warns, like I’m goading her for fun. Her form appears to shrink from me, her gaze coldly retreating as though she’s already tired of this but won’t let me win. The moment echoes inside me, a dripping tap that will never stop. It feels like we’ve faced off against each other a hundred times before, each instance as aggravating as the last.
Only we haven’t. Not like that. We don’t fight any worse than your typical mother and daughter. It just
feels
that way. Another lie in my life.
I smother the urge to shout at her. “Mom.” I soften my tone, regretting that I pushed her because it might make her more reluctant to answer my next question. “Is there any reason to think that what happened to Dad wasn’t an accident?”
I remember the many black-suited men and somber women at my father’s funeral, pumping my hand as theytold me how sorry they were. The minister had only met my father a few times and the sermon he gave could’ve been for just about anyone, except for the words about my father’s service to his country. Shortly afterwards, the investigation into the accident was concluded and the findings printed in the
Herald:
“A failed transition fitting that connects the gas line from the street to the house’s gas system was the source of the gas that fueled the explosion.”
But governments can cover things up. They do it with such frequency it’s like a compulsion. How do I know the official version of the accident is what really happened?
My mom stands at the edge of my bed, blinking as if she misheard me. “Why would you say that?” she asks, a lump of wet sadness in her throat.
I prop myself casually up on my elbows. “No specific reason. It’s just that we left only a month after. I wondered if any other information had come up. Have you heard from anyone at the consulate?”
“Neil Kingsley’s written to see how we’re doing,” she says.
Neil Kingsley was my father’s closest friend in New Zealand, one of the men in black suits with a strong handshake. The only thing I can really remember about him is that he always smelled sort of like ginger and grapefruit.
My mother stares at the floral pattern on my bedspread and adds, “But there’s no news about the accident and there won’t be. The investigation’s long finished.
It was an accident
. You know that, Freya.”
I hang my head and bite my lip. She thinks I haven’t accepted my father’s death.
I don’t know what else to say to her. Either she doesn’t know anything or doesn’t want to tell me.
“Come downstairs and help me make dinner,” my mom says. “Your sister’s been asking for Hamburger Helper.” The sudden warmth in her eyes puts a lump in my throat too. I don’t want to be angry with my mother; I don’t want things to change for the worse between us.
We go down to the kitchen together, me remarking how hooked my sister is on Hamburger Helper. Ever since the first package Nancy picked up for us along with a bunch of other groceries when my mom was too sick to go shopping. Olivia ate so much of it that she nearly made herself sick again, something I teased her about once she was feeling better.
When I realized I’d left Olivia alone after school again today I felt guilty but the other feelings I have about her, the ones that make me dizzy and feverish, haven’t left me either and at the end of the night—hours after I’ve helped my mom with the Hamburger Helper and the three of us have watched
Magnum P.I
. together—I dream about Olivia.
A slightly smaller Olivia on a path to a stately Victorian building. I’m several feet away but can see her clearly from my spot on the path. She’s flanked by two things that look almost like men but aren’t. Inside, the building is filled with children and teenagers—all of them attractive, whole, healthy and intelligent.
I know that because I know exactly where we are. The place is a school, our school. In another time and another place. I catch a
Only we haven’t. Not like that. We don’t fight any worse than your typical mother and daughter. It just
feels
that way. Another lie in my life.
I smother the urge to shout at her. “Mom.” I soften my tone, regretting that I pushed her because it might make her more reluctant to answer my next question. “Is there any reason to think that what happened to Dad wasn’t an accident?”
I remember the many black-suited men and somber women at my father’s funeral, pumping my hand as theytold me how sorry they were. The minister had only met my father a few times and the sermon he gave could’ve been for just about anyone, except for the words about my father’s service to his country. Shortly afterwards, the investigation into the accident was concluded and the findings printed in the
Herald:
“A failed transition fitting that connects the gas line from the street to the house’s gas system was the source of the gas that fueled the explosion.”
But governments can cover things up. They do it with such frequency it’s like a compulsion. How do I know the official version of the accident is what really happened?
My mom stands at the edge of my bed, blinking as if she misheard me. “Why would you say that?” she asks, a lump of wet sadness in her throat.
I prop myself casually up on my elbows. “No specific reason. It’s just that we left only a month after. I wondered if any other information had come up. Have you heard from anyone at the consulate?”
“Neil Kingsley’s written to see how we’re doing,” she says.
Neil Kingsley was my father’s closest friend in New Zealand, one of the men in black suits with a strong handshake. The only thing I can really remember about him is that he always smelled sort of like ginger and grapefruit.
My mother stares at the floral pattern on my bedspread and adds, “But there’s no news about the accident and there won’t be. The investigation’s long finished.
It was an accident
. You know that, Freya.”
I hang my head and bite my lip. She thinks I haven’t accepted my father’s death.
I don’t know what else to say to her. Either she doesn’t know anything or doesn’t want to tell me.
“Come downstairs and help me make dinner,” my mom says. “Your sister’s been asking for Hamburger Helper.” The sudden warmth in her eyes puts a lump in my throat too. I don’t want to be angry with my mother; I don’t want things to change for the worse between us.
We go down to the kitchen together, me remarking how hooked my sister is on Hamburger Helper. Ever since the first package Nancy picked up for us along with a bunch of other groceries when my mom was too sick to go shopping. Olivia ate so much of it that she nearly made herself sick again, something I teased her about once she was feeling better.
When I realized I’d left Olivia alone after school again today I felt guilty but the other feelings I have about her, the ones that make me dizzy and feverish, haven’t left me either and at the end of the night—hours after I’ve helped my mom with the Hamburger Helper and the three of us have watched
Magnum P.I
. together—I dream about Olivia.
A slightly smaller Olivia on a path to a stately Victorian building. I’m several feet away but can see her clearly from my spot on the path. She’s flanked by two things that look almost like men but aren’t. Inside, the building is filled with children and teenagers—all of them attractive, whole, healthy and intelligent.
I know that because I know exactly where we are. The place is a school, our school. In another time and another place. I catch a
Similar Books
