Chương 58: Chapter fifty-six
It was going to be a thrilling day. Especially since it wasn't very often that my father was home to not only greet us but have dinner with us. My mum had woken at five in the morning with mock determination to whip up a banquet.
She was muttering excitedly under her breath, footsteps thumping against the floorboards, alerting me to consciousness when we both should've been fast asleep. She may have paced back and forth outside of my bedroom door a hundred times before I emerged from within, rubbing my eyes tiredly.
"Mum?" I said.
She didn't notice me at first, and was instead staring fixedly at a single sheet of paper. But my voice must've startled her, because she jumped, and the sheet in her hand fluttered gracefully to the ground.
"Honey!" my mum exclaimed.
I picked it up, examining the contents: a long, extensive list of fancy recipes.
"What's this for, mum?" I asked, genuinely unsure.
At the time I hadn't known that my father was coming home, and it was supposed to be a normal day. I was going to wake up at seven as usual, make breakfast for my mum and I, then get onto my homework, checking in every so often with my mum to make sure she wasn't staring too blankly at the ceiling; my father may not have been the best father or husband, but my mother seemed to thrive the most around him. My mum's eyes twinkled on two occasions, when she was speaking to me, and when she was with my father.
"I –"
I glanced again at the eye-blurring list. "Mum, I don't know about you, but I think you'll need some help preparing all of this."
My mum's eyes lit up, and she chuckled, shuffling over to give me a hug.
"Morning, honey," she cooed sweetly.
I tucked my head into her neck, and a sense of comfort and warmth immediately washed over me; my mum always had that effect on me, and I wondered what the point of having teddy bears to cuddle was when you had your mother.
"Morning, mum."
She ran her dainty fingers through my mop of hair, then she whispered, "You should wash your hair." I froze and tried to wriggle out of her tight hold, slightly humiliated by mum's judgement, but she held me even tighter before murmuring, "Your father's coming home tonight."
Details, preparations.
My mum had bought the ingredients the day before already, but had forgotten the little details, and that was my job throughout the day: running back and forth between the grocery store and home. I think I became best friends with the cashier that day.
Mum was playing music, swaying subconsciously as she diced and stirred and fried and tasted and boiled up the kitchen. Watching her enjoying herself drew a permanent smile on my face, and I did as she told me: I washed my hair.
I counted down the hours, barely finishing any homework before I heard the smooth growling of the black convertible outside. Ripping back the curtains, my heartbeat kicked up a notch, and I almost dived through the window. At the time, I had the constant urge to slap myself, because no matter how many times my father would leave and not return for months on end, the amount of times he'd leave me hanging, and especially the times when he'd neglect my mother, I wanted him to come back. I believed that he'd change for us, eventually. No matter how long it'd take. One day, he'd burst through the door, calling my name, my mum's name, pulling us into a tight embrace, showering us with 'I miss you's' and 'I love you's'.
"MUM!" I called as I raced to the front door, whipping it wide open. "HE'S BACK!"
The front doors of the car opened, and I grinned wide, but rising out of the vehicle were four strangers.
I took note of the tall and slender man, with hard eyes and greying-brown hair. Then I noticed the shorter woman beside him, long golden hair reaching her waist, and pristine blue eyes. From the backseat, a young girl in a white summer dress, with chocolate-coloured skin and dark brown locks, appeared, looking very elegant but holding a persistent blankness in her expression. And finally, a young boy with straight brown hair, like the man's hair, draping over his forehead, sighing at the glare of the stubborn Australian sun.
I looked from them to my father, who was coming up the path, briefcase in hand, and held a steady but stale smile on his face.
"Harry, my boy," he called.
"Hey, dad," I replied, smiling wearily at him. "Um," I mumbled. "Who are…?"
"Oh!" my dad exclaimed with a start. "Family friends, Harry," he told me. To the family of strangers: "Come on up, don't be shy!" Then, a strong arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to him and steering me back up the stairs and into the house. "Scarlett, I'm home!"
I could almost sense the exhilaration in my mother's voice when she perked up to my dad's booming voice, "Edward! I'm coming, I'm coming!" she hurried.
She slid clumsily into the hallway, weak at her knees but the liveliest I'd seen her in six full months, and that's when my smile became glued to my face. With her apron still tied around her, she rushed into my dad's arms, hooking her arms around his neck and holding him tight. I felt both beyond-joyed and excluded in that moment, but then my mother pulled me into the middle of their hug, and I lost the ability to breathe properly for the next three minutes.
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