ekstasis

ix

My dad picks up the phone after only the second ring.

It's my fault—I'm late to call again. Have been every Sunday for the past three weeks in a row. The first time, it was because another study session with Alexei ran over. Then, I just lost track of time in the library.

Today, I slept through it. Would've missed it entirely if Holly hadn't shaken me awake.

"Hey, kiddo," he says.

"Sorry," I answer, doing my best to sound fully awake. "I was in the library. Won't happen again."

"That's alright. I know you're working hard."

He must not notice my mumbling, or care, because he doesn't mention it. It's just the usual weekly check-in:

"How's school?"

"Fine."

"Your friends?"

"Not bad. What about work?"

"It pays the bills."

Part of me is annoyed by these calls. They're a distraction from my studies, my friends, the new life I'm building here.

But another part of me knows that I wouldn't have made it through September without them.

After all, it's not like I was used to much more than this at home. We lived together through little more than clipped exchanges, on the rare occasions when neither of us was sleeping or working: on the sofa watching late-night television, in the car when he was able to drop me off at school, during walks to the chip shop down the block.

And as much as I want to resent him for that distance, I can't. This is our language. It's our home.

Acknowledging how much I need this little reminder feels like a kind of surrender—an acknowledgement that Bragdon isn't the mythological place I had made it out to be in my mind. That I still need something more.

I don't think that's entirely true, though. Things  genuinely are better here. I have friends, and I'm bettering myself, moving toward a life of dignity and class. I want to move on from that little apartment in Manchester. I do.

It's just that this road is a difficult one: I grind myself into dust every week on homework and studying and ballet. I need the comforts I can take just to stay sane: picnics with Holly, study sessions with Alexei, ceremonies in that moonlit grove.

And, yes, conversations with my father.

This time is different, though.

After we've run through our usual cycle of questions, we say our goodbyes, and I move to hang up the phone. But he interrupts me.

"Wait, Sophie."

"Yeah?"

The line goes quiet for a moment. I can picture him on the other end, pinching the bridge of his nose like he always does when he's tired or thinking.

"There's... something I wanted to ask you."

My stomach drops.

"... Okay."

"Since you moved out, I've spent a lot of time alone." He speaks slowly, with clear and measured effort. "I've been thinking a lot. About how much I miss you, and how much I miss your mother. I... I love you both. Always will."

I know what he's going to say before he says it and squint my eyes shut, in some strange, mistaken impulse to block out his voice, to pretend he's not there.

"Sophie, no one will ever replace your mother. I hope that you know that. But I've started seeing someone. You may know her, actually. Mabel. She works at the pub downstairs."