Page 12 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest
“Hi.” I turned slightly to look at him. Instead of a black suit, he was in plain clothes. A surprising choice. “Didn’t you go? Or did your dad want you to do extra credit?” There was some slight bitterness in my tone which I’m sure he noticed and ignored.
“Nah. Didn’t have anyone to go with. I said I’d meet up after.” He shoved his arms in his jeans pockets. He looked pensive. There was a tightness around his jaw that was unusual. There was a bruise at the base of his neck, probably from practice.
“You doing OK, Cor? With your dad?” He said softly. I know he was trying to be discreet but I turned back to my work and vehemently shook my head no, holding up my hand. It was too much and too soon. The anxiety of the situation was rapidly shooting up through my chest, choking me. All I knew was fear in those days.
I didn’t want pity from Daemon’s son. I had it clocked; the last time he talked to me was three weeks ago, in class, with that beatific smile. It just hurt too much.
The diner wasn’t a big place. I could hear the words “father,” “painting,” and “art” floating throughout the conversations. They kept knocking at the back of my brain. I looked over at my soon to be former classmates. Some of them were staring daggers at me. Others were whispering and pointing.
“I have to go back to work,” I murmured, walking away.
“Bye...” was his disheartened reply. “I’ll message you soon.” It would be an additional month before he did. In order to be disappointed, you need to have expectations. I was rapidly running dry of them. My circle had never been wide; as a child I foolishly believed all I needed was my father and Damien. The reality of their loss hit harder than falling from the top of a bridge.
Arty saw me disappear out of the corner of her eye. When she was done putting in the orders for the milkshakes and grilled cheeses, she found me hyperventilating in the freezer.
The beeping of my coffee machine pulled me back to reality. I filled my mug to the top, clasping both sides of the mug, willing the burning in my hands to drive away the past. I eyed the clock and went to my computer. There was work to be done.
CHAPTER 4
The next day I could still feel the tension headache that threatened to break through the painkillers I had already taken. I stalked to work, in a foul mood from yesterday’s encounters. I stayed up later than I expected, expediting my indignant countenance. As I pushed through the heavy door, Marie’s smile dimmed a few watts at my expression.
“Cora? Are you OK?”
I got behind the counter, giving myself a moment to check my own attitude; none of this was her fault.
I had decided to tell a version of the truth to Marie, else she’d be suspicious why I was suddenly talking to Damien.
“Damien’s working on an old case related to my father,” I carefully phrased. “He needs my help with it. Some less than positive memories.” I grabbed for my apron at the rack, tying it around my waist
Her elven heart broke at my words.
“Oh honey! I’m so sorry!” She threw her arms around me, holding me as tightly as her little frame allowed. I patted her flaxen hair and shrugged.
“Can’t be helped but I also can’t say much about it, OK?” She let go of me with a sympathetic look.
I wasn’t completely lying. Last night involved pulling up blueprints, messaging any contacts for any information I thought could help, and I was rewarded with a plethora of data. There was definitely a mole in the Magical Forces, someone who was on the take. Half of what I got could only have come from a government system or someone with access to it.
The other half of last night involved crying, rocking in a fetal position while thinking of the man who raised me. It was a weird dichotomy.
The man who broke when my mother died when I was eleven. The man who poured his heart and soul into two things in life, me and his professional reputation. The man who took me for walks around the city, showing me different facets of the architecture, to the museum where he worked, explaining the history of the arches, the patterns in the stones.
That man was gone. It had been years and the wound still felt fresh. What Damien said was true. After high school, I was at the university studying as much art history as I could for my freshman and sophomore years. I thought by making him proud, writing him every week while in jail, I could keep his spirit bolstered. As I said, he had two things in life. Me and the museum. Once he didn’t have that, he shut down. Money and time quickly became complicating factors. I couldn’t balance full course loads with working once he was home. I dropped to part time, reasoning that it was temporary. That little voice in the back of my head told me that it wasn’t but I ignored it. Eventually if I wasn’t working then I was at home with him.
I remember after he got out, in the days leading up to his death, that he was sleeping all the time, didn’t want to eat or drink. I had to force him to get a few sips of water down. I had contemplated calling the family doctor but decided against it. He’d bounce back. He always had before. When my mother died it took a few rough years before the light came back in his eyes.
Grief is complicated and it spares no one. When my mother died, he could go through the motions of some things, taking care of me, talking, some work. When he came back, it was like his very soul had left his body.
Perhaps foolishly, I thought that once he was back out he could be free and things would go back to the way they were.
He came out coughing and hacking with a severe grey tone to his skin. He was more soft spoken; I often had to strain to hear him. It felt awkward to bring him back home; a stranger long removed from their own lands.
He looked around briefly and nodded, indicating that he would shower and then bed. I remember brightening, saying that I could cook for him when he woke up. He patted my head, starting coughing again and told me he didn’t have much of an appetite. He trudged off toward the bathroom and the pool of worry that existed deep in my core started to bubble up again.
It was OK, I reasoned. He may need a few days to weeks to settle back in. But he never really did.
I sighed. I can’t blame him. I wanted to but I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine what two years in prison did to the sweet gentle man I knew. How he suffered or what he went through. My father was a simple man who liked his routines; it was what worked for him. After my mother, I followed in his path and kept life simple: school, hobbies, Damien. That was all I needed.
The door pinged and we both made our way out of the back. It was Damien. I waved off Marie and she nodded, going to get the coffee.
