April Dawn

The pacing had gotten worse. Night after night my father anxiously traversed the rickety old hallways of the top floor. It was a stress-induced habit of his that only got worse after my mother passed away. He would wear the floors raw on sleepless nights, the echoes traveling through the floor into my bedroom. Relentless pacing. The new house made it even worse. The old wooden beams creaked and groaned with every step unlike our old home’s carpeted-floors. After the accident, my father could not stand our old house and every night he would pace his soles raw. I thought the move would be a new start and that his household promenades would cease. Yet, his pacing had never sounded more furious. Back and forth. Back and forth. A symphony of steps crying out each night as the clock struck midnight. Closing my eyes, I drifted off listening to the ever-constant rhythm of his walk.

That morning brought about the usual. My father stood in the kitchen expressionless as he conversed with my younger brother, Mathew. He thought he could fool us acting as though he were fine. However, both my brother and I knew his secret. We heard his secret. The pacing. His poker face was slipping and we knew his biggest tell. Mathew and I played along with his little façade. Smiling back at him, the pit in my stomach grew larger. Mom’s death. The new house. It was all too much, for all of us, but he never said anything. I feared that little by little life would chip away at my father. I needed to say something, but I could never find the right words or time to call his bluff. Sighing dejectedly, I gave one last smile to my father and sat down for breakfast.

We had not been a perfect family. My parents would argue and insults would be flung at one another. There were seldom nights that my brother and I would huddle together in my room drowning out the shouts and screams from their fights. It was usually over money or some other superficial substance. But it was rare. We used to be the weird family of our old suburban middle-class area. A teacher and his gardening wife along with their two extroverted children. My mother, the neurotic genius, was the uptight one while my father could not sit still for five minutes without cracking a joke.

When we moved into our old farmhouse when I was little, the inside was in shambles. We all slept in the same room for a year. Some may find it odd, but, in retrospect, it was so wonderfully weird. We would always go to bed at nine p.m. with the intention of sleeping; however, our conversations would last long into the night. Joking, laughing, wheezing. My mother would try and settle us down, yet, she too would get caught up in our “shits and giggles” sessions. As cliché as it may be, my parents completed each other in every way. We were not a perfect family, but, God, we were pretty damn close.

That afternoon was blistering. The summer warmth scorched our driveway as heat weaves danced above the pavement. I wiped the sweat from my brow as my shovel penetrated the soil beneath my feet. Our new house came with an old flower garden. Weeds and the dead remnants of past plants littered its fertile soil. My mother loved flowers. Before she died, our old yard was littered with roses, lilies, and dahlias. She adored dahlias. She spent hours every spring tending to their every want and need. I missed the warm colors of our old home that blanketed the yard. She would always trudge into the house hand on her hips and force my brother and I outside to help. As much as I whined and complained, the garden held some of my most cherished memories. My father may not have wanted any reminders of his wife at this house; however, I wanted something of her here. I needed something of her here and so as I waited for my brother to return from school, I spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden bringing my mother back to life with shears and a shovel.

Dinnertime finally arrived. My father stood lifelessly at the stove absentmindedly poking the contents of his plate. The staircase roared to life as my brother charged down the steps eager to eat. Once Mathew reached the age of thirteen, his appetite seemed to triple. My mother used to call him a “human garbage disposal.” Walking into the kitchen, he dramatically collapsed into a chair with a sigh. However, the smile soon fell from my brother’s face as he gazed upon the weary form of our father.

“Sooo what we having for dinner?” Mathew said while eyeing my father.

“Shit on a shingle,” he said softly.

“Ah, man. We had that last-”

“That sounds great Dad. Thanks,” I said glaring at my brother. “How was school?”

Small talk. The only thing we engaged in as family nowadays.

“Eh. It was alright. The usual crap. I got an A on my math test,” Mathew said while staring at my father. The overwhelming want for approval just about exploding in his eyes. My father continued to eat unbothered by the conversation.

Desperate to change the subject, my brother turned to the gossip of the day. Apparently, two of his married teachers, Mrs. Crawford and Mr. Fawkland, were sleeping together.

“Holy shit. Aren’t they both married?” I said my eyebrows raised in shock.

“Yeh. But that doesn’t seem to matter to them.”. Sifting through the scattered mess of meat, Mathew glared at his food with a less than hidden disdain. He was more reminiscent to a toddler than a teenager.

“Damn.”

With nothing left to say, the noiseless void blanketed us in its awkward presence. My brother started to fidget as I began to eat faster. The silence screamed the words that remained unspoken amongst us.

