I don't know where my beta is, she's disappeared, when/if she gets back to me – I'll repost the edited version. Same goes for the third chapter. : )

Original plot belongs to the goddess, the plot of this story, to the goddess inside of me.

EDIT: I edited this chapter for about the 3rd time myself. Alice Laughed is currently pregnant (her third, I believe). And as much as I wish her luck, I feel kinda left behind in the dust considering she didn't answer any of my previous e-mails. sigh Oh and I only found this out from reading her profile and author's notes by other stuff she's currently beta'd ('nother reason I feel ignored) since I've e-mailed her.

I had tried not to let my father know about the cat in my stomach, the way my skin bruised at a touch, the metallic ache of my teeth. How the only thing that made me feel calm was seeing the scale register less and less weight. I didn't say that all I wanted was to move back home. Maybe I could help my mother take care of him. If he let me take care of him it might be as if he were taking care of me.

It came out that night on the phone. I started crying to my mother and he took the phone away and made me tell him about the psychiatrist. The lost pounds. The cat, the bones, the metal, the box. And then I heard him speak, in a voice I had almost forgotten.

He said, "Stop saying you're sorry, darling."

He had not called me that in years. He was going to get in the car, even though it hurt him to sit for too long, I knew that, and drive up to bring me home. He had waited until I stopped crying, stopped apologizing, and said, "There's only one condition. We're going to stop for a Foster's Freeze on the way. And you know how I hate eating desserts alone."

I lay on the bed, waiting. My half-lidded eyes created a blurred world of my room. The door was unlocked – it always was. Too many people knocking on the door all the time was a hassle. So it would have been surprising to hear the knock on the door (for no one knocked, knowing that the door was unlocked). It would have been – but I knew he was coming.

When I didn't reply to the knock on the door, the handle gently turned and the click of the door coming open echoed throughout the room. I closed my eyes, slightly curling even deeper into myself.

I felt a warm hand press on my forehead, and I consciously moved into the touch. Fingers moved through my hair, and I felt a pressure sink into the mattress beside me. I opened the eyes and saw the emaciated face of my father. He was wearing one of the silk berets that mother had made him, and the pain from sitting in the car showed in his eyes. But his smile, his smile reached his eyes and pulled my own into his, warming me.

He helped me to sit up, though I knew his arms were very weak and could not hold much weight. There was very little substance in his arms. It was like something that connected us. We were made of nothing but skin and bones. It was as if by painting 'Mister Bones' my father had known what our futures would hold.

Not a word was said. My bags were picked up and we walked outside, his light arm draped around my shoulders as they hunched over. I helped put my bags into the back seat. I was surprised as he got into the drivers seat; I knew that he was already in pain. I had thought that I was going to be driving, but apparently not.

I climbed into the passenger seat, and pulled my knees up to my chest. I leaned my head back against the headrest. My father pulled onto the street and we were soon driving down the highway.

Iggy Pop's 'Neighborhood Threat' was on the radio, but I could not seem to close my eyes to his crooning. My father looked straight ahead at the road, but I saw the white-knuckled grip he gave the steering wheel. As much as I wanted to tell him to let me drive, I couldn't find my voice. I wanted to take his pain, if only for a brief moment, help him. I wanted to replace my mother in his eyes, do for him what she couldn't (for once)…if only for a moment.

We kept driving and driving. The road stretched on and on. After about an hour, we pulled off on an exit ramp. After a few turns, I found us in the Foster's parking lot.

We entered and seated ourselves at a window booth. A waitress clad in pink, 50's style waitress garb came over. She took my father's order and soon came back with coffees for the both of us.

Not more than five minutes later, she returned with the dessert. It was large concoction of sugar, frozen cream and more sugar. I could barely remember the last time I had eaten something so grandiose.

My father told me to sit beside him and I didn't have the heart to disoblige him. Besides, it had been a long time since I had sat with my father. I found myself curled into his side, my head on his shoulder. He said nothing, only offered me a spoon. I took a tentative bite of the concoction and my jaw hurt at the amount of sugar. My father smiled at me, and I ate more. In fact, it seemed as if I was not able to stop. He ate some of the dessert, but it seemed as if the cancer even ate away at what he could eat.

He did not say a word as we went through the parking lot to the car. But he smiled at me, and before we entered the car, wrapped an arm around my waist, settling his hand on my stomach.

The cat quieted and stopped squirming.

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