Midnight

Three hours of bad television didn’t help. Around 10:30 I said goodnight to Mum and went to my room. I played my guitar, downloaded some music and was still completely wired. What was wrong with me? Mum’s Mr. Cohen invite wasn’t worth stressing over, there was no English assignment hanging over me and Andrews was off my back—for the moment anyway. I’d rung the Zefferellis.

But my gut was still churning.

I lay back on the pillow and tried to clear my brain. I thought about Mum and dinner tonight. She seemed so much happier, more like she used to be … freer. I know she was still in the I have the best son in the world mood because of the musical, but it wasn’t just that. Talking in the kitchen, talking about Dad had helped us talk more about everything.

Thinking about that conversation pushed my gut into overdrive. The feeling was familiar, but this time I knew I didn’t have to block it out.

I curled myself up in a ball. The screen and slide show projector started again and images came thick and fast—but this time I made myself watch them, made myself remember each moment, each time. It finished on a photo of Dad looking straight into the camera, straight out to me. I was surprised by how wet the pillowcase was as I moved my head to get a better look. I sat up cautiously, nervously, but this time I didn’t want him to go….

I tried to speak but nothing came out.

I tried again and found the words.

Hey, Dad. Hey, Dad, it’s me, Will….