.:Chapter One:.
If only life had a remote- a rewind button, a pause button, a fast forward button, a power button- a remote to control. But no, it didn't, only in my dreams, at least in the dreams I don't lie awake in. If so, although, I could rewind and redo that horrifying moment of my life, I would without hesitating. That little moment; that naïve choice I made because of my own feelings, had only brought more pain, suffering, regret, and sorrow to follow… it changed everything completely. But I didn't know that then. Compared to now, I knew nothing. I knew nothing of my own past, future, and even possibly the present.
You're probably wondering, now, what that amazingly horrible choice had been. I rarely speak of it, only because if I did, nobody would believe me. I trust you, though, because you're special. I can sense it, like a gut feeling. I suspect you might play a part somewhere in this story. It might not be a big roll, but every part has to be played. But, just for curiosity, can you feel yourself in these pages as you read, or a part of you hidden in the written ink, like you've heard it somewhere before, somehow, someway? Yes, you do, don't you? This is a sign, but first, of course, I should tell you my own story. As a warning, if you feel slightly tingly, your hearty starts to race, your hair rises on your arms, set down this book. Bury it, burn it, do with it what you will. Just be rid of it- for your own safety.
Now, only read this book at your own risk. Even normal humans might get wrapped up in the whirl of this story. I laugh at you, if you think this is fiction. This story is my life, before and after I found… well, you'll see. But keep your ears open and your eyes perked.
Keep in mind, I trust you.
I thought this afternoon would be peachy. It was indeed.
I was angry, seriously angry. It was a little after noon, the clouds covered the sky and shaded the Earth from the sun's warm glow. Otherwise, the sky was a deep blue, but a gloomy blue. Like someone had scribbled over it with a lead pencil, which suited my mood, bittersweet, quite well. I could tell it was about to pour down rain, considering I could smell it in the air like barbeque. Also, in the distance was a looming gray cloud the size of a sport stadium. It looked angry, too.
My father had tried to take me out on a picnic. A nice, friendly, father-daughter afternoon filled with happiness, sunshine, and laughter. I scoff. I guess I should explain why I was angry on a picnic. Why would I be angry on a nice picnic? This casual, pleasant luncheon turned to an announcement. I'm not even sure it was an announcement, even. Like a declaration, but more serious and more heartbreaking.
My father had hustled me up to a pretty hill in a meadow on the large farm we lived on. It had a looming olive tree peaking at the crest, which was now sprouting seaweed-green orbs the size of grapes. He carried a basket chock-full of treats-saltwater Taffy, all of my favorite flavors, a blueberry pie, courtesy of our neighbor, wrapped in a red checkered cloth with flowers on it, four cans of Mountain Dew Throwback, which my dad never let me consume, one veggie salad, for my vegetarian self, and three hot-dogs complete with a container of hot chili and squirt bottles of ketchup and mustard, a jar of homemade cinnamon applesauce, filled to the brim with chunky-looking half liquid, half solid sauce. It was unmistakably heaven, for me. I knew right then this was something majorly important. Maybe he got a promotion. Or he got a salary raise. Or he wanted to tell me something. I figured all three. That was the usual routine, anyway.
The meadow surrounding the hill was silent except for the occurring chirp of birds or our footsteps swishing the grass, or the rattling basket in my father's hand. The air was filled with more than just moisture. Tense silence, like the whole of the farm was holding its breath, just like I was.
I took a shaky breath, trying to be quiet. I didn't want my father to know I already expected of him. I was being brave, for his sake. It didn't look like he wanted to be brave in return. I was okay with him being sketchy. It was his normal attitude, always jittery and nervous, like he was always thinking about something horrible. Then, though, I couldn't relate.
"I'm sorry for rushing you here, Opal," my father's voice said from in front of me. I could tell he was forcing back something. He squeezed my hand I held back a gulp. His hand was clammy and wet with perspiration, as well as his beading forehead. "It's an important matter. I hope you understand."
He shot a side-glance at me and I caught his eye. He looked away quickly, back ahead. His face showed no emotion, but his eyes screamed an emotion I couldn't quite lay my hand on- something between anxiety and sadness.
I patted his hand with my free fingers, sympathetically assuring him with the pretend steady voice. "I understand, Dad. Sometimes things just come up, and we have to work around it."
He smiled; his stressed face still aiming dead ahead. I worried about him sometimes. He always looked sad and distressed. He didn't always look that way, though. He always appeared agitated and weary after the disappearance of my mother five years ago. He still thought about her, and talked in his sleep. I could hear him sometimes, mumbling in the middle of his nightmare he had nightly. He never told me, even though times I insisted. After a while, though, I got the idea. He didn't even want to think of her. But, of course he still did. It was always thinking about her, too. I couldn't deny I was still haunted by her disappearance, either. It was so sudden, like the breath being knocked out of you when you choke on something, and you desperately struggle to find air again.
