Keychains ✔

IX

A strained mewling had me rolling over to the bed's edge. Meabh pleaded with wide, green eyes that reflected the moonlight from the windows. They threw down rectangles of light, which slid half-way—no, three-fourths down the side of the wall. It must be around one o'clock.

"Oh Meabh, I forgot," I sighed. I flipped away the covers, wide awake. Meabh slinked away from my hand reproachfully.

With lethargic energy I navigated the apartment in darkness. The kibbles clinked in Meabh's cat bowl, and she waited until I was in the living room before eating. I didn't know how long I slept; Hannah had left, and the hours ebbed like molasses. I set a reminder for Meabh. I couldn't afford to be neglectful now.

In my apartment every corner was known to me. Aside from a small, neon-green potted spider plant, a low glass table stockard with stationary supplies, and Allison's paintings that I've hung up above the sofa, there was nothing here. Nothing that leapt out to you and demanded your attention. Even the breeze blew in a predictable manner, rustling the papers on the table before snaking around my legs and eventually reaching Meabh, lifting her fur. In the darkness the space seemed fuller. Home decor cluttered the mind, but in times like these, I wish I had invested time in selecting furniture that reflected me.

"You just want to sell the house and get it over with."

Already the memory of the conversation was fleeting. Had Mom said it like that? Like my visions, I was left with the ghostly imprints of what transpired today. The residue that refused to disappear no matter how hard Hannah tried to banish it from my mind.

My phone buzzed in my hand. I hadn't realized I was holding it, but of course, I did remember setting a reminder for Meabh. The bright screen made me squint. It didn't look like Hannah's regular batch of uplifting messages. Thank goodness. She had her own life to live, and I had roped her into my own problems.

I scrolled through work emails. They seemed to be more about the Timberline library's grand opening later this week. Per usual, Marcus had come up with last minute plans to have some GreenGlass employees assist the library staff that day. As long as children weren't involved, I supposed it was fine.

Another message appeared, not from GreenGlass. When I clicked the new message, it sent me to Dad's private inbox. But he must have deleted what he sent; the last message was from myself, just a couple years after running away. I squeezed my tired eyes shut.

Nora: You weren't wrong about that Social Studies award. Remember? Now I'm studying psychology.

That was when I still cared. When my pride itched to spill outwards and wrap around those who knew me better than friends ever could.

Now, in place of hope, apathy sat like a stone.

My phone buzzed again.

Dad: Can we talk? Please. I'm outside the house.

The second he picked up, I said irritably, "Firstly, I don't want to hear your apologies. And second..." I held my hand to my head, and lowered the volume on my phone. "Talking with you makes more sense than thinking by myself. I hope that's the reason you want to talk, too. Do I make myself clear?"

A pause. "All right."

There were crickets on the other end of the line. Without seeing his face, it was easier to curl up on the side of the couch and picture Dad smoking under a street lamp. Dad's kind of silence, I'd learned, was invisible. Or rather it was so common that you didn't notice when it nudged you in the shoulder. It was present in the MacIntyre memories, in the background, but Dad's own key visions had been washed out by...well, I had just known I was seeing it all from Dad's eyes.