Page 30 of Malaise

TEN

“You took yourtime.” Dad stands in the front doorway; arms braced on either side as he stares over the top of my head at the Falcon retreating down the street. “We need to talk.”

I’m done with talking. It’s too awkward, too open, and more often than not ends up with me saying the wrong thing and the other person being in a foul mood with me. Case in point with Carver.

We didn’t say much the entire meal—which was the best burger I’ve ever had. I spent the majority of the time watching him as he ate, wondering what it is about the taut muscles than span the side of his neck that drives me so crazy.

He’s just a man.

A man.

And I’m a girl.

There it is, Meg. There’s your problem.

Us being friends makes no sense, and yet despite how awkward the time with him was, I got the distinct feeling it wouldn’t be the last when he wordlessly tapped his index finger on the top of my nose and smiled before I got out of the car.

He listened to me. He might not have agreed with what I had to say, but he took the time to hear me out, which is more than I can say for Mum and Dad… until now.

“Your mother’s doing the groceries,” Dad says, breaking my daze. “I thought you and I could have a chat while she’s gone.”

This could be a good thing—or really, really bad. “Okay.”

He steps aside, and I walk past him to place my bag at the hall table, careful not to disturb the two bottles of liquid magic I procured on the way home. Carver didn’t agree that more alcohol would fix the problem, but there wasn’t much option for him but to stop at the liquor store when I threatened to get out at the next red light and walk. Problem with old cars: no central locking.

I left this morning turning a blind eye to the chaotic state our home is in these days. The dishes had piled up and washing to be folded was spread from one end of the couch to the other. Junk mail had been piled high on the coffee table, and Dad’s work boots were discarded in the doorway, dried mud and all.

But now… now the house is pristine, cleaned to show home standards. Yet the thing that really disturbs me is the personal touches that have reappeared: Den’s running shoes by the door, Den’s magazines on the side table, and Den’s jacket thrown casually over the arm of the chair, as though he’s just walked in.

“I know,” Dad says, staring at the same spot as I am. “She did a one-eighty this morning just after you left.”

“She’s not coping with things, is she?”

He shakes his head and walks through to the kitchen, leaving me to follow in his wake. “No, but then neither are you.”

I say nothing, and take a seat at the table to watch Dad as he retrieves a beer from the fridge. He twists the top off and swirls the liquid inside absently before he drops the bomb.

“You’ve got to stop trying to make this all about you, Meg.”

I frown, gobsmacked at his view of things. “I’m a part of this family too, you know.”

“Yeah, you are, but you’re not the only one in it that needs time to heal. This behaviour of yours, this drinking and socialising with the scum of our town—it has to stop.”

“You think that’s what I’ve been doing?” I ask incredulously. “Healing? You think me getting three parts fucked off my face is therapeutic?”

He slams the bottle down on the table so hard I’m surprised the base doesn’t shatter off. Foam sloshes over the side and trickles a lazy trail to the bottom. “I don’t know what else to call your behaviour but delinquency, Meg, because you don’t talk to us about what the hell is going through that head of yours.” He rips a seat out from under the table and drops his stocky frame onto it.

“Why would I?” I say quietly. “Why on earth would I want to talk to you and Mum when you both act like I don’t exist most of the time?”

“We’re not acting that way at all,” he says softly, picking at the top of the bottle. “We just… we don’t know what to do either.”

“How about not directing your anger at me? That’d be a start. We all deal with these things differently, you know.” I don’t know how I expected this discussion to go, but this isn’t it.

Dad’s eyes narrow, his brow pinching as he leans forward with an elbow on the table. “How about you don’t give us a reason to be angry with you? Do you think that your blatant disregard for the rules around here has helped the process at all? Do you think causing more problems has been of any use to your mother when she already doesn’t know how to function after losing Den?”

“We all lost Den,” I snap. “You’re telling me I’m being selfish, yet she’s the one who’s acting as though the loss is solely hers to bear.”

“Grief isn’t a competition.”