The 13th Descent: Book One of The Rosefire Trilogy
Page 8
I am suddenly snapped into the here and now by Mike’s one of a kind knock. “Ren? Are you nearly done in there, because we’ve really gotta go,” he calls from the other side of the bathroom door.
I shut off the water, slide open the shower screen door and stick my head through the opening. “Coming,” I squeak.
“Meet you at the car in ten minutes, OK?”
“OK,” I reluctantly answer.
I’m trying to hurry, but it feels like I am moving in slow motion. Now push has really come to shove, I realise that yesterday’s dreams have well and truly been trampled by today’s reality. No wonder my brain has confused rushing with plodding as my hopes, as brightly farfetched as they were, darken into their polar opposites.
Getting Georgie Pa off the grog. After hearing about all of this, he’ll probably drown himself in a vat of scotch.
Mum is alive, but I have to wait until they say I can see her. They won’t even let me hear her voice.
Finding my long lost father, who turns out to be a Father, and a murderer.
Finding the bird-man of my dreams, who, not only happens to look and sing like a rugged angel, he is also one of the most popular leading men on the planet, and my own personal favourite at that. And, apparently, I was once married to him! One of the brightest doves who has ever lived…with a Ren? Give me a break...
And, even though the pretty bird-man and me are yet to meet in this lifetime, Aunt Romey and Mike seem to be convinced that there could still be something between us. I’d hate to disappoint you guys, but most things end up pretty dead and crusty after two thousand years. That’s a lot of spilt milk under the bridge, not to mention that living the life of a rock star could have turned him into a complete arsehole...
Now I understand that when your choices are made for you, the magic of what they once represented vanishes right along with them.
xxXxx
We arrive at my house to find Aunt Romey and Uncle Craig helping Georgie Pa pack a large suitcase.
“What’s happening here? Where are you going, Georgie Pa?” I yell as I charge into his room, assuming that he is packing to go wherever they end up sending me. Can’t they see that he is clearly in no condition to go anywhere?
Georgie Pa is gaping at me like a monkfish. His shocked expression immediately slows my stampede into a half-paced mosey. Seeing that I’ve upset him, I stand in front of him and apologetically take his hands. They feel like ice, as if the cold is coming from deep within his bones. I kneel down and fold his trembling hands in mine, to share my warmth: the heat of my rage. I stare up into his mottled, hazel eyes, deep into the eyes Nanna used to jokingly say reminded her of a speckled trout. They aren’t groggy and glassed over like they usually are every sore and sorry morning, but the yellowing whites of his eyes are very bloodshot. Even though he is showered, smartly dressed, and smells of his 4711 aftershave, without a bottle’s worth of Dutch courage, he looks like a frightened, bewildered child.
Seeing the man who was the epitome of stubbornness this yielding and frail steels my resolve. There is no way we are going anywhere. Me and Georgie Pa are staying right here.
Too angry to form a coherent sentence, I glare at my aunt. That dagger-throwing look makes her fully aware of where my hot head is at, but she doesn’t respond. To drive my point home, I furiously start unpacking Georgie Pa’s suitcase.
Georgie Pa glances at Aunt Romey who quickly ushers Uncle Craig and Mike out of the bedroom.
“Please, sit down, Serenay,” Georgie Pa croaks, patting the bed next to him.
His hands are still shaking, no doubt insisting that they need to pour a drink down his throat. My concerned grimace screams my unspoken question.
“I haven’t had a drink in over twenty four hours, kid. And if all goes to plan, I won’t have another one again,” he says.
I am too scared to ask; too scared to hope.
I wince and apprehensively start to mumble, “You mean-” I slowly lift my eyes to see him beaming at me like I am about to open the gift I have always wanted.
That’s all the confirmation I need.
Making hysterical sounds that resemble laughing, but look like crying, I throw my arms around him and hug him with everything I have, just like I used to when I was little. He hugs me back and chuckles, which is the first utterance of happiness I have heard pass his lips in the longest time.
“Your aunt and uncle are taking me to a treatment centre in the city. St. Vincent’s, I believe it’s called. I have to be admitted by nine a.m.” He breaks our embrace and takes my hands. I hold on to them tightly, trying to help still his tremors. “We don’t have much time, so you must listen to me,” he says, and I nod enthusiastically. He takes a deep breath. “Thanks to your Nanna’s journals and your aunt and uncle spending most of last night filling in the blanks, I’ve got a good gist of what’s going on, kid.”
He is expecting a reaction, but outwardly I can’t give him one, except for the goofy grin I’ve still got plastered across my face.
“Your Nanna tried to tell me about all of this, but I didn’t want to know.” His shoulders drop like more weight has been added. “God, where to begin,” he sighs wearily .
I think of Nanna saying that the way things start out can be a good indication of how they may end. “When you and Nanna got married,” I quickly suggest.
“That, my love, is the best of all beginnings,” he says, lifting his wet eyes to mine.
I avert my gaze to give him the thinking time I know he needs.
