Page 2 of Into These Eyes

Gavin

I sit on the edge of my bed and pull on a fresh pair of sports socks.

The last thing I feel like doing is going for a run, but once I’m out there and my heart’s pounding, lungs protesting, I’ll disappear into the mind-numbing rhythm.

It’s an escape I need, even if only for an hour.

Besides, as captain of our high school soccer team, I have to keep in top shape to lead them to victory when we play in the grand final in a few weeks.

Although I’m sure no one would blame me if I failed them, the weight of obligation falls heavy on my shoulders all the same. Dad’s taught me the meaning of responsibility my whole life. So, whether my heart’s in it or not, I won’t let my teammates down.

Funny how things change. A little over a year ago, all that mattered in my world was soccer, training, and getting scouted by the professional teams in our state.

Now three scouts have put in offers to take me on next year as a fully paid professional player.

Everything I’ve been working for my whole life.

And now, I couldn’t give a shit.

Letting out a heavy sign, I shove my feet into well-worn runners. As I tie the laces, my gaze settles on the bedside drawer.

I shouldn’t, it’ll only tear my heart out all over again, but I can’t help myself.

Leaning over, I open the drawer. Guilt hits me when I’m forced to shove aside junk I’ve thrown on top of the framed photo of me, Mum and Dad.

I’m disgusted with myself for treating this memory with such disrespect.

I’d love to keep it out in the open, but I just … can’t. Not yet.

I stare at us all smiling for the camera after I led the school soccer team to victory last year.

At least Mum got to share that moment. If only she was still here.

It would’ve been something special to see her face light up when she learnt I had my choice between three teams. But all the joy and enthusiasm I once experienced through the sport I love has gone.

Gone because Mum died a month ago. After her ALS diagnosis, the cruel disease had given her a year and some change with us before taking her.

We’d hoped she’d be one of the rare people who lived a decade or longer.

She wasn’t. I’m grateful Dad and I gave it our all while caring for her, even though the pain of watching her deteriorate before our eyes shattered us.

At least we were there for her. At least we had each other to lean on.

When the time came to hand her over to palliative care, everything changed between me and Dad.

While I spent every spare moment I had at Mum’s bedside, Dad grew distant, rarely visiting her.

I want to know why he changed during that time.

I want to talk to him about everything, but he’s still so damn closed off.

The only comfort—as painful as it was—is that I was there, looking into Mum’s eyes and holding her hand when she took her last breath. She didn’t die alone. My final gift to her. And hers to me. Dad missed it, and I’m not sure if he feels bad about that or if he’s relieved he wasn’t there.

Mum might not have been alone when she passed, but I was.

I needed him.

I still do.

Staring at Mum’s smiling face, my heart lurches as my eyes fill with tears.

How long will it take until I can look at her without crumbling?

Another month? A year? Never? To push aside all the decimating emotions her death has brought into my world, to try and move on, feels like a sickening betrayal.

I desperately need to talk to Dad about that. But, when it comes to me, he seems incapable of communicating anything other than mundane orders.

I didn’t lose just one parent the day Mum died, but two. Nothing’s the same. We were always a close, tightknit family unit. My parents were best friends. And Dad used to look at me with such pride … pride that meant everything to me. Now, I may as well be a ghost.

Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to get a handle on the pain coursing through me, I tenderly place the photo back in my drawer.

Outside my window, the streetlights glow as light fades from the sky. I love running at twilight while the final strand of illumination on the horizon vanishes into pure darkness.

Standing, I raise my arms over my head, lengthening the muscles in my back, then my sides. As I begin calf stretches, the door swings open.

Dad stops short at the sight of me. “I thought you were at training tonight.”

“Got cancelled. Coach had to move it to tomorrow night.”

“Shit.” He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms, lines furrowing his brow.

“Why? What’s the problem?”

He checks his watch before staring at my chest. Never my eyes. Not since Mum died. He won’t let me in and it’s killing me.

Dragging a hand down his face, he hesitates. “Listen, Gav … you’re a mature kid. You understand what it means to be an adult, right?”

Has he forgotten my eighteenth birthday a few days ago? I suppose, if he’s feeling anything like I am, it’s possible, so I don’t poke him about it. “I guess. Why?”

