Chapter two
Dear Caleb Knight,
It is with a heavy heart that I regret to inform you that we have decided to put our adoptive daughter back into the care system. We have encountered a difficult quandary; one which we don't want her to encounter at such a precious stage in her development. Whilst one may argue that it could reinforce her resilience, I fear we're not the type to help her grow from this. I can't bear to see her fall apart.
I understand that being tossed from pillar to post is harmful - I'm aware of your own childhood, and this must feel awful to hear. Yet we can't let her watch this terrible event. I hope she will, one day, forgive us for taking her back into the care system.
We are unaware of her next home. The pain of losing her is so great, I asked concretely not to be informed - after all, I can't even know the person's name who will take over mothering or fathering of my child. In return, we can't inform you where she'll be going. We're extremely sorry. However, we have noticed the hint that, with your lack of contact, perhaps you won't mind her whereabouts a large amount if you haven't been keeping in touch.
Our lovely, impeccable, intelligent adoptive daughter adored getting to know you. I do hope you can one day forgive us for snatching her away. Some circumstances can't be foreseen, and disasters occur without a single choice of ours to shape it. We only had the opportunity to make one choice - and we hope it was the right one. Truly, we do.
Thank you for making her smile. We appreciate you and everything that you have done.
Yours sincerely,
Ruth Hills.
It's come to the point where he is doing most things to humor people. Viewing a flat being one of them.
In all fairness, the place is... decent. Perhaps he'd be half-considering it if the mystery letter wasn't in his pocket, folded, creased, riddled with confusion and many slews of inside references that he can't decode without context. Yet he cannot even entertain the notion. It's a building of concrete and mortar with clean carpet and wallpapered walls but he can't see it as anything more than a commitment. A goodbye to ever finding out what this means.
What if another letter is sent? What if that explains everything?
"We've spoken about the local area and amenities. Any questions?"
Yes. Many questions. None about the flat. None that she can answer. Ethan looks at the woman, presented in tight black trousers, pressed shirt, hair wound up into a bun. A clipboard is pressed to her chest. A headteacher vibe. The sort who would shout at you for rolling your eyes when all you did was move them fractionally, because she was having a bad day and wanted to take it out on someone. Every day a new victim.
It's possible his view could be biased.
She blinks, wide eyed. "Questions?" She says again, tipping her head, increasingly hostile.
He pretends to consider. "I do believe that my friend gave me a good overview of this place, actually. I think she answered all questions for me." Alicia sure did. All she ever does anymore is text pictures of 'for rent' signs during her daily commute to work through car windows, or e-mail links to sites. Charlie and Connie aren't much better. Connie keeps recommending such expensive places that he's wondering if she's trying to bankrupt him. Charlie likes to capture Ethan in his spiders webs on increasingly frequent occasions and talk to him until Ethan is almost convinced that moving out is worth it. Almost.
"Well," the woman looks about, shoulders straightened out. "I'll let you make your own judgement on the place - five minutes."
"Yes, of course."
Her heels click down the halls that he can't imagine ever being his, and the door closes. It doesn't creak ever so slightly like his one does. Just a soft click. He's gotten used to the battered, over-used, imperfectly perfect state his flat is in.
He supposes, if he were in the market for buying a place, this could fit the bill. It's secure. The garden is maintained by the neighbours downstairs. The local area is near to work, a train station just down the road, the bus stops a couple turns around. No red flags stick out. It is adjacent to the main road yet the traffic noise is blocked out by thick windows.
However, it's more closed off. The kitchen isn't open to the living room. There are too many perfectly closing doors. Too much hidden space. He can't imagine himself pottering around at three in the morning, brewing a hot drink, basking under a flickering light, hearing ghosts of snores in the next room. There's comfort in familiarity. This is too different. The counter doesn't look right (no small knife marks from when a certain someone forgot to use a cutting board whilst dicing an apple), no scratched oven top, nothing with faults, too squeaky clean and cut off. He'd hated when his keys had scratched the oven top - but now, he remembers when it happened and it brings him a curious sort of joy. How he'd thrown them there to run to reply to the buzzer, letting his brother in from the pouring rain, watching him trudge up a staircase, laughing at his drowned rat state. Then groaning at the key marks when he saw them but not really caring. How could he care? How could he even dare? He had everything.
Ethan supposes he ought to look as though he's even considering buying this place. He stands by the window - too small, too new - and looks past the pristine curtains. A wall covers any view. It's grey. More flats, more people piled on top of eachother. Curtains all pulled.
"The bathroom window holds a better view."
Ethan restrains his flinch at her materialising behind him. Nodding at nothing, he keeps admiring that same, grey, blank wall.
"Windows are all properly insulated. Draught-free, double glazed." Her voice is soft. Wheedling.
"Good to know."
"Have you thought of any questions at all?"
Ethan looks around the place, taking it in. He can't. It isn't home. It isn't a place he could ever rest his head. It's a pile of bricks made into a mediocre place. Of course he's not going to find a place where his good memories will materialize, it's always going to be a scarily blank canvas; he'll have to make new memories, but a few key people are missing nowadays for that to be successful. It could never be the same. Ever.
