Siren Suicides (Second Edition)

Chapter 23. Cascade Range

This is my nightmare. 

"You never cease to surprise me with your...methods, Ailen. Nonetheless, excellent job. Four sirens gone, and Canosa damaged. I'm pleased with you, very pleased indeed."
Somehow I'm still floating, taking in every detail of our encounter in a series of snapshots. My father's open forehead, his gray hair carefully combed back. His stern eyes peeling me apart.His ever-present classy boating outfit, complete with a fancy maroon waterproof jacket and brand-new khaki pants. I sense a whiff of his signature cologne and want to gag.

"Out of all boats, I had to pick the one with you in it," I whisper, every word slow to emerge.

"Kids," he actually addresses both of us, "sorry to have left you hanging. I certainly didn't think it would take you this far from the Aurora Bridge to do the job. But a job is a job, right? You did it. I will hold to my word. You both will live. Ain't that good news, Ailen? Where is that smile, show your Papa, please?" He looks at me with a new expression on his face, one I don't recognize. Half awe, half fascination, and perhaps a hint of jealousy mixed with fear. All under his mask of fake parental love. Forget gagging, I want to outright vomit.

He leans out of the boat and I have the sudden urge to pull him underwater and keep him there until he is no more.

"Will you accept my apology for abandoning you two?" my father says. My jaw drops. He has never apologized to me in my entire life. Never. Not once.

He stretches out his right hand, his gray hair moving in the evening breeze and his lips forming a perfect smile.

When I fail to give him my hand in return, he pats me on the head lightly with a contained grimace of disgust. My father always hated wet things, especially wet, dirty things. Promptly, he unzips both of his jacket pockets and takes out two rubber gloves, the thick orange kind that fishermen use for fetching their catch out of the water. They squeak as he pulls them on.

"Looks like your boyfriend is injured?" he says to me.

"Hey, son, you all right?" This is directed at Hunter.

Hunter merely nods.

"If you don't want to talk, that's fine with me. We'll have all the time in the world to talk later." My father is obviously in a very good mood and I exhale in relief.

Hunter seems indifferent, staring blankly.

"Well?" My father raises his eyebrows.

He apologized to me. He praised me for a job well done. He heard me and spoke to me like to a normal human being. It took for me to die to get this. It's what I wanted my entire life.

I follow the boat and help my father prop Hunter up and over the side of it.

"Did you forget how to talk? Or did she stun you with her theatrics?" my father asks Hunter.

"Hello," Hunter mutters and falls silent, slumping into a wet, shivering pile on the front bench, giving me a look full of accusation.

"I don't blame you. I'd be speechless, too. Look at this. She flooded an entire valley! My God." My father's cheery mood fueled by the aftermath of the destruction makes him blind to what's going on. "Ailen? You coming?" My father stretches out his gloved hand, speaking in a jovial tone as if we're departing for a summer picnic.

Did I finally earn his approval? Is it possible that he feels remorse, or guilt, or dare I imagine, love for me?

I fasten my eyes onto his blank gaze. His pupils widen, two dark pools into the unknown. They don't frighten me like they used to. Although the lilac of the dusk solidifies by the minute, I see his eyes clearly for what they really are—merely two orbs full of protein liquid. I could reach out and pop them with my fingers, or I could scream and make them boil. Either way, the source of my nightmares—those two terrible spheres of menace—are gone, replaced by a pair of vulnerable globules, old and tired, sunken from years of internal conflict. My father's whole demeanor is that of a disappointed old man who's trying to make ends meet, doing the only thing he knows how to do well: hate women. What sorry existence it must be, how much pain must he carry around and suppress on a daily basis.