“You were there?”
“It was an all-boys school, wasn’t it?”
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” he groans, leaning forward. “And my deadline’s tonight.”
“I understand,” I reply, staring hatefully at my laptop.
“Got to get this storyhot off the gill,” he automatically replies, before adding, “I hate myself.”
Chapter 17
There’s a monster in this book. You just haven’t spotted them yet.
I sit at the edge of my bed, leafing through the soft pages of a picture book. Mum read it to me as a child. Just once. It’s one of those “monsters aren’t real, it’s just your imagination” lessons.
But they were wrong, I knew it even then. I look at the picture again. There, under the child’s bed, something is hiding. Waiting and watching like a shark under the surface. Sometimes, you have to squint to see it.
The monster.
Mum started to turn the page, but I reached out, pointed at the monster and said, “Daddy.”
I still remember the look on her face.
I close the book and place it gently on my pillow. Outside my bedroom window, Jessie sniffs at the garden beds. Heath’s on lifesaving duties, so he won’t be home for another few hours.
I lie flat on my back, sling my forearm over my eyes. My head hurts. There are so many strange pieces to this puzzle, and I don’t know how to put them all together. Are there any connections among my mum, Donny, and Hannah? If so, what? And what is it about the story that makes me feel like I’m missing something completely? Like there’s something in the back of my brain that I can’t quite reach?
I rise slowly, not quite admitting to myself where I’m going. Head down, I walk past the silent kitchen and stop outside my father’s room. My muscles tighten. My body is physically telling me to turn around.
Even as a child, I never entered his room. Never wanted to. He kept the curtains and windows drawn, all day, all night. His life wasruled by the tides, and because of this, his sleeping hours shifted with the moon. When he was sleeping, we learned to tiptoe around the house, jaws clenched so hard it hurt. Not that our silence mattered. He was always groggy and furious no matter how quiet we were.
If his life was dominated by the tides, then our lives were dominated by his moods. If you greeted him with a polite and cautious, “Hello,” he’d either ignore you or reel back and show his teeth like a twitchy wolf.
If youdidn’tgreet him, he’d throw up his hands and bark, “Aren’t I evengood enoughfor a hello?”
He left me reeling and stupid. Made my mouth a jail, and all my words prisoners. The longer I was under his roof, the smaller my voice became.
I’m doing it again. Tiptoeing, clenching my jaw.
He’s gone,I tell my body.He’s not coming back.
Are you sure?it asks.Are you sure are you sure are you sure?
I open the door and step inside before I change my mind. My father’s room smells like the sea. The sharp bite of salt, a heavy brine that clings to my nose. There’s a dampness here, an ancient stillness. It feels like I’m underwater.
I hold my sleeve to my nose. The navy sheets on his double bed are scrunched at the end of the bed like old toilet paper. Crusty plaid shirts are still slung over the bedpost, like they’re waiting for him to come back.
So dark, so filthy, soDad.
I kneel beside his bed, peek under. But there’s only a pair of dirt-caked boots. I reach for them, inspecting the insides, not even sure what I’m looking for. Nothing. I lift the scrunched sheets and sweep my arm under: empty. I sit stiffly on the end of my father’s bed, looking around the small, filthy room. My eyes fix on his hideous wardrobe. It’s taller than me, nearly as wide as his double bed. For the first time, I wonder why he needed such a huge wardrobe. It’s not like he owned many clothes, and God knows he never hung them up.
I walk slowly to the wardrobe, reach for the brass handle, and pull it open. Only darkness and a pair of green waders, half spillingout of a drawer. I stare at the waders, feeling sick. Dad owned two pairs. He was wearing the others when he went missing. They were never recovered.
Leave,my body insists.Please.
I don’t. I reach for the top drawer, just above my head, and slide it out. Inside is one of those old Peters Ice Cream tubs, filled with nails, screws, a pair of binoculars, and two dead moths.
In the next drawer is a bottle of cough medicine, half empty.