“The flower garden starting to look real nice. The dah-” Mathew started in hopes of ending the deafening quiet.

My father harshly slammed his food on the table muzzling my brother mid-sentence. Jumping, I gripped the table as my brother redirected his attention to the floor. Quiet. An awkward silence descended upon dinner. The feint noises of silverware scraping upon porcelain was all I heard.

“By the way, while you both are here, I don’t care who it is, but y’all have to stop moving my stuff,” my father said slowly eyeing us both.

“I didn’t,” my brother and I said in unison. Glaring at him, I continued to anxiously eat.

“Well, like I said, I don’t care who did it, but y’all have to stop. My books were scattered on the floor yesterday and half of the silverware is missing,” my father spoke sternly. With one last glare, he returned to his lifeless eating.

That night I laid awake as sleep would not come. Before the accident, sleep was my constant companion; however, my mother’s death seemed to have frightened my friend away and something worse settled into its place. Insomnia. I tried everything to rid myself of it. Pills, therapy, meditation. Yet, nothing seemed to coax my old friend back from its hiding spot. Since I lost her, I laid awake at night missing the past and grieving for the future my family had ripped from us. Looking at the clock, the pit in my stomach reappeared as I saw the time. 11:58. As usual, my father would resume his post upstairs and tread the floors until dawn. Rolling over, I closed my eyes pressing the pillow to my ears in hope of drowning out the noise.

Two hours. I had listened to his constant relentless pacing for two hours. Groaning, I flipped over in my bed as I tried to hold in my tears. My father was broken and for good reason; however, this had gone on for long enough. I could not let him continue this unnerving behavior. Flinging the off my duvet, I shot from my bed and out of my bedroom. Climbing up the stairs to his study, my ears were flooded with the sound of pacing. Step. Step. Step. Step. It was maddening. The creaking of the floor. The clacking rhythm of his soles. I reached the study door and my hand hesitantly grasped the knob. Slowly twisting the brass, I swung open the door ready to put an end to the constant clicking of his heels. The noise stopped as the door opened and I looked inside. Gasping, my eyes widened in horror and my clammy hands started to shake. No one. The room was completely empty.

Suddenly gifted with Hermes’ winged shoes, I flew down the stairs almost missing the last two steps. Eyes watering and heart rapidly beating, I rushed down the hall throwing myself into my father’s master bedroom. My breathing had become harsh and ragged. I was hyperventilating. Through my tears, I could make out the silhouette of my father’s sleeping form atop his bed.

“Dad! Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.” I said over and over while harshly nudging his side. Each push becoming rougher and more urgent. Groaning, he slowly turned over to face me. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, my father angrily stared at me as he rose from bed.

“What the fuck is wrong?” he said angrily. However, the longer he looked at me his anger melted away into worry. At this point, my entire body was quivering as I struggling to breath. I was not one to scare easily and he knew that. Now alarmed, he quickly stood up grasping my shoulder with his hand.

“Talia, what happened?” he said his voice now filled with concern.

“I-I-I”

“Just breath,” he said while softly holding my hand.

“I was upstairs. I heard pacing. I thought it was you so I went to stop you. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Talia, I was never upstairs.”

“It was so loud and wouldn’t stop. When I opened the door, no one was there!” I said as I buried my face in to his chest sobbing.

“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“No! I’ve heard this shit for the last few weeks. I thought it was you.”

“Talia, I haven’t been upstairs since we moved in.” he said slowly sitting back down on the bed.

We both stared at each other unable to find any words. I was horrified and confused while my father just stared with a concerned quizzical expression. This was the most we had talked in weeks. I would have rejoiced if it had not been for the circumstances. At this moment, I was in the arms of the man that used to be my father. The hug. The comforting words. Nevertheless, there was doubt dancing within his eyes.

“Dad, I swear to you. Something was upstairs.” I said silently pleading to believe me.

“We’ve all been stressed out lately. You probably just-”. He was interrupted by a noise. The pounding of footsteps had resumed their nighttime march. Shooting up from the bed, my father dashed to his closet pulling out a gun. “Stay here,” he said dashing out of the room towards the stairs. However, ignoring my fear, I quickly exited the room racing after him.

On the stairs, I crept behind him as we ascended. Too focused on the haunting noise, he barely noticed my presence. As we reached the door, the echoes of the wood seemed to rise into the air consuming us. The marching had reached its crescendo. The walls of the house seemed to breathe along with the ghostly rhythm. A soft glow emanated from underneath the study’s door. Even with the noise, I could hear my father’s breathing. Ragged. Harsh. I could almost hear the rapid palpitations of his heart. The fast tempo of fear.