They had been searching for almost a year, then, nonstop. My father insisted they keep searching for her, find evidence. Some sort of proof. But, they had come up with nothing and my father and I were loosing hope. We knew she was alive; it was just unreal that she would be at the time, a year of searching. No sign of her. Hope lost. Money lost. It was painful.
Deep inside, somewhere in the corners of my heart, I still believed she was alive. She had been a cheerful person, nothing wrong with her life, as far as my mind saw. Always casting smiles and laughing like the ting of a bell. Her name had been Hiresse. Hiresse McVeigh. An unusual name, it ran in the family, like my own name. I was proud to be her daughter. She was a good woman.
"You're a really wonderful daughter," my father chimed in, his smile still struggled to remain, twitching and not reaching his eyes. For my own sake, I knew, "and I hope you realize that."
I grinned with him halfheartedly. "You're a really wonderful dad, then."
His smile finally faded and there reappeared the everlasting grimace he always wore. "You don't have to pretend I'm a fantastic father; you aren't fooling anyone but yourself."
I frowned, but didn't reply. Somehow, I actually thought it was true. I tried to deny it again, but my mind wouldn't listen. He wasn't the father I'd always dreamed of. He used to be, though. But, I didn't seem to remember any of it. Like all of my memories of the past faded away right with my mother, like she never existed, along with the happiness my father ceased to show.
The deepness in his grimace increased, and I rushed forward.
"Wait, wait, no!" I cried, hugging his arm. "I promise you, you're-"
"Thank you, sweetie, but I know I'm not. I admit it, it's time for you to," he said, not turning to face me again.
I hugged him tighter. "You're ruining the moment, Dad."
His frown lifted a little, but sunk even further. I was about to speak again, but he shushed me with a hiss of air through his clenched teeth, and I did. I wouldn't argue with him now, he was obviously bothered by something. It ate away my self-control the farther we ascended the hill.
My hands were shaking, by stomach churning with excitement. But the bad kind, like when you're presenting an assignment in class, or when you go to the dentist's office, a kind of fear like you couldn't wait to get it over with. Anxiously, I fumbled with the strings on my hoodie, biting and chewing on the plastic aglet until it was bent and peeling. I shoved my hands in my pockets and fingered the dust-bunnies and sand inside. I watched the dewy grass get smothered under my feet and thought about how I was crushing over a million atoms under each step. Nothing worked in keeping my mind centered away from the situation at hand. My feet anxiously climbed to the peak of the hill.
We reached the top, at last. I leaned against a tree and caught my breath, ignoring the pounding of my heart. I wiped the sweat from my brow and picked an olive. It was green and plump. I decided I would use it in my salad. I stood aside as my father unpacked the old mattress cover and laid it on grass, which rustled under the fabric. I flattened it and smoothed it down, packing in all the air bubbles while on the other hand, my father started picking out all of the food he'd packed 'himself'. You and I know that was a complete lie. Just like my life. But, I didn't know, then. So it wasn't as painful.
The wind was picking up, grazing my bear arms, flushing my cheeks, and whizzing by my ears. I was shivering by the time I sat down on the flat mattress cover, which was cold too. The wind blew right through me, freezing my insides and out. I tried to keep myself shushed, but I couldn't compete with the chilling gusts. My father saw me chattering, and took off his best suit jacket and swung it over my quaking shoulders. I looked at him gratefully before wrapping it tighter around my torso.
The fabric itched against my skin, but I didn't mind. My shivering subsided.
"S-s-s-o," I shivered, attempting to steady my voice. I clenched my jaw and said through my teeth, "why are we having this p-p-picnic-c?"
My father smiled faintly, and then shrugged. His blue dress shirt rippled. "I just wanted to spend some time with you."
I managed a half-grin, watching him unpack the last grocery, which was a box of assorted taffy. He took off the plastic film packaging and slid open the box, setting it right in front of me. He really didn't mind if I only had taffy for lunch. Something was going on, and I was desperate to figure it out.
My hand trembled against the icy blast as I reached out and took a piece of plastic-wrapped taffy. I twisted the wrapper off and popped it in my mouth, chewing the watermelon candy vigorously. I cringed when it stuck to the roof of my mouth and worked at it with my tongue.
My father began nervously disposing of the Saran wrap around the bowl of mixed veggie/pasta salad. Meanwhile, I tried to warm myself with my own breath, which was hot and fiery against my tingling fingers.
My father poured a fourth of a container of Ranch dressing into the bowl of salad, tossed it with a disposable plastic fork, and handed it to me. I took it with shaky fingers and a measly smile. I wrapped my arms around the bowl and stared at its contents aimlessly, forgetting about the little olive. I found myself doing that a lot at the time, daydreaming more frequently. Sometimes, I had strange visions with my eyes wide open. I wasn't hallucinating, either. It was as if I was literally there. The most commonly seen vision was a girl. It was hazy, but I could still see she was crying and screaming, running frantically around in a wide, open forest. No sound came out of her mouth, though. Like my dreams were always on mute.
