One afternoon, about three weeks in, the house was quiet. Sylvia was outside tending the small vegetable garden in the yard. Roxas was at work. I was alone in the wooden crib, lying on a mattress stuffed with wool and straw.
The afternoon sun was streaming through the window, hitting the floorboards in a sharp, angular beam. Dust motes danced in the light, swirling in slow, lazy circles.
It reminded me of the locker room window.
The memory hit me like a physical blow to the gut.
The locker room. I could smell it. The champagne. The cider. The sweat. The feeling of the cold gold medal pressing against my chest. The sound of my teammates chanting my name.
And the text message.
"Tonight, we feast like kings."
My chest tightened. A lump formed in my throat, hot and painful, expanding until I couldn't breathe around it.
He was gone.
I left him. No, wait... the officer said he died at the scene. We're both gone.
The house in Japan is empty right now. The pot of sukiyaki is probably still sitting on the stove, the beef cold and congealed, growing mold. The vegetables are rotting in the fridge. My glove is probably still sitting on the bench in the entryway where I dropped it when I ran out the door.
There was no funeral I could attend. No one to mourn me except maybe my teammates. Did they find my body in the rain? Did they call my dad's phone, only to find out he was dead too? Who identified the bodies?
Who is taking care of the house? Who is going to clean up the unfinished dinner?
"Dad..." I tried to say the word. I tried to call out to him.
But my vocal cords weren't developed. It came out as a broken, high-pitched whimper. "D...aaa..."
The realization crashed down on me with the weight of a collapsing building. I would never see him again. I would never hear him complain about his back after a long shift. I would never see that lopsided, goofy grin when I threw a strike. We would never go to America. We would never finish that anime.
My throat constricted. My tiny chest heaved, gasping for air.
"WAAAAAAH!"
A deep, guttural sob ripped its way out of me. It wasn't a cry for milk. It wasn't a cry because I was wet. It was a scream of pure, unadulterated grief. It was a scream that belonged to a sixteen-year-old boy who had lost everything, forcing its way through the lungs of an infant.
I cried for the old man. I cried for the sukiyaki we never ate. I cried for the catch we'd never play again. I cried because I was alone in a world of wooden furniture and strange words, and I just wanted my dad.
The front door banged open.
Sylvia rushed in, dirt on her knees, panic in her eyes. She dropped her gardening basket by the door, spilling carrots and onions across the floor.
"Percival? Oh, what's wrong? Are you hungry?"
She rushed over to the crib and scooped me up, rocking me back and forth, shushing me gently. She checked my diaper with practiced speed. She put a hand to my forehead to check for fever.
"Shh, shh, Momma's here. It's okay. I'm here."
She didn't know. She thought I was just a baby having a tantrum. She didn't know I was mourning a ghost. She didn't know that the son she was holding was a stranger from another world.
I buried my face in the crook of her neck, gripping her rough linen shirt with my tiny fists, soaking the fabric with my tears. I just let it all out. I cried until I was exhausted, until my throat was raw and my eyes were swollen shut.
I missed him so much. It hurt. It physically hurt.
But as Sylvia rocked me, humming that soft, foreign melody, the warmth of her body began to seep into the cold hollow in my chest. She held me tight, rubbing my back in slow, soothing circles. She wasn't him. She would never be him. But she was here. And she wasn't letting go.
I slowly stopped crying, reducing my sobs to wet, shuddering hiccups. I rested my head against her shoulder, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It was a different rhythm than his, but it was steady. It was alive.
I closed my heavy eyes, exhausted by the emotional purge.
Goodbye, Dad, I whispered in the silence of my mind. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I couldn't survive.
I felt Sylvia kiss the top of my head.
I'll try, I promised the ghost of my father. I'll try to live this one for both of us.