As I had done before, he slowly turned the knob nudging the door open. The noise stopped. My father gasped. All that I heard was the thud of his gun smashing against the wood floor. Peering around his tall form, I anxiously looked into the room. Yet, this time the room was not empty.

“Who the hell are you?”

A dark figure stood in the corner of the study holding an object I could not quite make out. Their face shrouded in shadows. My father and I watched as the entity slowly dissolved in front of our eyes. The object fell to the floor. My mouth agape, I turned to my father expecting to see horror, shock, disbelief. Something of that manner. However, gazing upon his features, all I could find was sorrow. The stress lines on his face seemed to be illuminated by the rays of moonlight escaping from the study window. In the light, I could see his pupils drowning in a pool of tears. He was crying. Confused, I reached out to place my hand on his shoulder. Before I could make contact he slowly walked over to where the figure had been. Crouching down, he picked up the mysterious object quickly shoving it in his pocket.

“What is-”, however, before I could finish my question, my father violently wiped his face and turned to descend back down the stairs without a word. Confused, I chased after him.

“Dad!” I said. “What the hell was that?!”

“Nothing.” He said curtly.

“Bullshit! Who the fuck was that?”

He continued to walk down the corridor to the master bedroom. How could he so nonchalantly walk away? We reached his door and so I attempted one final desperate plea for him to explain himself.

“Nothing. It was nothing. You and I are both tired. Now go back to your room,” he said.

“Fuck you! Don’t gaslight me. What the hell was that?”

“TALIA, GO THE FUCK TO YOUR ROOM!”

The walls seemed to shake as my father violently slammed his door. Jerking away, I tripped falling back onto the hallway floor. He never yelled like that. Sure, we had argued in the past just as any child would with their parent. However, looking down at my shaking hands, I realized this was different. Running back to my room, I slammed the door sinking down to my carpeted-floor. A snakelike feeling coiled around my chest constricting the air from my body. I could not breath. My vision became blurry. In a fetal position on the floor, my body heaved as I tried to regain my breath. However, suddenly, I felt something. A warm wet sensation dribbled down my cheeks. I was crying. I was fucking crying.

As soon as the realization hit me, the dam that once held back the lake of my sorrows collapsed and a flood ensued. My hands violently grasped the carpet as sobs echoed through me. Gasping, crying, coughing. I had not cried in six months. When she died, my body seemed to shut down. I was numb and unable to sooth my screaming heart. However, there, on my bedroom floor, I released it all.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I said between sobs.

Like a child learning how to speak for the first time, I called out for my mother. Yet, after months of mourning, I finally realized she was never coming back. It seemed that the child within me could not bear to finalize her death. Every morning I would wake up hoping and praying it was all a bad dream. However, those prayers were never answered. I still woke up every day without seeing her, hugging her, talking to her. I couldn’t think as my sobs morphed into wailing. I laid on the floor consumed in sorrow until the early rays of morning peaked through my window.

Breakfast was horrible. My brother sat across from me eating his cereal as I lifelessly picked through my food. I looked and felt as though a truck had run over me. After passing out from exhaustion, I slept on the floor haunted by the images of my mother and the mysterious figure. My chest still ached from last night and my eyes were puffier than the omelet I was eating. Mathew set down his spoon and for the first time this morning, looked at me. His eyes widened with concern as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Don’t ask,” I said.

“You look like shit,” Mathew said.

“Wow, thanks munchkin. Love you too.”

“Seriously though, are you alright?”

“Yeh, we’ll talk about it later.”

I quickly ended the conversation as I heard my father’s footsteps on the staircase. I still loved him; however, last night rattled me more than I would like to admit. As he entered the kitchen, my eyes stayed focused on my unsatisfactory omelet. He greeted my brother and I as he sat down with his morning tea. My father hated coffee unlike my mother and so he always started his morning out with matcha. I used to love breakfast time. My parents would cook together on weekends as my brother and I watched morning cartoons. Being curious, I would always sneak glances into the kitchen only to see my father whispering to my mother as she blushed swatting his hands away. I never heard what he would say to her, but she would laugh until tears streamed down her face. The mornings consisted of the crackling of bacon, smell of pancakes, and colorful conversation. Now, as always, my brother and I sit across from my father drowning in uncomfortable silence. No whispering. No laughing. Just silence.

