I wake up, breathing hard and quick, to dim light filtering in through my bedroom window and the sound of low murmuring coming from downstairs. For a moment I lie still, flat on my back, letting my breaths slow and even.
The murmuring continues. From the corner of my eye I spy my wand on the bedside table. It would be so easy to pick it up and give it a wave. One spell and I'd be albe to hear everything being said in the kitchen. But that would be wrong, I think, and not very sporting besides. Best to listen from the top of the stairs, like a common muggle, I grin to myself.
Even sitting on the very top step it's difficult to make out exact words. My dad's gruff bass is intermixed with a smooth and sharp baritone. As quietly as possible I bump my rear down three more steps, just to the point where I know I still can't be seen.
"Will she be staying with you from now on?" The stranger's voice asks. I hold my breath. Of course they're talking about me.
"I dunno," dad says distractedly. "We haven't really talked about it. She's been at the same school in Scotland for the past five years though. It's a boarding school, so I guess it makes a lot of sense for her to go back." A beat of silence and then a heavy sigh. "Doc, I don't know what to do. What do I say? How do I tell her…"
"You tell her you love her," the man, Doc, replies. "You tell her you'll always be here when she wants to talk, that you'll always listen to her and that you'll believe whatever she tells you." My dad must have shot him some kind of look, probably wondering what this Doc knew of my situation, because he quickly offers an explanation, "A lot of people, young girls especially, I've found, are afraid that their loved ones will not believe them, when they talk about traumas they've experienced. It's a common fear, and one that you will need to address and continue addressing until she believes it. What she needs from you, Charlie, is validation. She needs to know that you believe her, and that you're not judging her or her actions or her reactions. It's all you can do, sometimes." Doc sounds sad at this. I feel my hands shake a bit too, to be honest. How can he know?
"Huh." Dad grunts. For a moment there's silence again, and I wonder if that's the end of the conversation. "I just feel so out of my depth, ya'know? I haven't seen her in two years and in that time… God, everything has happened. I don't even know where she was last summer, Doc. Her grandmother died weeks after the last time I saw her, so where was she staying during school holidays? What… what could I have done? What's happened to her that she hasn't told me about? What she's told me about makes me absolutely furious, so mad I could just-" Dad lets out a short, sharp laugh. "She showed up on my doorstep with a duffle bag. I don't even know what happened to her stuff. What's she brought with her? What does she need? I don't know, I just don't know." I picture him throwing his arms in the air, in a sort of surrender.
"You'll drive yourself crazy thinking like that, Charlie," Doc advises. "But I'll tell you what, if it's okay with you I'll give Alice, she's my youngest, you know, about your daughter's age, your number and I'll have her call. There's nothing Alice loves more than having someone to shop for, I'm sure she'd be able to help Isabella find what she doesn't already have."
"Yeah?"
"Of course. Alice is a little insulated. All of the children are. It will be good for her to make a new friend."
The sound of chairs scraping against linoleum signals the real end of the conversation and I watch my dad walk the stranger past the foot of the stairs and to the front door. He's younger looking than someone I pictured my dad confiding in, and a lot more clean shaven than most of the deputies and fishing buddies I've met. If anyone, I'd figured that dad would talk to Uncle Billy, his oldest and best friend and my uncle in every way that counts. From beyond the scope of my vision I hear casual goodbyes and the front door open and close.
What Doc said gives me a lot to think about, not only because now I know that Dad's got way more questions than the few he's already asked me. I wonder how much was said before I woke up, how much Dad actually told Doc and how much in turn he'd feel the need to share with his daughter.
I also have a think on what Doc said about me just needing Dad to believe me. In a way, I suppose that one bit of advice is especially true in my case. I can tell my dad that I was in a magical war, that it was illegal for me to contact him, that I was attacked by a werewolf, and tortured by dark wizards but in the end it really is down to him to believe me or not. I think about what would happen if he didn't believe me, if he just stands up one day and says, "this sounds like a lot of rubbish." Objectively he'd be dead wrong but I can't say that it wouldn't smart a bit.
On a deeper level though, I think I might need him to believe me in a different way. I think I might need him to say, "It's true, the things that happened to you were bad and wrong, and you have every right to be sad and scared and have nightmares and act like a crazy person." Maybe that's the kind of belief that Doc was referring to, not a "don't argue the facts" belief but a "don't argue the emotions" belief in me. It's true. That really is what I need. Over and over again until I actually believe it.
From the bottom of the staircase Dad looks up at me, his brown eyes finding mine. "I love you, Bells," he says, putting everything he isn't saying into the sentiment.
"I love you too dad," I say, and I put an awful lot into it too.
Thanks for reading, friends!
