Dad roars, and in my mind, I see his face turn red. Saliva will be building up the corners of his mouth. I can’t even hear what they’re arguing about, but I know I’m not going down there to intervene.
The last time I did that, Mum slapped me across the face. I was twelve. It was the first and last time she got physical. I never bothered trying to help again.
My fingers curl around the edge of the quilt.
Turning on my side, I face the wall and press my yellow cushion over my exposed ear.
Please stop. Why can’t they just fall back asleep like they’re supposed to? I don’t know if it’s a good sign that they’re awake at five in the morning.
Maybe they didn’t drink as much as they usually do.
Maybe I’m still a fool.
They would rather die than get sober and deal with the life they’ve been dealt.
Neither of them cares that I’d be left behind. They’ve never thought for one second how I’m affected by their choices. They don’t care.
I press my lips together to stifle the scream rising up my throat.
I hate this. I hate them.
I stay stock still until they go quiet. At some point, I drift off to sleep and wake at eight. I sit and stretch my head from side to side.
Today, I have a full schedule between the library and lectures, and then I have a shift at The Waffle House. I get up and take a shower. It’s freezing out. Frost sits on the edge of the window like a frame. Once dry, I change into jeans and a chunky knit sweater.
I head downstairs, a little lighter because I know they’re sleeping now. I’ll be at work after uni, and then with Mila. I can be out late and avoid them almost completely. Though I do need to catch up with my washing. But now the house, besides the living room, is tidy and clean again.
Everything is somewhat back to normal. And I hate it.
I make it to the kitchen and boil the kettle before I slowly step into the living room.
The smell of vodka makes my nose sting. A large wet patch soaks the carpet, the bottle on the floor now on its side. For fuck’s sake.
Mum is curled on her side under a blanket. She takes a deep breath in her sleep. How is it possible to love and hate someone so much? If anyone else treated me the way they did, I would have left.
Dad, pale yellow and laying on his back, has his arm hanging off the sofa. His stomach is swollen, lips tinted blue.
Tinted blue.
He’s never been blue before.
My face falls.
“Dad,” I whisper. The back of my neck prickles, and my heart sinks. “Dad?”
I take another step forward, and blood drains from my face.
He’s not moving. His chest isn’t rising.
I clench my fists over and over as my hands shake.
Do something.
“Dad,” I say again, pleading. Dropping to my knees, I reach out and place my hand on his chest.
I take a sharp breath as my hand sits still. I know instantly. He feels different. His body is hard and cold, like it’s made from porcelain.
“Dad, wake up!” I demand. “Dad! Daddy! Daddy!”
I’m screaming. I can hear myself, but it sounds like I’m listening to someone else. Gripping his T-shirt, I shake. He doesn’t move. “Wake up!”
Why aren’t you waking up?
“I-Indie, what are you doing?” Mum’s raspy words rattle around in the back of my head, somewhere far off.
I let go and leap back like he’s shocked me.
No, no, no.
“David!” Mum cries, finally looking at Dad. She rolls off the sofa and crawls to him.
“He’s dead.”
Only three hours ago, they were arguing. Is that why he woke up and they started fighting, because he felt pain?
I back up to the wall, my eyes wide and body frozen. I need to call someone.
Turning around, I brace my hand on the wall and follow it through to the kitchen. My phone is on the counter. I stagger into the room and reach for my phone. Mum’s deafening screams tear through me, and my legs give way. I hit the floor as the operator asks which service I require.
“Um, ambulance, I think. I don’t know. My dad is dead.”
Mum wails as I give our address and tell them that he’s cold. I’m not an idiot. I’ve studied death and bereavement. Rigor Mortis happens somewhere between one to six hours after death. My dad’s body is hard. He’s been dead for at least an hour already, but it could be up to three.
“Thank you,” I say, hanging up the phone.
“Indie, do something!” Mum screams when I get off the phone.
The paramedics have been despatched.
They’ll fix this.
“Indie!”
I rise to my feet, and through blurred vision, make my way back into the living room. It feels darker than before. I shuffle forwards, gripping my phone in my hand.
“Stop crying and do something!” Mum screams, waving at me with one hand while gripping Dad with the other.
Shaking my head, I stare at my dead father. “I can’t do anything,” I whisper.
His body is frozen. I feel as cold as he is. Maybe if I’d checked on them after their argument…
“Indie, he’s dying!”
No, he was dying while I dozed in bed. Now, he’s dead.
“He’s gone,” I whisper. “Paramedics are on their way. The police will come, too.”
Why can’t I stop looking at him? He’s so pale; a colour somewhere between yellow and grey.
I’ve never seen a dead body before. This one is my dad.
Fuck.
My stomach lurches as I sprint to the bathroom.
Twenty-Eight
Indie
Dead.
I knew that already.
The paramedics and two police officers are here. They’ve been here for hours, it feels. I’m so glad they took over the second they got here because I was lost. I’m still lost. I can’t do anything for Mum.