We never talked about her. She was absent from our lives and conversations. Every time I attempted to reminisce my father would change the subject or just leave. Her clothes, photos, and belongings were all packed up away from sight. I know he had a hard time looking at me. Even though my personality was almost identical to my father’s, I looked so much like my mother. Long, dirty-blonde hair that my mother affectionately called “my horse mane” and green eyes that almost seemed blue in sunlight. He had packed away everything that had reminded him of her except for his children.

My brother and I lost our mother; however, when we received that phone call, it seemed as though we had become orphans. Our father died along with our mother. She had been hit by a drunk driver while coming home from the store. The roads were blanketed in ice and the already inebriated driver lost control. She died on impact. We had to have a closed casket at the funeral. The body was apparently too disfigured to be recognizable. The funeral was horrible. A painful memory I wish to forget. My father, a veteran, had always been a strong man. However, as they carried her casket towards the grave, he collapsed falling to the ground below. My brother clutched onto my side as we both helplessly watch our father, our hero, break into pieces before our eyes. I will never forget the noises that escaped his mouth. Painful, primal, gut-wrenching cries. He lost his wife, his lover, and his best friend.

As I sat staring at my omelet, I mourned for my father. His body still inhabited the Earth; however, I felt as though his soul wandered off lost within the bottomless void of his own grief. I looked up from my plate and stared at him. A sliver of hope filled my body at the sight. His eyes were red and puffy. Like mine. He had been crying. My father had been fucking crying. A small smile graced my face at the realization. Overwhelmed with the realization, I hopped up from the table and went outside to do my daily gardening.

As I was changing, our Australian shepherd, Bubble, a name my ten-year-old-self coerced my mother into choosing, started going crazy. She was perched up at my bedroom window barking and whining in an almost giddy fashion. Confused, I glanced out of the window. I could not believe my eyes. There, in the middle of the garden, stood the shadowy figure from the study. Shocked, I turned and ran out of my bedroom. Breathing heavily, I threw open the house’s backdoor to confront this mysterious shadow. However, yet again, there was no one there. The garden was empty. Flabbergasted, I walked each and every row of the garden and yet, I found nothing. However, as I turned to walk back to the house, something caught my eye. On of the floor of fifth row laid a flower. Crouching down, I picked up the flower with trembling hands. It was a dahlia called “April Dawn”. My mother’s favorite flower. My hands shook, my fingers tracing its soft lavender petals. It was such a beautiful flower; however, one that I had certainly not planted in this garden.

One that showed up right where I saw the figure.

Gently holding on to the flower, I ran back inside. My hands continued to shake and my heart beat erratically. My father, still sitting at the table, glanced up as I entered the kitchen. He looked at me quizzically as I just stared back speechless. What could I say? There was no reasonable explanation for what I had just seen and experienced. Silently, I walked to the table never breaking eye contact with my father and gently placed the flower onto the smooth hardwood of our kitchen table. My father stared at the flower as though it were a bomb. Silence consumed the room as both of us just stared at the flower. Hurt, confused, and dumbfounded.

“Where did you get this?” my father asked slowly.

“The garden.” I said in reply.

“I specifically told you not to plant this one!” my father said as his voice rose with each word.

Before he continued to yell, I negated his accusation recounting what had just occurred. The dog. The figure. The flower. His face became weary and he slumped farther into his chair. Finishing the story, I fell silent expecting him to respond. However, much to my dismay, he simply stared one last time at the flower, rose from his chair, and began to walk away. Something inside of me snapped. I was sick and tired of being ignored. Marching over to my father, I placed both my hands on his chest violently shoving him back into his sit.

“You don’t get to just walk away! What the fuck is going on?” I said furiously. My father stood up from his sit until we were eye to eye. His face matched my raging expression as his nostrils flared at my challenge.

“Do. Not. Fucking. Touch. Me.” he said.

“What am I supposed to do, huh?! There is something fucked up going on and you won’t sit down for one God damn moment to even talk to me.”

“You’re overreacti-”

“Oh, fuck you. Don’t patronize me. You and I both know that something is going on. Does it have something to do with mom? Is that why you won’t fucking man-up and talk about it?”

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. At the thought of my mother, my father shut his mouth, turned, and walked away. But, he was not getting away this time. I was sick and tired of his shit. He may have lost his wife, but we lost our mother. It was time to suck it up and get it all out in the open. I followed him as his went upstairs berating him the entire time. His absence. The new house. The dark figure. I was chomping at the bit and everything I had held back for the past few months was escaping from its prison. It was a full jailbreak. Reaching his bedroom, he walked in still not engaging with my verbal assaults. Frustrated, I decided to hit him where it hurt.

