Weak sunlight filters in through the curtains and reaches out to lightly caress my face. I open my eyes, listening to the old house waking up around me. For a moment, I study the books on my bookcase. I roll over and climb out of bed. Little shocks through my bare feet, sometimes the old floors are chilly in the morning. I'll have to dig around in the bedclothes for the socks I obviously kicked off in the night.
I enter my little bathroom and run through my morning routine. I really should jump in the shower, but I'm on vacation and would like to spend a little time reading this morning. I stretch and study my books. I tend toward a Science-Fiction predilection. I pull out an old copy of a Ray Bradbury and push myself back under the soft duvet. For a while I can get lost in the single day of sunlight on Venus.
I have fallen back to sleep and awaken to the sound of a soft knock on my door. I rub my eyes and sit up against the headboard. I already know who it is, but I speak out the affirmative and Daddy opens the door. He's carrying a little battered notebook and my curiosity is instantly picked.
He sits down beside me with his pajama-clad legs hanging off the side of the bed. I put my arms around his shoulders and lay my head on his back. I've missed him so much. He pats my hands and I move to be right beside him. He holds out the little notebook and I can't help but smile when I take it from him.
"Those are my notes from some of your Papa's earliest cases." A little electric jolt runs through me. Believe me, for someone who has been writing about their family as long as they can remember, this is a big deal.
"Thank you, Daddy." He knows how much this means to me. I may not be the writer that he is, but I think I can make these stories come alive in whole new ways. Several of my short stories have been picked up in a local writers' magazine, but I am hoping for a wider audience. Daddy still keeps his blog and I've used it like an archive for their adventures. My stories tend to border on the fantastic with a Sci-Fi bent. I inherited the love of technology and I make use of it. Having Daddy's words, straight from his mind (and Papa's) to his pen and right onto the paper at the time is a gift like no other.
Daddy studies my face for a moment. We both know how much I want to get into this notebook and get into my own head for a while. But there is something else he wants to ask me.
"Sophie, are you ready to talk about school?" He sits quietly with his hands in his lap. I have no desire to talk about it right now, but I'd rather not take the happiness away from him at this moment. Alright, I'll compromise.
"Not now, Daddy. I just want to…" I am seriously at a loss for words here. (Pretty surprising, all things considered, true none-the-less.) How can I tell him how much I enjoy learning but I feel that I need to devote more time to writing? How can I explain to him that I never want to go back to that place? It ceased being a haven for me when Michael died.
I take a deep breath and I start again. "I can't go back." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. The whole of it wraps around me like a heavy blanket and pushes me down into my father's arms. The tears that I have managed to hold back all this time are now escaping my control. I sit there and sob like a child and Daddy holds me close. He gently smooths my hair and whispers to me that none of it was my fault. I know that, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. It does not erase the images from my mind.
After a while I attempt to compose myself. I sit up and wipe my eyes with my hands and magically a tissue appears from the pockets of Daddy's dressing gown. This is what he does and it is marvelous. Through all of it, I could never ask for anything better.
My mind is clear again of memories that I simply cannot face right now. I wipe the tears off of my face in an attempt to gain control. Daddy reaches out and holds my hands in his own.
"I understand." I know he does, absolutely. He knows what this loss feels like. My loss will never be tempered by a miracle, however. I wonder if my thoughts would sound cruel and bitter. I bite them back.
For a time we just sit that way, thinking our own thoughts. I will get through this, I know I will. It's just going to take days and months and I'll be able to talk about it. But not right now. Daddy pulls me into a tight hug and then pulls me up beside him. His arm is around my shoulder and he guides us out of my room this way. I wrap my arm around his waist and we step out into the hallway.
Papa is standing in the doorway of their room, which is directly across the hall from mine. He is fully dressed, though he has bypassed his usual standard of trousers and is wearing his jeans. Nothing on for the day, then, except household stuff. Maybe he will let me come out and help him collect honey. He has an odd look on his face that I've seen before. I call it the I'm not sure I was supposed to hear all that but I did and I can't erase it so now what do I do look. Papa's looks generally have a life all their own. This one I've only seen a handful of times (like when I started by monthlies back when I was eleven. They were both embarrassed but Papa was out of his league. Like completely. Daddy took charge and it wasn't as horrifying as you would think.)
It does not bother me that Papa reads me like an open book. It keeps me from having to say the words. I wiggle out of Daddy's grasp and he turns to Papa. I head down the stairs to the kitchen but instead of sitting down, I grab one of last night's rolls from the basket on the counter and head out through the foyer. I hope it doesn't hurt them, but I need to be alone right now.