The Art of Starting Over

Prologue - Special Delivery

The glass panes rattle as the door slams behind him. I stare at it blankly, the loud bang reverberating in my ears, the hurried pounding of his feet like rapid gunfire as they carry his heavy body down the alley steps and away from me. I guess he's not finding the place so charming anymore.

Oh, this is nice! Look at all these plants! And the colours! Yes, quite charming, I must say. What do you think, champ? Not bad, aye? 

He droned on and on in an unusually high-pitched voice, his exaggerated cheerfulness making me feel sick as we climbed up the steps of Abram Gatt Street. 

I didn't answer. I should have said something, I guess. But what was I supposed to say?

Yes, Daddy. Thank you for sending me away to this speck of an island, with its uneven steps and crooked houses and stupid, oversized plants. I'm sure I'll be perfectly happy living with my grandmother, whom I've met twice in my whole life, just months after my mother died.

I could never say that to him. My voice would abandon me. It always does.

I just climbed on silently, ignoring the loud creaks of the windows and the reflections of sunlight all over the alleyway. I kept climbing with my eyes lowered until we came to a set of bright, blue doors. The number 85 was painted in curly, blue calligraphy on a white, ceramic tile that was cemented onto the wall. I watched my father lift the gold-coloured, fish-shaped door-knocker. He let it fall back with a bang that made my gut wrench. 

Again, I didn't say anything. Again, I didn't move.

A tiny, solemn-looking woman opened the door a crack. I watched as her eyes, so like my mother's, glazed over my squirming father and found mine. Sharp. Clear. Unapologetic.

I watched as she moved aside and wordlessly invited us in. I entered obediently and passed through a second set of doors, white with large, frosted panes. My father followed and dropped the bags on the floor. The strong smell of bleach had barely hit my nostrils when he announced, "I'll come back for you as soon as I can. I promise."

The words were slow as they tumbled out of his mouth. And still, I didn't say anything. I just watched as he edged back out onto the alleyway. The Rock n' roll music that was coming from somewhere to my left was mocking me. 

I watched him pull the frail, white door behind him and then, BAM! He was gone.

So, here I am, still staring at the quivering door waiting for something to happen. My gut wrenches as I wait for him to come back and tell me this is all just a joke.

Don't let me down... John Lennon wails from behind me as I go numb. Don't let me down...

A small part of my brain is trying to fight the fog creeping through my peripheral vision. I try to make sense of what's going on, but I still don't get it. Did he seriously say he'd come back as soon as he can?

Nobody ever loved me like she does...

When is he coming back? Why did he leave in the first place if he's really coming back?

...oh, she does... yes, she does...

I feel like I'm spiralling down a bottomless, dark hole. I want to scream.

But I don't. 

I don't make a sound. I just stand still and stare at the unmoving handles of the flimsy doors. What's the point of them anyway? Who makes doors so small and so flimsy and-

A car door slams somewhere down the road. I hear the angry roar of an engine and my heart races. My surroundings swirl around me, faster and faster, at the realisation that the taxi is taking my father back to the airport. He'll be on the next flight to London in two hours. 

...Ooh, she do me, yes, she does...

And then, there is silence. A thick, encroaching silence that makes me go cold inside. I blink once. I blink again and everything goes still. So still. The stupid white doors are still firmly shut. The light is still bright behind the glass panes, without a hint of a man's silhouette standing behind them.

Don't let me down...

I feel a hand on my shoulder, small, bony and foreign, and my whole body goes rigid. My vision suddenly becomes clear. The ground is suddenly firm under my feet.

Don't let me down...

I want my mother. I want her hand on my shoulder, soft and steady.

I'm in love for the first time... Don't you know it's gonna last...

Emily removes her hand but it leaves a searing print. She rubs her palms on the back of her jeans and clears her throat as she shuffles past me, through the flimsy doors and out onto the alleyway. I glare at her as she looks up and down the steps, her arms wrapped around her chest, knowing perfectly well she's as unhappy with this arrangement as I am.

...It's a love that lasts forever... It's a love that had no past...

She comes back inside, shutting the doors behind her, first the sturdy, blue ones, then the frail, pointless, white ones. The light is sucked out of the room, the smell of bleach intensifies and I realize how small it is. Suffocating. Musky.

Her eyes are on me, scanning me. Her face is expressionless but her eyes, her big, clear, hazel eyes hold volumes of unspoken sentiment.

Don't let me down...

She takes my bags and carries them past me towards a dark, narrow staircase. "Your bedroom is on the second floor," she says as she starts up the steep steps. "It used to be the washroom but it turned out pretty nice. It's not big and I have to disturb you every time I need to hang the washing because it's the only way up to the roof. But it has a lot of natural light and you have your own bathroom."

Her Maltese accent sounds severe in my ears. I turn around and see her waiting on the landing, her chest heaving from the weight of the suitcases. I glance back at the entrance, both sets of doors still resolutely closed, the alley outside still quiet. Still.

Don't let me down...

I look around the room helplessly, take a deep breath, and follow Emily up to the second floor.

Don't let me down...