After a long pause, he clears his throat and says, “See, Serenay, my parents were very strict, very devout about their religion, and they didn’t want me marrying someone outside our faith. But, when I met your Nanna, she could have been a voodoo priestess for all I cared.” A reminiscent grin flickers across his tired face. “I just wanted her, and at the time, our different beliefs didn’t seem like a major concern. Thankfully, she felt the same way, and we agreed that as long as we both believed in the place where we would one day share forever, that common ground would be enough to make it work.
“So, we snuck off, got married and settled into our new life together. But, eventually, our curiosity about each other’s religion turned into disagreements that started to happen more often than not, and what was once our common ground slowly turned into a war zone. I didn’t want to lose my girl, so I stopped asking questions and she stopped trying to give me answers. So, blissfully and ignorantly, I lived with the love of my life for forty-one wonderful years. But, if I had my time over again, I would have done things very differently.”
I screw up my face in disagreement. Different religions or not, theirs was a devoted, seamless love I hoped that one day I would be lucky enough to find.
“I should have stopped trying to prove her wrong. I should have let her open my eyes. She tried so hard to-” His voice breaks. He lets go of my hands and turns away from me.
I give him a minute before I gently rest my chin on his bony shoulder and say, “She loved you so much, Georgie Pa. And so do I.”
He slowly turns back to me, tears dribbling down the deep grooves in his cheeks. “You are so much like her, you know,” he whispers as his cold, shaky hand cups my face.
“How?” I ask with a small smile, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it from him again.
“You’re feisty,” he says, and we both chuckle. “And you have her lovely amber eyes.” He sighs and lowers his head. “So much more she could have shared with me, if only I had let her,” he sniffles, sadly shaking his head. “All of those extraordinary lives she has lived, I could have heard about from her, instead of through the pages of the old journals she left for me to find. But, it took for someone to permanently close those beautiful eyes of hers for me to finally open mine. And by that time, I was so lost, so angry, so...unprepared, I did all I could to go back to being blind, and the drink, well, it helped me with that.” His chin drops all the way to his chest. “I’m so sorry, for everything, S
erenay, love.”
I hold him as he trembles and sobs, telling me over and over again how sorry he is, until a knock at Georgie Pa’s bedroom door breaks us apart. “Just a minute,” he loudly croaks, fossicking around in his jacket pocket to find a hanky to dry his face. God forbid he was going to let a young buck like Mike or Uncle Craig see him cry.
I roll my eyes at Georgie Pa and his old fashioned notion that a bloke can’t cry in front of another bloke because he’ll be seen to be as “weak as piss” as he would say. I hope that during his time at St. Vincent’s he’ll finally grow to understand that we’d all prefer a crying Georgie Pa over a drunken one.
He clears his throat. “Come in,” he calls out.
“All good in here?” Aunt Romey asks, poking her head around the door.
I jump up and run over to her. “I’m sorry,” I say, throwing my arms around her neck.
She hugs me back. “Honestly, Renay. You’re so damn impulsive. You’ve got to learn to get the facts before you go off the way you do,” she scoffs, but her stern look says that she’s not joking. She looks over at Georgie Pa, reaffirming that I’m not her primary concern at the minute, but we both know she’ll tear shreds off me about it later. “I’m sorry, Dad, but it’s time to go,” she says.
I race over to Georgie Pa’s mess of a suitcase to repack what I pulled apart.
xxXxx
We all walk Georgie Pa to the front door. I help him into his hound’s-tooth sports jacket, and dust off his favourite slate-grey day hat and place it on his balding head. He bends down so I can wrap my arms around his neck and I give him a big hug and kiss on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you, Georgie Pa,” I whisper in his ear, “I love you.”
“Love you too, kid,” he says as he tentatively takes his first step out onto the front porch. Once he’s standing outside on his own two feet, he stops, closes his eyes and lifts his face to the morning sun. He grips onto the wooden railing he built with his own two hands, turns his head and says over his shoulder, “I want so much to help - to help you, Romey and Rhoda, but to do that I need to get well,” reaffirming his reasons for leaving his safe house to himself and to all of us. “Take good care of our little Chip off the old block,” he says, looking down at the small mottled dog suspiciously circling his ankles.
Aunt Romey picks up our nervous puppy and hands him to me. “We’ll admit Georgie Pa and then we’ll be straight back,” she says as her and Uncle Craig start to help Georgie Pa down the porch steps.
As Georgie Pa shuffles down the front path, Chip starts wailing, wanting out of my arms to get to him. I gently shush him. “Don’t worry little Chippa. Georgie Pa is coming back. And I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” I croon, giving him a tight cuddle and a kiss on the head, hoping Mike heard my dual message loud and clear.
He soon lets me know that he did. I’ve got my head in the pantry searching for Chip’s doggy treats when Mike comes up behind me and loudly announces, “You can’t stay here, Ren.”
I fling around to inform him otherwise and whack my head on the pantry door. “Ow! Shit!” I yell, rubbing my temple. “You know what, Mike. I am staying here. I’m not going anywhere until Georgie Pa finishes his treatment,” I announce to him.
“No one will be allowed in to see him for the first few weeks, Ren. And we’ve got to go and see the Avalon’s, soon,” he says, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table. “Besides, don’t you want to see your mum, and meet Josh?” he asks, curiously cocking his head to the side.
