I want them to bring him back, too. It’s just that I understand you can’t bring a human back after an hour or more of no oxygen. It’s basic biology.
I watch in a trance from the corner of the room as the paramedics and a cop make the arrangements for my Dad’s body to be picked up. He will be taken for a post-mortem because he wasn’t terminally ill and hasn’t seen a doctor in years. I can tell them why he’s dead right now. He drank too much, for too long, and his liver couldn’t take it.
In fact, I did tell them that. They can’t take my word for it, of course.
The look of sympathy from the paramedic when I answered questions about Dad will haunt me. It was already obvious from the number of empty bottles, but I still had to go through the standard set of questions.
Dad hasn’t been moved.
The image of his lifeless body isn’t something I will ever forget.
My worst fear has been realised like I always knew it would.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hope this is a bad dream. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had nightmares about finding one of them dead. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. How do I stay in this house with Dad’s ghost?
“Indie,” the paramedic says. She sounds like she’s right in front of me. I don’t even remember her name. “Indie. Hey, is there anyone I can call for you?”
Do they usually ask that when the mother is present? No, I doubt it. She knows my mum is useless. She probably thinks I’m going to fall apart. This was always going to happen.
I let go of my hair and look up. “No,” I whisper.
She looks back at Mum. The evidence of my parents’ alcoholism is scattered all over the room. “Are you sure?”
“There’s no one,” I lie.
There are three people who would drop everything to be here.
I would have a lot of explaining to do if I called them.
She nods, the pity in her eyes kicks me in the stomach.
“What happens now?” I ask.
“The police have arranged with the coroner to take your dad to the hospital for a post-mortem. They will call you when that’s been completed. The car is now here to take him. You’ll need to call a funeral director who will help you to make all of the arrangements from there. I really think it would be a good idea to call a friend.”
I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”
“Do you have anyone to talk to?”
“I have a counsellor.”
She smiles gently. “Good. Will you reach out to your counsellor soon?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Is there anything else you need before we leave?”
I bite my lip, glancing at Mum sobbing on the floor by Dad.
“I’m worried about her,” I say.
“Do they drink every day?”
“Yes, they have done for years. He’s her life. What will she do now?”
“There are programs that could help but that is ultimately her decision. Focus on yourself as much as you can. An alcoholic not wanting to get better can take all of your energy and leave you empty.”
I watch her and her face pales. She’s speaking from experience.
For a second, we look at each other, united by our shitty childhoods.
“No one knows,” I whisper.
“The secret will swallow you. Put yourself first. Please.” She pats my hand. “I’m very sorry about your father.”
She rises to her feet.
I don’t move, not when my dad is lifted onto the gurney, nor when he’s taken. Today there has been five extra people in the living room. I can’t remember when the last time there was more than my parents and me in there.
I bow my head when Dad is wheeled past.
Why am I not crying?
“We’re going to leave now. Will you be okay?” the cop says. Good, they’ve been here for ages.
I nod but don’t move. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
“We’re sorry for your loss. Take care of yourself.”
That’s the second time I’ve heard that today. How much of a fraud do I feel for not falling apart? He’s my dad, and I can’t even shed a tear for him.
Mum isn’t having the same problem. She’s curled up on the floor, her tiny frame shaking.
“Mum,” I say, crawling towards her. “Mum, please.”
Slowly, she raises her head. Her eyes are red and puffy, her skin tinged pink from crying so much. It’s the most colour I’ve seen in her cheeks for years.
“You didn’t do anything,” she accuses, her voice venomous.
A sharp stab of guilt rips through my stomach. “I couldn’t do anything. He was gone.”
“What am I going to do now?”
“We’re going to be okay,” I tell her. “We have each other.”
God, I want that to be true. I want my mum.
“I’ve never been able to do anything without David. My life is over.”
“It’s not,” I say, my heart finally breaking. “I’m still here.”
Her silence takes my breath, confirming what I already know.
I’m not enough.
Twenty-Nine
Spencer
I sit on my sofa with my legs up on the coffee table, reading my lines.
The smile on my face hasn’t fallen since the script was dropped off this morning. This new movie is incredible, Quarantine is getting a lot of love, and I have the girl.
I glance at my phone and scowl. Indie hasn’t answered my call or my texts this morning. She’s probably busy being a genius, but it’s doing nothing for my concentration.
Taking a sip of my coffee, I put down the script at the same time as my phone rings.
“Hello, Mila.”
“What’s up, movie star? Did you know that you’re trending on Twitter? I know someone who’s trending.”
“Great. Is that why you called? Is Indie okay?”
“I’m meeting up with her later, remember.”
“Did you need something…?”
“Reassurance.”
“Why?” I sit straighter. “What are you planning on doing tonight? You said you were joking about the kidnapping thing.”
“I’m going to let her tyre down