Wordlessly, he shakes his head, and she talks on about the carbon monoxide detectors like he asked. He makes a quick, effortless decision. This can't be home. And he's not sad about the could-have-beens.
It's probably faulty anyway. The toilet likely doesn't flush, the boiler might be on the blink the majority of the time. The bath and shower sealants might be peeling. He might be forbidden from decorating; left to live somewhere without his own stamp on it. The heating might be bad, the radiators might be dodgy, he might have to spend all his time wrapped in blankets to keep a good core temperature. There's probably mould in the corners and loose wires.
Ethan pulls his wrist up to view theatrically. He doesn't take into account the time on his watch, the cuff of his sleeve covering half the face. He knows his time has been wasted regardless. "Oh, gosh, is that... I'm afraid I really must be off."
"Wouldn't you at least like to know the rent prices? The deposit and conditions for the landlord deducting money from it?"
"I'm sorry, I-"
Her voice is now high and tetchy. Taut like a stretched elastic band. "The running costs of the property?"
"I'll be in touch," he says, reeling off his thanks, knowing that every single word is a lie.
At home, he has another letter posted through the box. He bends and picks it up.
Dear Caleb Knight,
I'm afraid it slipped my mind last time to include my phone number in case you fancied getting into touch without the hassle of writing a letter. It is awfully old-fashioned nowadays what with instant messaging, where there's no risk of it getting lost in the mail or water damaged.
I don't have internet, but I've changed my home phone since downsizing somewhere nearer to Holby City.
There is no pressure to call me. I thought it was good to have the option. God knows you haven't had much of a say in anything else.
My number is printed on the back of this sheet.
Yours sincerely,
Ruth Hills.
Ethan turns it for the number. The letter is wavering in his trembly fingers; surely, more information ought to solve this. Yet he's no more informed than before. He doesn't know who this woman is. One thing is for certain that the woman is angling for a response.
A text chimes his phone. Connie. Something about working an extra shift. Understaffed. Work can wait. This can't.
Ethan pushes the number into the keypad, holding it to his ear. He can hear his blood whooshing in his ear.
It takes the second ring, a thousand anxious stomach squeezes and a full pace of his flat for anyone to pick up. It's a man's voice. Gruff, but weak. Like he's winded.
He fights to keep his voice under suitable control. "Hi, I'm Doctor Ethan Hardy," the title slips - a habit, unfortunately, he'll never stop introducing himself as such. "I hope this is the right number - is this Ruth Hills?"
"No. Her husband."
"Right, sorry. Could I speak to her?"
"What d'you want? I'm not letting her speak to some stranger. Can't trust anyone."
"I, uh," he taps his fingernails on the unit ahead. He looks at the reflection cast against the fridge. Anxious, confused. Needing answers.
"Hello?"
"Answers." Ethan swallows. "That's what I want."
"Answers about what?" He doesn't seem to be giving up anytime soon. Though Ethan wishes he would - both for his own sake, and the man's, because his breathing sounds raspy. Like he needs a good sit down.
"If it... helps, I'm Caleb Knight's brother. He is- was older. Messy. Tall, a bit of a mess. In the best way, of course. Cal, he prefered. Chose the surname himself. Cal Knight."
There's a pause. A crackle. Inhale - then an eventual, "I'll get her for you. What's your name again?"
"Ethan Hardy."
"Right, okay-" he breaks into a weak shout, muffled when a distance is put between his mouth and the receiver "Ruth? Someone on the phone for you."
Ethan clasps the second letter in his hand, resting the phone against his shoulder, taking the first one out. Adoptive daughter. I'm aware of your own childhood. Can't bear to see her fall apart. Thank you for making her smile.
A voice startles him. "Hi, it's Ruth. You know Cal?"
"Yes, yes, I do. Very well." He straightens his back, praying he won't stumble on a single word. "I was hoping you could give me some answers, please. I'm afraid you're probably the only one who can answer them."
Guest: I appreciate that! Truly, they made that place a home. It can't even feel right to move from where your old life was. Moving on is hard of course. We shall see eh! Your vote of confidence is lovely, I very much hope I don't disappoint you. Thank you for your review!
TheBeautifulNerd: Thank you - description is something I prefer to write to be honest, dialogue can sound forced when I write it on occasion. His character definitely has changed. A mix of grief, growing up, it's all weathered him. Sad to lose the old Ethan, but people change, and I dunno, pieces of the old awkward Ethan still crop up eventually. I'll probably always like him either way though. Though the old Ethan is unforgettable; I understand why you prefer him. Here is chapter two, thank you for your review.
20BlueRoses: You got it - we'll have to find out (or you will anyway, haha, I know it alllll). Worry not, there's gonna be so many mentions of Cal that it'll be as though he's still there - what on earth is moving on, haha. Aw thank you so much; good point that he might really feel the limit of time due to his diagnosis, it's definitely a weight. Thank you for your review!