“Mom would be disgusted with you,” I said inwardly wincing at my own comment. Turning around, my father directly met my eyes for the first time since the kitchen. Rage. Sadness. Hurt. If the eyes were truly the window to the soul, my father’s soul was no longer in one piece. The man that stared back at me was shattered beyond all repair.

“Get out,” he said.

“No,” I replied raising my chin in defiance.

“Talia, please leave,” he said. To my surprise his voice cracked at the end of his demand. As I stared closer, his eyes seemed to shimmer from the light leaking in from the bedroom window. He was crying and did not want me to see.

“Dad, just talk to me,” I said in a much gentler tone. “Please,” I begged.

He turned away to hide his tears. I could see his shoulders slightly shaking as he silently sobbed in front of me. Guilt pooled within my chest. Slowly, I walked over to face him. He, now, was sitting atop his bed hands clutching the sides of his face. Sitting next to him, I said nothing as I reached over and wrapped my arms around my father. His body stiffened at first; however, after a few seconds, he relaxed. Turning towards me, he looked up and I saw those blood-shot eyes for the first time since my mother’s funeral.

“Please, just talk to me,” I said as my own eyes began to well with tears. He wrapped his arms around me and for the first time in months, let himself go. My father sobbed in my arms. His entire body shook as his cries echoed throughout the room. We sat there for twenty minutes as he released all that had been imprisoned since my mother’s funeral. Nothing could be heard except for the broken sobs of my father’s shattered soul.

“I’m sorry,” my father said still breathless from crying.

“It’s fine,” I said.

“No, it’s not. I love you and your brother. An-and I haven’t been there for you all.”

“Dad, you’ve had a lot on your plate. Just don’t shut us out.”

“I just miss your mother so-”

“I know, Dad. We all miss her.” He smiled softly and rose up off the bed. Walking over to his dresser, he pulled open a drawer and removed an object. A flower. The same type that I had found in the garden.

“This is what I found upstairs in the study with that person. As soon as we entered, I knew what they were holding,” my father said.

“What the hell does this even mean?” I asked.

“Honestly, Talia, I have no fucking clue.”

Gently, he placed the flower back into his dresser. Sitting back down on the bed, we both just sat in silence as the sun continued to rise into the sky. However, this time the silence was different. It did not scream of unspoken words and frustrations. What had been a cold, harsh silence was now a warm embrace void of noise and worry.

That evening my brother and I settled down on the couch to watch our weekly movie. This had been our routine for the past couple months. He and I would put on one of our favorite movies while my father sat silently in the kitchen nursing a class of bourbon. For the night, wanting to set a light-hearted mood, we decided on Spaceballs, one of my mother’s favorite stories. She never admitted it to others saying that her favorite was actually Bringing Up Baby with Carry Grant; however, we had always known the truth. Curling up with the dog I laid on the couch while my brother sat in the lounge chair as the opening credits flooded the screen. I heard my father’s footsteps as he entered the living room. Turning my head, I saw him standing in the doorway softly smiling at the television screen.

Internally, I begged him to sit down and watch with us. However, I chose to remain quite turning back to the television. After a minute or two, my father slowly made his way across the room sitting down next to me and the dog on the couch. As he sat, it took everything within me not to smile. It had been months since he had watched a movie with us. My brother looked at me with a quizzical, yet excited, expression. Shrugging, I just smiled and buried myself further into my blanket. All three of us, as a family, sat for the next two hours laughing and joking without a care in the world.

That night I laid in bed readying myself for the nightly march. However, midnight passed and I could hear no noise. One and then two hours passed void of the creaky pacing I had grown so accustomed to. Smiling, I could feel my eyelids droop as sleep decided to encompass me in its soft blanket. My old friend had returned and I hoped it was for more than just a one-night.

***

Three weeks had passed since I had last heard the pacing. My nights were now filled with deep heavy sleeps that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. My brother says that sometimes he can even hear my snoring from down the hall. My father had taken a turn for the better. It was not perfect; however, each and every day he seemed to try a little more with my brother and I. We had unpacked all of the photos with my mother of which my father spent an entire day meticulously placing all through the house. He, along with my brother and I still had our bad moments; however, now we were trying to get through these harsh times together and not in solitude. The garden had turned out to be such a success that my father even got in on the action. Everyday after coming home from work, he and I (and occasionally my brother) spend our afternoons in the summer sun creating a sanctuary for my mother’s memory. Dahlias fill the entire plot and we dedicated an entire row to the “April Dawns.” This afternoon we would finish planting all of the flowers finally completing the garden. Shovels in hand, my father and I walked out into the garden eager to cultivate the petals of my

By MK Barnes