Six days later, I was happily napping on the couch, since I had spent the previous night partying with Case and Max at the local club, where we were convinced that Arden needed to learn how to "properly" live life. The shock of killing the man he had assumed to be his father, along with destroying the cause that he had served all of his life-Manticore-was slowly wearing off, resulting in a much livelier Arden. He was prone to fits of laughing, that, he said, was because it was such a wonderful feeling, of which he had been denied all his life. I had yet to laugh, and this worried him, fearing that I was depressed or suicidal. Smiling warmly, I would simply lay my hand on his arm, replying that I just…couldn't…laugh right then. Maybe someday, I could, but not then.
Above all, though, Arden was a soulful person, lapsing into subdued phases where he would merely stare out the window-reminiscent of the thoughtful Case before Manticore had chipped away at his spirit-and the next minute, Arden could be dancing wildly across the room, insensitive to his surroundings. I had yet to understand him and his erratic mood swings; still, I couldn't have imagined life without him.
That evening, after a previously heavy night of partying, during my nap, I was awakened by the rustling of clothing and low mumbling. For a split second, I imagined that someone might have broken in, but that seemed highly unlikely, considering that the vigilance of the despised 415 still lurked within me. Snapping awake, I gave a rapid glance around the apartment only to observe Dad crouching by the foot of the couch, sorting through the suitcase that was given to him on his birthday.
I watched him muttering to himself as he sifted through clothing he had never worn, and when I realized that he hadn't noticed me, I cleared my throat, swinging my legs to the floor. "What are you doing, Dad?"
He didn't appear at all startled, for he barely glanced up at me, only to rapidly avert his attention back to the suitcase by his bent knees. "Packing, 'Lanzie," he replied as if that gave every explanation that I desired.
"Where are you going?"
Shrugging aimlessly, Dad held up a shirt that Krit and Syl had probably bought him, examining it with a bored stare. "Wherever."
"No," I insisted. "Where?"
"I don't know. Maybe California, maybe Phoenix…it doesn't really matter."
"You're leaving then, I take it."
"Yes."
I sighed, pulling my hair out of the decorative ponytail I had put it up into for last night. "Just like always…"
"You knew I couldn't stay here forever-didn't you?"
"I was hoping that you would."
"Hope," Dad mused, like he was trying to pick the word apart, before firmly shaking his head. "You shouldn't hope for too many things."
My hair, wrinkled with a severe ring where my ponytail holder had been, bounced around my shoulders as I slid off of the couch and down by Dad. Resting my cheek on his hard shoulder, I peered into the suitcase, which was barely half full, and I knew that Dad wasn't going to take the suitcase; he'd leave it at the apartment for someone else to take care of.
"Perhaps," I agreed, "but that doesn't mean I'll stop hoping."
He didn't respond, and a muscle in his cheek began twitching involuntarily.
"I want you to stay here, Dad. You have nowhere to go. No one to find. All of the people you have to worry about aren't even beyond the boundaries of the Seattle metropolis. Manticore is dead…and so…is Lydecker."
"'Lanza-" he began hesitantly.
"I know you don't like Logan and Mom together, or how Arden's moved in with us, but none of that matters," I told him, lifting my head up so that we could meet each other's eyes. "You matter…really, you do. I mean, I know I haven't been the best daughter, but you really do mean a lot to me, Dad."
"You don't understand. I can't stay here, knowing that someone may be out there, trying to capture us." He paused, tensing reflexively, before giving forth one massive sigh. "I stayed in one place for fifteen years, and I nearly went insane trying to do so."
"Then why did you stay so long to begin with?"
"For Max, mainly, because I knew that she couldn't take care of you when you were so young and needed constant monitoring. I guess I had hoped that maybe being away from Seattle for so long would make her forget about everything-and everyone-up here. She didn't forget though; she's never forgotten. I knew that she'd go back, and I didn't want to be there when she left California for her love back in Seattle. I stayed for you, too, 'Lanza, 'cause I couldn't abandon you like Max and I had been when we were children. Somebody had to show you how to fight, and Max certainly wasn't going to, so I did."
Dad leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes briefly to serve as a darkroom to develop old memories into present photos. "I remember when you first flew. You were only about four or five…maybe slightly older, I can't really recall. Yet, Max and I and you were all in the park; you were on the swings, and she was pushing you, both of you laughing. But, just as she had stepped away to tell me something, you were gone. It took us a moment to realize that there you were, up in the air, moving like a ghost through the sky, giggling childishly, and never once realizing that when-and if-you fell, you'd be killed. Yet, you didn't care. You've never cared.
"That's the strange thing," Dad said, looking up at the cracked ceiling. "You were made to be this supreme champion, yet you've never acted like it. All you've ever fought for is normalcy-even in Manticore. And, I guess you could say that's what I want right now: normalcy. I want to go back to the way things were before Manticore broke all of us."
"Such as you leaving."
"Yes."
There was a long pause, during which we sat side by side, listening to the beginning of lapping raindrops outside. The apartment was eerily quiet, chilled by the absence of a furnace, which had neglected to turn on, and I rubbed my hands against the thick denim of my jeans, trying to warm my flesh. Dad started vacantly off into space, his fingers interlocked around the tops of his knees, and his blond hair was just a muddled mass on the top of his head.
"I'm assuming that you're not taking the suitcase then," I remarked, more to myself than him, unnaturally breaking the accustomed silence.
He blinked, as if realizing that I had spoken, before shaking his head. "No…it's too heavy…too bulky. I'll be loaded down by it."
"That's what I thought."
At last, Dad rose to his feet, giving off some cracking noises as his bones popped against one another, hinting at the old age that he wanted to deny. He leaned over me-still sitting-and retrieved his leather jacket off the couch, which was warm from my sleeping on it. Shrugging into it, he pulled the coat tight around his body with a firm zip, and looked down at me.
"This is good-bye, then," he responded, pressing his lips against one another.
"I suppose it is." Reluctantly, I stood up, almost believing that if I stood, he would walk away and out of my life just like he had done nearly four years ago.
We stood at eye-level, looking surprisingly the similar to the people we had been when first meeting upon my entrance into Seattle, yet, we were, of course, entirely different. He wasn't just my dad anymore. Not just the man I would bicker and squabble with over meaningless things with. He had become the forgotten solider, proud and strong, and I was no longer the ignorant daughter-considering that I had, indeed, saved his life on more than one occasion.
Finally, I threw my arms around him, knowing that it would be at least another three-maybe four-years before I would see him again, and I embraced him firmly in a harsh hug. "You come back-ok?"
He laughed hoarsely in the rear of his throat. "I will," he assured me, patting me on the back of my head. As we separated, I could swear there were tears in his eyes, while I definitely was crying.
As he swung the door open, ready to leave Seattle and travel across the country once again, I whispered, "I love you, Dad." The words were emotionally induced, spoken with more feeling than I thought I was capable of portraying around him, and I doubted that he had even heard me.
Yet, as he froze, one massive hand-the one that twinkled with his fiery watch-paused on the door handle, and his head lifted to full acknowledgement. The large blue eyes that I had always known to be utterly stoic were now glassy, filled with a sheen of tears that he would forever deny. As a crooked smile attempted to live on his unwavering lips just before he disappeared out into the rain, he whispered, "I love you, too, Alanza."