The looked back and forth, racing around a clearing. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened and I might have even heard a shrill scream. She spun around, in a stance to take off again, but before I could see what she was being chased by, my dream was interrupted.
"Opal?" my father asked, his voice a little scared. He worried about me, too.
I swallowed and blinked, my vision returning to the strangled-looking face of my father. He looked at me tenderly, searching my face, before taking a bite of his hotdog. I heaved a sigh. It was only a matter of time before he took me to a therapist.
I picked up my fork and readied it, my hand hovering over the bowl, only to set the salad and fork down and reach for another piece of taffy. I looked up at my father, who was looking at me, but didn't make a sound when I grabbed another helping. He looked down at his trousers, mumbling, but I couldn't hear what he was saying. I raised an eyebrow, but he was busy talking to his pants.
The way he ate, though. He took small bites and kept looking at me through the corner of his mint green eyes. He chewed thoroughly, before taking a faint swallow. Then he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. He never did that.
Something was on his mind, something big, and he wasn't telling me what. I knew it involved me, a lot. What he was going to tell me would impact my life. He was a really bad nonchalant liar. I wasn't going to live with the fact my father wasn't comfortable in confiding to me.
He shielded me away, though. I couldn't find words to say. He built a wall between us. My heart was sinking. He was supposed to be my father, tell me all of his thoughts and dreams and how cute I looked without makeup like every normal father. But, of course, I knew that my father definitely wasn't normal. Not special, just different. Like the runt of the batch, except he was the exact opposite. It's hard to explain, you have to live through it to realize how distant my father is. He carries both of our lives on his shoulders, and I couldn't be any guiltier.
I decided it was best for both of us if I just got it over with.
"Dad, tell me. I know something's bugging you," I blurted before I could stop my steadfast mouth.
He looked up abruptly from his half-eaten hotdog. He was in mid-chew, his mouth hanging open a little. He looked up slowly, like he was trying to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Like me. He eyed me, sort of glaring, until he finally set down his lunch and brushed his hands on his pants. I kept my eyes set on him, so he would know I meant business.
He shuffled in his cross-legged seating position, trying to get comfortable, but he couldn't find a steady grounding. He stood up and waved me over. I stood up hesitantly, my head throbbing along with the beat of my heart like a harmony of drums. He walked forward, grabbing my shoulder and my muscles tensed under his touch like he was radiating his own energy. I waited, listening to my own uneven breath.
"What do you mean?" he finally said, and my jaw dropped.
"You're seriously still trying that act, Dad?" I asked, irritated. "I'm your daughter. I'll understand if we have to make a change. Like if you're getting a raise or being promoted, or we have to sell the farm because it's too much to handle, or I'll have to sell a few of my things to be able to get grocery's this Saturday, or something like that. I'll understand. I realize it won't be good."
He frowned. "You think that's what I'm going to tell you?"
I shook my head. "What else?"
My father sighed, running a hand through his blond salt and pepper hair. I could tell what he was about to say was immensely hard. Like telling a preschooler with hopes and dreams they were about to die. He cleared his throat, and then took a hard gulp.
"I have a little bit of news."
I wanted to ask good or bad, but something in the back of my mind told me bad, anyway.
"Yes," I said. "News…"
"It's big news."
I propped my hands on my hips. "I know it is news, just get it over with."
He started pacing when he knew he was defeated. He let go of me and walked the length of the hilltop. After a few paces, and he didn't answer, I spoke again.
"Dad?" I asked, stepping in front of him. "Really, just get it over with."
He nodded a little too eagerly. "I guess so, huh?"
I nodded, circling back to the tree and leaned against it, my foot tapping the ground impatiently. I was getting more and more anxious each moment, each movement my father made.
He took a deep breath and turned away from me, his back facing me. I was about to confront him again when he cleared his throat again, licking his lips, and said, "From the search squad."
The thick air clogged my throat and dried the moisture away from it. My skin turned pale as a sheet, and my eyes were bloodshot. My heart gained fifty pounds and dropped from my chest. I blinked hard, tucking the curtain of blond hair behind my ears with a shaking hand. I stayed silent, my voice seeming not to work at all. I couldn't even muster up a whimper. All I got as a reaction was a plump, salty tear forming at the crease of my left eye, and eventually dropping down my cheek.
"Hey, hey, sweetie," my father wrapped his arms around me and patted my head. I didn't move. I couldn't.
"Mom," I choked on the air I was trying to swallow.
I could feel my father nod, and the rest of the tears poured down in a waterfall of a series of emotions tied into one.
The whole orchard of olive trees gained silence. The only sound was the heart-wrenching sobs of my father and I and the breeze that continued to rustle by, mockingly. At that moment, the rain started to fall and tears and rain droplets combined into one.