was always a chapel inside one. People needed to find solace wherever they could.

  I intended to find solace inside a bottle of whisky.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “It's about realizing, painfully, you've kept that voice inside yourself, locked away from even yourself. And you step back and see that your jailer has changed faces.

  You realize you've become your own jailer.”

  – Tori Amos

  Sass

  “You didn’t get in till late last night.”

  It was an accusation, and it pissed me off. I kept my back to him as I made coffee. He had no right being up this early anyway.

  “I’m fine. Thanks,” I snapped.

  Now was not the time to lay on the guilt, because I didn’t care.

  “I was worried,” he said, his tone softening. “I didn’t know where you were.”

  I poured my coffee.

  “There was no need to worry.”

  “Did you get a cab? I heard a car.”

  “Yes.”

  One word, heavy with indignation.

  “Sass, I –“

  “You know the rules,” I said, turning around and walking past him out into the dining room. “No chit-chat over morning coffee.”

  I sat down at the table, determined to make this as difficult for him as possible. After keeping secrets from me all this time, I was entitled to some payback and I was still hurting enough to want it. I picked up my coffee and laid my left arm on the table, right where he could see it. I wasn’t wearing my prosthesis, and the sleeve of my robe had ridden up so the end of my stump was visible. In my over-stimulated and over-tired mind, I wanted the sight of it to drive him away. I knew how he felt about it, and I needed some space. It made sense – warped sense, but sense all the same. I wanted to punish him.

  Even though I refused to look at him, instead staring at the wall opposite me, I knew the exact moment he saw it. The energy in the room changed. I didn’t need to see his face to know. I smirked, taking a sip of my coffee before setting it down on the table in front of me again.

  Any minute now, he’s gonna walk.

  But he didn’t. He sat down opposite me instead, and there was no way of avoiding him. He had no way of avoiding me, either.

  My brother regularly surprised me, mostly with his intelligence, his talent and his capacity for knowing how I was feeling even before I was. But that morning, he really shocked me.

  “If you’re trying to scare me off, it’s not working,” he said, indicating my arm with a nod of his head. “So instead of leering at me like a wayward teenager, how about we try adulting our way through this?”

  I glared at him. I felt like a wayward teenager, but calling me one was not the way to go about getting a proper conversation out of me. Much the same way as waving a red flag in front of a wounded bull will only cause it to want to rip you apart, piece by piece.

  “Fine,” I said, perpetuating his statement and hating myself for it. “Let’s talk.”

  His expression softened, and he looked anxious all of a sudden. His hands were clasped on the table in front of him and he appeared to be considering what he wanted to say next very carefully. I lost patience almost immediately.

  “You could start by apologising,” I snapped. “Although I’m not sure that’d make much difference now.”

  “I am sorry. I really am. I never meant to hurt you by keeping this from you.”

  He sounded it this time, and it took some of the wind out of my sails. I glanced down at my coffee, rather than see the devastation in his expression. He had no right to feel devastated. That was my domain.

  “I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” I said. “I was scared I’d fall asleep and wake the entire house up with my singing.”

  He groaned softly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him rub a hand across his mouth like he always did when he was worried about something. He hadn’t yet shaved, and that, along with the combination of bed-hair and dark smudges beneath his eyes, told me that he hadn’t slept either.

  “You’re not loud,” he said. “It’s never woken anyone up but me, and only because I’m listening out for it.”

  I looked up at him, the eagerness for details temporarily overcoming the desire to make him suffer for keeping them from me.

  “How long have I been doing it?”

  “I first noticed it when I was staying with you, at your apartment. You’ve been doing it ever since, sometimes a couple times a week, sometimes less often. It depends on how stressed you are, I think. It’s a kind of release, a pressure valve. When things get too much, you sing.”

  It made sense. Somewhere deep inside, it did. But it still scared me. I could feel the control I had been trying so desperately to get back lately tumbling further and further away from me. Milestone after milestone, slipping through my fingers like sand.

  I wasn’t going to cry. I wasn’t.

  “Sass, listen to me.”

  I didn’t look up.

  “Your music isn’t gone. Maybe it was out of sight for a while there, but it’s still inside you. You just have to reach out for it.”

  I huffed out an exasperated sigh. I was so sick of hearing that.

  “I mean it. Your voice is still there, you haven’t lost it. You’re singing all kinds of songs, from Dad’s old songs to ones you and I wrote together, and everything in between. It’s still there, because it’s a part of who you are. Even when you try to deny it, when you try to tell yourself that you’re not ready to face it, it’s there, waiting for you. Whether you want it or not, it’s there.”

  Whether I wanted it or not.

  Was he kidding? Of course I wanted it! So why the hell was I hiding from it?

  Maybe I don’t deserve it.

  I wiped away the tears that ran down my cheeks, my stomach curled up into a tight ball. Then I glanced down at the stump of my left arm, peeking out from beneath the sleeve of my robe.

  Before long, I was going to have reporters knocking on my door, camping out at the bar, stalking me, showering me with questions. I had nothing to tell them. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. I was still trying to figure it out my
self.

  I didn’t need questions. I needed answers.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  “What is a soul? It's like electricity - we don't really

  know what it is, but it's a force that can light a room.”

  – Ray Charles

  Callum

  It was dark when they dragged me out of the cells and into the processing area. It had been light when I’d entered the bar, and light when I’d been hauled out of it for fighting. I think. The details were hazy. I remembered punching someone. I didn’t remember who. Was it Dad? My head was pounding. I’d managed to grab a couple of hours sleep while I was waiting, but I still felt drunk.

  I swayed at the counter while the middle-aged cop dug out my personal belongings from a police-issue paper bag, a number and my name scrawled on the front in black ink. In it were my car keys, my phone and my wallet. It was all I had on me when I’d been thrown in the drunk tank to cool off.

  It was slowly coming back to me. They wouldn’t release me early unless someone bailed me out. So who had?

  “You’re free to go,” the cop said, and I was dismissed.

  Just like that.

  I turned around, shoving my phone and keys back into my pocket, to see Jack sitting in one of the chairs lined up beside the front door.

  It took me a moment to register what I was seeing, then it all came back to me in a flood.

  I’d called him. Jack had been my one phone call – he’d bailed me out. He stood up and I walked over to him.

  “Some mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “Come on, let’s get you squared away.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the motel.”

  I hoped like hell he knew where it was because I wasn’t sure I did. I stumbled out into the night after him, and the cool air hit me like a slap in the face. I sucked in a breath and stopped near the steps that led from the police station door out onto the pavement. I grabbed for the railing, my stomach churning, then I threw up into the garden alongside it.