I Amsterdam (Completed)

Epilogue Part 1 - Emma

"The more one does and sees and feels, the more one is able to do, and the more genuine may be one's appreciation of fundamental things like home, and love, and understanding companionship."           - Amelia Earhart

Every day after my mother's death, my father wore black. It was always the same black baggy jeans, black sandals, a pair of fuzzy black socks, and a long black shirt too big for his size. He never washed them. He never changed them. He never took them off. Over time, white dust and bits of fluff drifting in the air collected upon his black outfit, like he was a stationary object sitting untouched in the corner of the room. He might as well could have been. Food was the only reason that dragged him away from his spot on the sofa, and once he had a nibble of a chip, or a small bite of a rotten apple, he would sit back down, staring at where my mother was once hunched over the ground, coughing blood.

In order to provide for both my father, and prepare for my journey of travelling ahead of me, I had to wake up along with the sun, and return home after midnight. I doubt my father did much during my time away, or if he even noticed my absence, for he remained in the same position when I returned as when I left. Unwiped tears dried upon his cheeks, and the entire English dictionary seemed to have been stolen away from his mouth.

One could possibly grieve his grieving, like it was contagious.

It had been two years since my mother's death, meaning today was the day I'm leaving. I had sufficient money, sufficient experience, sufficient materials. There were only two things left to take care of: packing, and my father.

It was a risk calling my grandparents - my father's parents - but I doubt there's such a thing as risk when in a situation like mine. And so, after I finished the last of my packing, I picked up the home phone and held it close to my ear, dialing my grandparents' number. It was only a few seconds before they answered. "Aaron, dear!" I heard my grandmother exclaim. It was a comfort to finally hear an American accent after living almost eight years in the UK. "I was wondering when you would call! How's England?"

"This is not your son, Grandma," I spoke, blatantly. "It's Emma."

"Oh, well, how are you?" my grandmother replied happily, shaking her misconception off like swiping a crumb off the table. "How are your parents?"

I bit my lip, and inhaled deeply as I prepared for the worst. "My mother's dead."

My grandmother's bafflement could may as well have been palpable through the phone. I heard her voice light as she whispered a small conversation with someone in the background - probably my grandfather.

"My father's grieving," I explained through the phone. "And it's not a healthy type of grieving. He's not eating well; he's not sleeping well. He does nothing except stare at the ground all day."

"Wh-," my grandmother stuttered, bewildered. All sense seemed to have left her as she struggled to fathom what I was telling her.

"And we're broke," I concluded. "We have nothing."

I waited for a reply, preparing for dubiosity, or anger, or something, at least. But the other end of the phone was dead silent, as if the entire world had been a film pressed pause. It took my grandmother a long time before she could speak a single word. "W-W-What?"

"I'm sure you are very confused," I replied automatically, a default answer I have replayed a million times before in my head. "It makes sense. My father's been lying to you for a while now. We've been broke for basically years, which stimulated my mother's excessive smoking. She was diagnosed with lung cancer, but we had no money to help her, so eventually she died. That was two exactly years ago." I tried my best to maintain a composed voice, but it was proving to be difficult. I drew in another deep breath before saying shakily, "And so I've called you for help." My words bounced between the walls like a ball.

"But why did Aaron lie?" my grandmother asked.

"Because you're rich. He was too proud for your help to ask," I answered. "But I'm not."

"Okay, darling, just stay there," my grandmother ordered. "Your grandfather and I will be there very soon. We'll get the next plane to the UK. Just stay there."

If I was any other girl a grandmother was talking to, "stay there" seemed too obvious to say, but for me, I glanced at my packed travelling bag, bulging with a full year of planning.

"No, wait," I said. "I know you, Grandma. What are you going to do with my father?"

"We'll take care of him, honey. Everything will get better."

"No," I retorted. "Where are you going to take him?"

I heard my grandmother sigh, like a gust of harsh wind, static through the phone. "Well, I think it's best to take him home to California with us. It'll be hard to help him if he's on the other side of the world. We'll put him in a facility that'll help him. And you can stay with us, dear, at our place."

"What facility?"

"Well, there's one very close to where we live."

"What's its address?"

"Darling, you could go see him every day. It's very close. You don't need its address."

I held back a sigh, blinking away my tears. I covered up the microphone so I could sniffle, looking once again at my travelling pack. "Please, Grandma. Just in case."

"Okay," my grandmother relented. "Let me search it up." I heard her keyboard clicking in the background, and I grabbed a small piece of paper from my desk, my pen ready to write.

"Alright," my grandmother said. "It's 2428 Welwyn Avenue."

2428 ...Welwyn...Avenue...

My pen, almost out of ink, scraped against the surface of my paper as I wrote down the address. I gently fluttered the paper back and forth to dry my writing, my shoulder clutching the phone to my ear. "Okay, got it," I replied.

"Emma," my grandmother said. She only calls me Emma when she's serious. "Are you okay?"

I held the address gingerly with both my hands. The paper was only three inches by two, and was already threatening to wrinkle. I once again glanced at my travelling pack.

Packing - check.

Father - check.

Everything was all set for my departure. Nothing's holding me back. And nothing will ever hold me back, I promised myself.

I rolled back the sleeves of my white hoodie, matched with my ripped white jeans mussed with dirt, and my white sneakers paired with white sock duo. A white beanie sat firmly on my head. "I am," I finally replied. "Just make sure my father will be too."