Across the Music (Across the Ocean Book 2) (13 page)

"Dad, I need to live my life. I need to do something for me for once. You can't keep me around to do all your dirty work. It's just too much for me to handle. I deserve more out of life!" His eyes are blood-shot, and he's probably flying sky-high on booze or drugs. There's just no consoling him when he's like this. Heck, he's always like this. Or at least the moments in between are getting fewer and farther between.

I try to pull my arm away from him; the last thing I want is for him to get a grip on my hair. It's always better when there is space between us. His fingers are dirty and grimy, nails broken and short. His breath isn't much better, and he looks like a wreck. His red plaid button-down shirt looks like he's been wearing it for weeks, which I know he hasn't. His sandy blonde hair is receding, but still a mess on his head. His shoes are coming apart, and his pants are super dirty. When was the last time he bathed?

I just don't understand how he can let himself get like this. It breaks my heart to see him so low, and with no way for me to help him really in sight, I just don't know what I'm supposed to do, besides leave.

"You're just like your mum, with your hair and your eyes. You're just like her! Leaving me forever just like she did. What do you think will happen to me when you leave? Do you want me to die just like they did? It's all your fault your bother is dead, you must want me dead too, so you can go on living without any family to hold you back." His vicious words cut deep; he always knows what to say to tear me down. I swallow several times to help keep the tears down, and I look him dead in the eye while still trying to pry his fingers off my arm. I know I'll have bruises tomorrow.

"I'm sorry it feels that way to you. I know there is no way to convince you otherwise, but maybe someday you will understand. I hope you will. Please Dad, let go of my arm. You're hurting me!" By now his fingers are gripping so tightly, the nerves in my fingers are tingling like they might fall asleep. His other hand reaches forward and grabs the neck of my shirt, pulling me closer to his foul breath and crazy eyes.

"You're MY daughter. I created you, I raised you. What thanks do I get? You just up and leave at the first chance you get?!" His voice is loud and booming around me, my ears hurt and my heart hurts. I struggle to remove his hands still, while trying to keep my pride and wits about me.

"My name is Sophie, and I belong to no one. I raised myself after Mum died, not you. I saved you from yourself countless times, and still this filth comes out of your mouth. What kind of father are you? You aren't one, not anymore. You can't even take care of yourself, yet you expect me to throw my life away for being your caretaker? Well, don't hold your breath. I cannot allow you to drag me into Hell with you." I struggle fiercely to remove his hands from me, and he finally removes the hand from my shirt, only to find a solid grip in the hair on the side of my head. He also lets go of my arm, now that he's got my hair. "Let go of me you bastard! I will call the cops and let them take you away for good, or put you into a nut house if you don't stop!" Both of my hands grab at the fingers in my hair, the pain shooting through my scalp and wrapping around my skull. I can hardly think when he does this.

A sad realization hits me; I'm just going to have to tell him what he wants to hear and then just leave. My stomach is full of bile and dread, and I just want this to be over. I can't help him like this, and I don't know what else to do anymore. My chest hurts from trying to keep my sobs in, and I stop struggling. It's the only way.

"Dad. Okay. You win. I can't and I won't leave. You're right, what kind of daughter would I be if I just left you like Mum did? Please, just let go of my hair." He begins to calm down, looking at me with obvious suspicion. Perhaps I should have left the part about my hair out.

"You're not going to leave?" He sounds doubtful.

"No, Dad. I'm not going to leave."

"Promise me. Promise you won't leave me alone." Goddamn it.

"Okay Dad. I promise I won't leave you alone." The fingers in my hair loosen up, and I take the opportunity to extricate myself completely from his grasp. His face falls from anger into fear and worry. It clutches my heart painfully in my ribs.

"I just couldn't handle it if you left. I'd have no one. Everybody would have left me behind. You're all I have left, Soph. You're my daughter and I love you." Sometimes the switch in his temperament is enough to make my head spin, but I'll take this version of Dad to hair-pulling Dad any day. I don't understand the hair thing, it's just cruel. His usual fuss about being left behind is the same thing I've heard for years, and has kept me from leaving. I have to remember that he is already gone, and he's not going to change, at least not right now and not for me. I rest a hand on his shoulder and make soothing shush sounds to help calm both of us down.

"Don't you worry, Dad. I won't leave you, and you can go lie down and rest. Shhhh, just calm down." I begin walking him towards his bedroom, talking calmly of how I am a good and loyal daughter, and love him very much. He's hardly paying attention by the time we arrive at his room a few moments later, he's so high. At least he's calm and quiet. I maneuver him into his bed, take his shoes off, and cover him with the blanket. His eyes are watching me, the pupils dilating and constricting as they try hard to focus on me.

"I love you, Verity. I knew you'd never really leave me." His eyes close, and my heart clenches painfully in my chest. Verity is Mum's name. I know we look alike, but at times like this, I wish we didn't. Maybe my life would have been different if I didn't look like her. I stand next to the bed until his breathing evens out, signaling that he is asleep. Leaning down, I kiss him softly on the forehead and leave his bedroom, trying not to wonder if this was the last time I'll ever see him.

Present time

I've been watching Sophie from a distance for a few minutes, and I'm unsure whether I should bother her or not. After changing into a pair of jeans and a white V-neck shirt, I had set out to find her. I can see the frown lines marring her forehead even at this distance, and it's obvious she's deep in thought. I feel like this
should
be the perfect time for me to go in and remind her of the good time we're having, comfort her about Katla, and sweep her off her feet somehow.

It all sounds great in theory, but the execution is more complicated. This girl has invisible emotional clouds all around her, and I want to part them and find the rainbow inside. I want to be that knight who comes in and saves the day, but I honestly have no idea where to even begin. I'm not good or experienced with emotional stuff, and I know that I will fail at thinking of something soothing to say that can ease her mind.

