Chapter Twenty #2
I know when it does because I’m not able to type a single sentence without hitting the backspace twelve times.
Experience has taught me that this is not something I can just “push through,” and so I give in, pleased with the word count as I tidy up the room, gathering the empty mugs and glasses and sorting all the notes and papers into neat little piles.
Sam was using some of my Ravian books for reference and I pick those up too, slotting them back into the bookcase that still lies open from when I showed him Dad’s office.
I didn’t leave it that way to make a point. It was mostly because I forgot about it and then because I told myself that I should start using it. Maybe look around for more inspiration on the off chance he wrote a detailed three-act structure and hid it in one of his boxes.
But I didn’t. Until now, anyway, when I linger on my side of the bookcase, peering in. If I did believe in ghosts, this is where I would see him, sitting in his chair, writing away. But I don’t, so it’s just a room filled with memories. Though I guess that’s what all ghosts are, anyway.
I wrap a hand around the side, pulling it open fully as I step inside.
This is the fifth time I’ve been in here since he died.
The first time was during the house clearance, when I put inside everything of his I didn’t want to throw away. The second time was when I looked for information on The Last Mountain. The third was searching for Sam’s letter. The fourth time was with Sam.
And now here I am.
The moon is so bright tonight that I don’t need to switch on the lamp. I open a window, though, letting in some air along with the faint rustle of the oak tree outside.
This is the one room I’ve yet to tackle, and I’m not so obtuse that I don’t know why.
I threw myself into sorting the house because I didn’t want to think of him as not being there.
And I don’t go into this room because here he still is.
In the smell and the books and the pages.
In the mess and the dust and the indent of the chair.
My father lives on in this room. And I’m going to have to deal with that eventually.
But for now, I sit cross-legged in the center, alternating between enjoying the silence and hating it.
I always liked sitting on the floor. I did it all the time when I was a kid.
Now if I do it too long my lower back is like, why, but a little while longer won’t hurt.
You can see things differently down here.
Things you wouldn’t usually. Like the books along the bottom shelf.
The dropped coin underneath the armchair.
The name Ciara written in marker along the side of one of the boxes.
Well. If ever there was a sign…
I crawl over and try to pull it out, but it’s heavier than I expect and the cardboard is flimsy, tearing in my hands. I get closer and try again, grasping it by its sides to pull it out more carefully.
It is a box that is, shockingly, all to do with me.
My school yearbooks. My report cards. My projects and paintings and various things I brought home to him over the years.
God, I couldn’t draw for shit. Even as a kid.
But he kept a lot. Maybe even all of them.
Every glittery crayon monstrosity that I proudly presented to him.
At least that was better than my baking phase.
At least he never had to eat my paintings.
He’d just put them on the fridge or tape them to the front door when he knew someone was coming over. So everyone would see it.
I don’t know what it says about me that when a drop of water hits the drawing I look up to see if there’s a leak in the ceiling. Why it takes me a second to put a hand on my cheek and find it wet.
As though someone’s flicked a switch, I’ve had enough.
My hands are shaking when I put everything back in the box.
Shaking when I push the box back into place.
As I do, I disturb the dust and sneeze twice in violent succession.
The kind of sneeze that makes you feel like you’re blowing out your lungs.
I return to my office, grabbing my laptop and sitting on the floor with my back to the couch.
From this angle, I can see into his room, silent and still, as if I weren’t just in there.
I didn’t know he kept all that stuff.
And do you know what would have been great? If maybe he told me he had.
Despite how young I was, most memories of my father are from before the books.
Because, once the series took off, I barely saw him.
I didn’t give him the drawings after school.
I slid them under his door because he’d be working.
I baked because that meant he’d come downstairs.
That I’d get to see him for a few minutes as he marveled over a distinctly average brownie.
I’m old enough now to know how hard it must have been. A single parent. A career like that. I can’t imagine how he managed it all.
But it still hurts. That he was barely around. That, whenever he was, I always had to share him. With these books. With his readers.
When I left home, I did it to forge a new life for myself. Something that was just for me.
And yet here I am.
I upended my whole world to come back here. To look after him and then to…what? Stay in his house, writing his books and doing it half as well? I can’t even figure out the central relationship, so how the hell am I going to—
I look back at the screen, stopping my thoughts in their tracks. I’m running behind, back to where I was at the start, where the words are coming but they’re all the wrong ones. But Sam’s expecting something tomorrow and I don’t want him to make his disappointed face at me.
So I force all memories from my mind, thinking of only Finn and Maeve as I open my laptop and write.