“Wow,” June said, her brows raised. “A temporary truce in the war.”
I had to smile at that. Little pieces of my dad were still there, under the grief.
As Dad listened politely to June’s updates—Ella starting dance, Marlo getting a certificate at Friday’s school assembly—I churned over what I needed to ask him. Odds were he’d be as surprised as June and I both were. Anything to do with Bellamy House was a no-go zone in our family, and our questions and memories had been repeatedly shut down until we learned not to bring it up at all. We were one of those families where it wasn’t valued, at least by Dad, to share anything but success, and even those you had to be humble about. No high-fives here. There was a gruff well done followed by the expectation that you were now expected to outdo yourself. The goal post was always moved.
Dad shuffled in his seat and poured himself a cup of tea.
“So, what’s this thing about a house?”
“Oh, nothing,” I blurted. My confidence wavered. The old feeling of being in trouble crept up my spine. I’d decided long ago that his expectations of my living life according to his map were too high. He could never give support when any of us were having a hard time, and so I’d decided he would not be privy to my success either. Bellamy House wasn’t a success, don’t get me wrong, but the surrounding armour was clinking itself tighter.
June kicked me under the table.
“What is it?” Dad asked, placing his cup down on the glass top of the table. He didn't miss a thing. I glared at June andhoped the telepathy we tried to share but never succeeded in during childhood finally worked and she could hear the creative link of curse words I was throwing at her.
“Honestly, dad it’s nothing. I can ask you next time,” I said, dunking a gingernut biscuit in my tea. I never really liked them, but I was happy for any excuse to have my mouth filled at this moment.
Dad leaned back in his chair. “Next time? You mean in another six months? I could be dead by then.”
The colour drained from my face, and June looked like she was about to spit out her tea.
“It’s a turn of phrase, girls,” Dad sighed. “I’m as strong as the legs on this table.” He gave it a kick for good measure, causing the tea in his cup to spill. June started spluttering and trying to explain about kids and work and the renovation keeping her from visiting as much as she’d like to.
“Riley’s been staying in Glades Bay though! She’s way closer,” she said. My mouth gaped. Way to throw me in it. I loved her to bits, but she’d always enjoyed throwing me under the bus and watching while I tried to climb back out. Dad turned to look at me, his expression expectant.
“I would have visited sooner, Dad. I’ve just been busy and, well?—”
“Work?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. That’s been a bit dry, actually.”
He linked his fingers together and waited. I was prepared to sit in the silence, thick with disappointment, until the subject changed.
“Someone left her Bellamy Children’s Home in their will, and she’s trying to figure out who it was,” June blurted from her seat, her eyes flicking between us.
Dad looked visibly shocked and had to lean forward to cough out the biscuit he’d been chewing before it got lodged.
“June!”
I thumped Dad on the back. She’d never make it in Breeze’s spy business. She'd be a perfect candidate for interrogation, though. Dad’s coughing continued, and the redness in his face grew.
“Here, Dad.” I tried to put his tea in his hand, but he waved it away.
“We don’t talk about that place,” he announced once he’d composed himself. There were a lot of things we didn’t talk about. But that place was at the top of the list.
Josh had claimed his heroin addiction was rooted in the trauma he’d faced there. Dad never acknowledged it. Never listened. Never wanted to know. Josh never got the chance to share his side of things. Except with June and me. We didn’t exactly want to hear it, but we could hold more space for it than Dad ever did.
The boys’ treatment had been more physical. We were completely separated by gender—right down to school and recreation. There were no cameras for the boys. No VHS tapes to find. Which sounds like a dream situation now that the ones staring me were potentially in the hands of someone whose intentions weren’t good. But what it meant for him at the time was way worse care. With no evidence, no proof, of what was happening on that side, the treatment was more than severe. I'd felt for Josh. I knew some of what he’d been through from my experience, but I never understood what led him to manifest into addiction when I got self-loathing instead. I guess addiction is a form of self-loathing.
It looked to most people like escape, which no doubt it was. But for Josh, it seemed as if it was an erasure of sorts. He was trying to destroy the parts of himself he didn’t want to carry. The uncomfortable bits. The bits that felt wrong. In the end, hedestroyed everything. His life. Dad’s. Probably mine too, if I had an emotional capacity bigger than a quark.
Addiction doesn’t just affect the one with the needle in their arm or the powder in their nose. It spreads like smoke. Like stinging tentacles, reaching for everyone nearby. Dragging them under too.
Josh hadn’t seen it. He’d been too wrapped up in self-pity to notice the damage to anyone else. And while that egocentrism had driven me mad, I couldn’t really blame him.
He’d been broken.
They’d succeeded with him.