Sophie hasn't seen me yet; she's so lost in thought. If she were to look up, she'd see me standing several meters away. Her hair is glowing radiantly with the sun shining from behind her, and the lace dress she is wearing isn't hiding any of her body or red bathing suit from my eyes. Strands of her hair are floating around her head in the light breeze as she stares off into the distant mountains.

I lean down and pluck a single lupine bloom from its siblings absentmindedly pulling the little petals off and letting them float to the ground, or to wherever the wind carries them to. I take a deep breath for courage, and begin the walk towards Sophie. The grass crunches under my feet, and dandelion seeds are floating around in the light breeze around me. It's quite romantic, and I'm hoping it'll set a nice mood for some time with her.

When I'm just a few meters away, I see her head turn sharply to me, apparently startled by my appearance. Her face softens and flows easily into a sweet smile, making me feel like a million bucks. I haven't seen her smile like this too often, and it's aimed at me. That's exactly where I want all of her smiles – aimed at me. Her hand lifts to take strands of hair out of her face, and she pats the ground next to her, offering me a seat. I take it, sitting to her left, bringing my knees up to rest my forearms and elbows on, and we sit for a moment in comfortable silence while staring off towards the distance, admiring the view in peace.

"Of all the people, I'm glad it's you that came to sit with me." Her voice is quiet; I can hear hidden emotion behind it. She's been lost in painful memories.

"I'm glad it's me too," I tease, nudging her shoulder playfully, happy to hear her giggle a little. "Why did you come out here, anyways? Don't you like all my friends?" I ask in a way so she knows I am playing, and she nods adamantly.

"I like them
very
much. They're as good as gold in my eyes, taking me in as one of them without knowing much about me. I'm caught up in my head, and I'm just being a hoon. I'm sorry, I'll be right as rain soon enough."

"Being a hoon? What does that even mean?" She laughs, glancing up over her left shoulder at me.

"It just means that I'm being anti-social, is all. I'm not used to being surrounded by so many people, or opening up to people about myself. I'm outgoing, and know how to have a good time, but it's all for show, you know? If you're entertaining everyone, and having a good time, people don't ask the tough questions – or at least they didn't before now. I like it, and I don't like it."

"What's so wrong about talking about yourself? Don't people have tough lives all the time, and talk about it all the time? I know a few people who don't shut up about their problems." I say the words, but I second guess if they were the right ones to say. She looks up at me again, but with her lips pinched together in annoyance, heaving a heavy sigh that makes me feel like a tool for asking that.

"Sometimes not talking about me is the best way to deal with what has happened in my life. Not everybody has experienced the same things in life, and not everybody responds to it the same ways. I'm just me – Sophie. I'm not your friends, and I deal how I deal. Why do we do anything that we do?"

"Wouldn't you think that talking could be a good way to get through it, rather than harboring it inside yourself for so long? Aren't you worried you might explode and go crazy or something from bottling it all up?" These words are coming out of my mouth before I have a chance to think them through properly, and I have a sinking feeling I'm handling this situation all wrong, especially when she blows out an exasperated breath from between pursed lips.

"What kind of life did you live, growing up?" I think I detect bitterness in her voice, but I choose to push through with this conversation, even though it feels like I'm heading into an explosive mine field.

"I lived a great life. My parents are still together; my brothers and I get along great. I grew up in a town that was perfect to raise kids in, and I was able to roam free and be a boy." It's all true, I'm luckier than most people.

"I see. And what kind of hardships have you had during your great life?" She doesn't look at me, instead opting to stare off into the distance again as though there is something exceedingly interesting.

"Both of my grandfathers died, one when I was 8 and the other when I was 15. One of my grandmothers recently passed away last year." She gives me a quick glance, her expression softening in sympathy and understanding.

"I'm sorry. I know that hurts a lot. Were you close with them?"

"Yeah, especially with my
afi
on my mother's side. His name was Gunnar too; I'm named after him actually. I have a lot of fond memories of him, he was a good man."

"Do you talk about it to every person who asks you about your family?"

"Well, no. I usually only talk about it if people ask specifically about them. We've asked you specifically about your family, though."

"Does it hurt when you think about it? Don't you miss them even more?" I take a moment to consider her words carefully. Does it hurt more to just talk about it?

"Maybe in a way. It doesn't bother me to talk about it to people, even if I do miss them." I think. I've never really thought about it.

"What would you do if you lost your mother? One of your brothers? How do you think you'd feel?"

"I imagine I'd feel awful, of course." I'm beginning to feel inadequate or underprepared in this conversation, I'm not sure if I'm able to properly fathom how I'd feel, I've never experienced anything like that before. Maybe I'm not the right person to talk about this.

"Of course," she echoes, bitterness creeping into her voice. "Okay, you want to talk about it? You, the expert on all things tragic? Let's do it. Do you want to know all about my family, and supposedly cure me of all of the pain?" She has focused her gaze on the land in front of us again, not looking at me. My stomach feels like the bottom has dropped out of it, and I know how I answer this question could make or break our delicate little bonding that I've been hoping we'd be forming.

"Sophie, no. I'm sorry. I'm no expert, and I have no idea about any of what you have been through. You tell me when you're good and ready, if that time ever comes. I do want to cure you of your pain though, if you'll let me in to help you. I'm not sure yet how I can help, but I'm willing to try." Extending a hand to her shoulder, I hover over it for a moment before setting it lightly down, hopefully in a soothing manner. I can feel how tense she is in her body, and immediately regret having pushed her. After a few moments of silence between us, she looks over her shoulder towards me, her brow softening from the frown she had been sporting and her body is relaxing somewhat.