Chapter 65
The day after Cess received the letter from my father’s lawyer, I grabbed Daphne, and we went for a ride.
I needed to process my thoughts. Christos hadn’t been at school that day and I’d spent the day obsessing about the reasons for his absence.
The best I could hope for, I figured, was that his mother had kept him home in order to keep him away from me.
The worst was that his head injury had deteriorated after I left.
The memory of Billy’s injury and his stay in the hospital was fresh in my mind.
Christos had hit his head hard. If something had happened to him, it was my fault. Why did this keep happening?
The other thing on my mind, of course, was my father.
I’d always known my father loved Rosehill, but I don’t think I’d understood the extent of it.
Had he only married my mother for the house?
Had his plan always been to dispense with her when he had what he wanted?
If that was the case, it was little wonder that he wasn’t a fan of me.
“Where are we going?” Daphne asked me, for the seventeenth time.
“One thing I love about you, Daph,” I replied, “is that you don’t ask questions.”
She rolled her eyes. “Just be grateful I’m still here despite the fact that you haven’t answered.”
We pedaled on.
After half an hour we arrived at a house on a quiet, tree-lined street. It wasn’t Rosehill by any stretch, but it was a pretty bungalow, with shutters and brightly colored daisies in planter boxes, overlooked by a huge jacaranda, which held a fair-haired little girl in its branches.
My father’s car was in the driveway.
“Who is that?” Daphne said, as we watched from across the street, tucked behind a tree.
“That’s my father’s new family.”
It hadn’t been hard to find Susan’s address.
I’d got it from the parish directory. I wasn’t sure that he would be there, of course.
He’d have his own place, most likely—he wasn’t so unorthodox as to live with a single mother before they were married—but I felt there was a good chance he would be there at dinnertime, as my father wasn’t a cook, nor was he the type of man who would like to open a tin of beans for dinner.
Amelia was high up in the tree, lost in her own little world, gesturing and smiling and talking, playing multiple roles in her imaginative game.
It reminded me of the way I’d play when I was her age.
She was a sweet-looking child—ethereal—small and fair and pixie-like. This didn’t remind me of myself at all.
“Amelia! Time to wash up for dinner!”
Amelia broke free of her game. “Coming, Mama.”
Even her voice was sweet. Through the leaves and flowers, I watched her making her way carefully down the tree until she reached the last branch, which was a significant height from the ground. She must have had help to get up there.
“Mama!” she called out. “It’s too high.”
Daphne and I ducked behind the tree as the door squeaked open. But when I peeked around, I saw it wasn’t Susan who came outside. It was my father.
The sight of him made me slick with sweat.
“It’s okay,” Daphne said. “Just stay down.”
Dad crossed the lawn and extended his arms up to Amelia.
Given the extent to which I hated this man, it shouldn’t have felt like such a betrayal.
His back was to me so I couldn’t see his facial expression.
Was he smiling at her? Was she smiling back?
I strained to hear conversation between them, but I heard nothing until an impatient “Come on.” From my father.
He was a tall man, and his arms almost reached her, so what happened next made no sense. He was right under her when Amelia slid from the tree toward his waiting arms. But instead of him catching her, she kept on sliding. He made no move to grab her as she let out a tiny, shocked scream.
A millisecond later she smacked against the ground.
The sound of Amelia’s cries, high-pitched and pained, would forever remain etched into my brain.
“Stop making a fuss,” my father told her.
Susan was out the door within seconds. She swept the child into her arms. “Shhh, darling. Mama’s here. It’s okay. Shhh.” To my father she said: “What happened?”
“I wasn’t ready. She just jumped. You need to pay attention, Amelia!”
Amelia was wailing, clutching her right arm. Susan thought it might be broken.
My father wondered if dinner was nearly ready.
I thought of all the times my father had been annoyed with me for something outside my control, and how my mother had pandered to him, to the point of dismissing me.
I remembered the confusion I felt during those times.
The shame I felt. It was different watching it happen to someone else.
Instead of feeling confused, I felt clear. Instead of feeling shame, I felt rage.
Susan carried Amelia back into the house, and my father followed unhurriedly.
Daphne pedaled home much slower than she had on the way there. We didn’t speak. Daphne understood, without being told, that I needed time to process things.
What had I wanted to see? It was true I’d felt betrayed at the idea of being replaced by another daughter.
Even the love that he had apparently felt for Kitty served to remind me that I’d been deficient as a daughter.
If he’d caught Amelia, and showed affection toward her, it would have been yet another knife in the back.
But seeing him reject that little girl, with her soft voice and innocent play, wasn’t what I wanted either.
I may not have known why I felt compelled to go there that day, but I’ll always be glad I did. Because that was the day I realized that my father was a monster. And it was never about me at all.