He sighs heavily, turning as if he’s about to leave. When he stops, his fingers thrum against the doorframe before he faces me again. “I’ve invited someone over. I thought you’d be at training.”

“So?”

“It’s just, well … I suppose it’s time you know. I’m seeing someone.”

I freeze mid-stretch. If I hadn’t observed Dad so closely over the last few weeks, waiting for a moment to open up to him, I might believe he’s joking.

But more and more, I’ve noticed his melancholy act slip.

When he thinks I’m not around, I hear him humming, even singing along to the radio.

I’ve tried to understand, to rationalise that maybe Mum’s death has eased something inside him.

That maybe he’s relieved she no longer has to suffer.

Those thoughts are hurtful enough. I haven’t considered that he has another reason to feel good.

“Look,” he says, “I know it’s a shock, but—”

“Mum’s only been gone a month!” I yell, hating the high pitch to my voice.

“It’s not that simple,” he says, staring at the floor.

“Bullshit!”

“Lower your voice, Gav.” Even though he refuses to meet my lethal stare, he keeps his tone gentle, cajoling.

“Who’s gonna hear, huh? Mum? Because I hope she can!”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

My hands ball into fists. “Far as I can tell, you’re the ridiculous one. What is it? Can’t handle being on your own for two seconds?”

He straightens, filling the doorway.

“Are you sleeping with her?” I grind out.

“That’s none of your business.”

“That’s a yes! ” My jaw clenches so hard, I’m surprised my teeth don’t crumble to dust.

“Listen, Gavin. You don’t understand. If you’d just let me ex—”

“No! You’re a pathetic fuck!”

While my chest feels like it’s being constricted by a python, he’s calm. Maybe if my heart stops, I won’t feel anything. That’d be better than this.

“Maybe so,” he says softly. “And if that’s how you want to see me, then go right ahead. But my life hasn’t stopped because your mother died, and neither should yours.”

I scoff, wanting to let fly, but something in his posture stops me. Now he wants to talk? Why? Because he’s desperate to get laid?

As I push that revolting thought aside, his words finally register.

“My life hasn’t stopped either,” I spit, “but at least I have the decency to grieve like a normal human being. What’s your excuse? Did you even give a crap about Mum?”

He advances into the room. “Quit it. Right now,” he warns.

I square my shoulders. Just because Mum’s dead doesn’t mean I can’t stand up for her. “I hope you’re ashamed of yourself. And I hope your … your slut is too, because I can only imagine what sort of bitch jumps into bed with a man when his dead wife’s body isn’t even cold.”

Eyes flashing with rage, his face reddens. “Watch your mouth, Son.”

I’m pushing him to the brink, and I don’t give a fuck. I’m already over the edge.

Who the hell does this new woman think she is? Is she trying to replace my mother? Is that why he’s pulled away from me instead of being the supportive father he’s always been? Was he cheating on Mum … while she was dying ?

If I ever find that woman in this house, near this house, my father better be standing in the way, or I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do to her.

Apparently, I don’t need to go running to make my heart pound. I take a step right into his personal space and jab a finger into his sternum. “Or were you screwing the whore behind Mum’s back all along?”

“Enough! Don’t ever talk about her like that again.” His palms slam into my chest, knocking me back. My legs hit the edge of the bed. The moment my arse hits the mattress, I bounce up. I don’t even think. My fist smashes into his face, my knuckles cracking with the force.

Clasping his cheek, he staggers back. I shake with a rage I’ve never known. Heart jackhammering, I grab his shirt and pull back my throbbing fist, ready to strike him again.

His stunned eyes lock with mine.

Finally, he sees me.

Right when I don’t want him to.

A fleeting moment of guilt washes over me, but I tamp it down. That punch was for Mum. He deserved it.

“Gavin …” he breathes, shocking me with the look on his face.

He’s afraid. Of me.

I shove him away and back up. I want to tell him I hate him, but I hold back. Mum’s right here with me, a reminder that I’ll never know when it might be the last time I see someone, the last words I say to them.

Hand burning, I catch a different look on his bruised face. Disappointment.

Fuck that. He’s the disappointment.

I shoulder past him, desperate to get away.

Storming through the house, fury racing through my veins, I fling open the front door. And run.