“Of course, I want to see Mum,” answering what I know for certain. “I just feel that Georgie Pa needs me more right now.”
“Hmmm,” he thoughtfully murmurs, repressing smirk.
“And, I have absolutely no interest in seeing my Bloodstone father,” I snap.
“Where did that come from?” he asks, baulking.
“Aunt Romey said that he’s never been able to stay away from Mum for long, so I have a feeling that I’ll be running in to him sooner rather than later,” I answer, scowling. “How is it that the two people I have most wanted to meet have now become the last people I want to see?” I groan.
“Your father, I get. But why don’t you want to meet Josh?” he asks, gesturing for me to sit too.
Desperately needing a cuddle, I pick up Chip, put him on my lap and say, “Let’s face it. I’m nothing like the woman he was married to. Her faith. Her courage. Who I am now doesn’t even come close. Look at him, and look at me. Talk about serving up a can of sardines to a man who’s expecting lobster!” I exclaim.
“What?” he snaps, clearly taken aback by my little speech.
“I’m just saying that people are going to end up very disappointed,” I admit.
“If everyone trusts what they know, then no one will be disappointed,” Mike adamantly says as he reaches for my hand. The warmth of his golden fingers lacing with mine glows red on my cheeks. He chuckles as I try and skirt his gaze. “Look, Ren, all you have to do is meet him. What happens after that is entirely up to you. Remember free will? That’s what it all boils down to. Regardless of who you were, how you decide to live this life is still your choice and your choice alone. And, if it turns out that Josh won’t be a part of it, well, so be it,” he says matter-of-fact.
Relieved, I exhale a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. Thank God our first meeting is not going be like the medieval fix up I had conjured up in my head.
But then that gets me wondering about Josh’s assumptions, and his expectations.
“Yeah, but what does he expect?” I tentatively ask.
“Strangely, nothing,” Mike says, shaking his head in disbelief. “When you were in talking to Georgie Pa, Rhoda told me about what Josh remembers-” His smile grows big, “and what he doesn’t,” he cryptically adds.
I sit on the edge of my seat, tightly hugging Chip until he squeals telling me, “Too hard!” and wiggles his way out of my arms. I quickly throw him a few treats and go straight back to eyeballing Mike. Seeing him this happily wired has to be a good sign.
“And?” I prompt.
“Ren, when Josh meets you, he will be meeting a total stranger. He doesn’t remember you at all,” he starts to explain.
Chapter 9
Mike recommends that I start packing.
“Where are we going?” I ask with my hands on my hips.
“It’s sunny this time of year, but the nights can get cool, so pack a jacket,” is his infuriatingly broad answer.
We are smack-bang in the middle of an icy winter here, so where we are headed has got to be a very long plane ride away.
“Sunny, huh. Should I pack bikinis too?” I ask, syphoning for more.
“There’s water there, so sure,” he replies with a shrug as he makes his way down the hallway towards the bathroom.
“Taking a shower?” I ask.
“Yes, Ren. I’m taking a shower. I’ll probably have a shave too. And, I plan on wearing my red boxer-”
“Alright, smart arse,” I grumble, stomping into my bedroom and slamming the door for added effect. I hear his laugh striding away from me and the bathroom door closing behind him.
After a minute or two, I hear the pipes whine, the shower water gush and Mike’s deep voice reverberating behind it all. At first, I think he is singing, but then I realise that he is talking. My ears prick up even higher. He murmurs a few broken sentences and then he goes quiet.
Who the hell is he talking to?
That spark of curiosity is quick to ignite my resting anger. My spine stiffens, my hands clench and my teeth clamp down so hard my jaw aches.
This is total bullshit! Here I am struggling for scraps when he knows everything! Everything about me and the twelve me’s before this one: this one screwed up mess who has had a gut full of suffering from this serious case of past-life dementia.
The titbits he threw my way used to be enough to satisfy this hunger to know it all yesterday, but now they only accentuate the fact that I’m here starving to death.
But he insists that he must keep denying me until I stop denying myself.
What the freakin’ hell does that even mean?
One slurry riddle after another...
Truths?
Half-truths?
Untruths?
Now every time I try and nut it out, the only clear mental image I get is of me standing on the shadowy bank of a mucky, bottomless swamp filled with human bones bobbing on top of the sludge, as my mirror image swathed in light is happily waving to me from the lush green sunlit bank on the other side.
Completely sick of it all and myself in general, I long for the deliriously happy thirty minutes between being told Mum is alive and sitting down on Aunt Romey’s couch. Then I find myself pining for the hours and days before that tiny window of time, back when those I chose to let into my little world could give me medicine or poison and I would take it with a hopeful heart, swallowing it in one gulp, believing that the agony or relief that came with it would at least be true.
Now my first reaction is to slap it out of their hands.
A small part of me understands why my ignorance is keeping me out of the loop, but now, as the loop tightens around my neck, those who vow that they are in this with me leave me blindfolded fumbling around for the knife I know is there, all because of a choice I made when I wasn’t myself.
Why can’t they see that I am choking on every breath she took before me?
Why can’t they kick the friggin’ knife a little closer?