Nocturnal (The Noctalis Chronicles 1)

“Well they did some tests. Baby, I don't want you to be scared.” By this point the ice cream had melted all over the table, a swirling puddle of chocolate and vanilla. I couldn't stop staring at it.

“I have cancer.” Her words sounded like they came from the other end of a tunnel, or like one of those phones you make out of soup cans and string when you're young and bored in the summer.

“Ava-Claire?” She waited for some type of response. I couldn't breathe. My chest was so heavy and tight, as if cinder blocks were stacked on top of me. My head was a million miles away, as if it abandoned my body. A child shrieked next to me and I jumped.

“How bad is it?”

“They caught it early. Dr. Hunt's going to start me on some treatments, and he's very optimistic.” They didn't sound like her words. They sounded like something she'd read in a pamphlet about how to tell your daughter you've got cancer. Leukemia, to be precise. Fancy words that meant her body was attacking itself and they were going to pump her full of drugs to try and stop it.

“Aren't you going to finish your ice cream?” she said, pointing at the melted brownie mess in front of me. I hated melted ice cream, but I took a bite anyway. She didn't end up finishing her cone. She tossed it and said her stomach was upset. Her hands smeared melted ice cream on the steering wheel as we drove home.

***

My parents chat all the way home from the restaurant about silly things like the weather and the latest political scandal and whether my mother should bake banana bread or carrot cupcakes for her co-worker's retirement party. As if nothing has happened. We Sullivans are good at that, pretending things haven't happened. My dad's got his smile pasted on, but we all know how much effort it takes for him to wear it. Like an itchy sweater your grandmother gave you that you have to wear to please her because she's senile and old and you only see her a few times a year.

I wish I'd been able to take my own car. I would have rolled all the windows down and blasted some loud music; Taylor Swift or Muse or Neon Trees. Something I could forget myself in. Instead, I have to listen to them talk quietly while Seal croons in the background as I press my face to the cool glass of the window.

My mouth is dry from getting sick; I should have had some water at the restaurant.

“Ava-Claire, what do you think? Banana or carrot?” She cranes her neck over the seat. Oncoming headlights illuminate her from behind, haloing her in light.

“I don't care.” It's the least acerbic answer I can give.

“Oh, come on.” She reaches back and grabs my knee, right where it's ticklish. I try to twist away, but she's got me. Dad chuckles as he tries to shift around her.

“Stop it!”

“Banana or carrot?”

“Carrot!” It comes out as a shriek. I'm laughing, and I can't help it. I hate myself for it. She chatters at me the rest of the ride, but I can't shake the feeling that she's trying too hard, but that's her. Mom always tries too hard.

She gives me a hug when we get out of the car. I would be a horrible person if I couldn't hug her back, so I do, breathing in her lilac perfume. I always buy her a year supply for her birthday, just so she would always smell the same, but I never told her that.

“The dark before the dawn,” she says again. I stay silent, closing my eyes and holding her. She's always been willowy, like a tall flower stalk. Graceful. The cancer made her brittle, like a dried flower. Breakable. Her dress barely stays on her knobbly shoulders.

She presses her forehead to mine, closing her eyes. I close mine too, and fight the urge to throw up again. When she takes my arm to go into the house, I want to pull away, but I know she needs the support. That's what Dad says we are. Support. Like it should always have a capital letter.

I try to escape to my room as quickly as I can. Dad twirls her around and puts on an old Beatles record. It's as if they don't see me, so I slip upstairs before they notice I'm gone. My phone buzzes with missed texts, but I just ignore them. Not tonight.

I throw my dress in the hamper after I've yanked it off. It was my go-to fancy dress, the one that Mom says matches the green eyes we share. I want to set it on fire so I never have to see it again. It's early, but I crawl into bed in my underwear. Soft laughter melts up the stairs and I shiver. It's not cold in my room, but I'm cold anyway. I make sure the window is closed and pull the flowered curtains shut.

She knocks on my door and I pretend to be asleep. Before leaving, she kisses my head and murmurs that she loves me. I keep my eyes closed and wait until she closes the door. I am a horrible daughter. Sometimes it's hard to live with the things I do to her, but I keep doing them.

It's like when you're little and your parents tell you not to touch the stove, because you'll get burned. You know you're not supposed to do it. Then there's this thing inside of you that makes you reach out, just to see. Nothing's going to happen. The voices of your parents fade away. You reach out... and scream as the stove singes three of your fingers.

There's no reason to do it. You know it's going to end badly. You do it anyway.

I drift into an uneasy sleep, replaying the horrible moment in my head over and over. After a few hours, I get up and put on some jeans and a t-shirt and creep downstairs. The house is dark and quiet except for my father's snores coming from my parent's bedroom. I'm safe.

Living in rural Maine means there are a lot of isolated places to go in the middle of the night where you can think and be by yourself. I can step off my porch and walk twenty feet and vanish into the trees and listen to the breath of the night. The animals burrowing and scurrying and foraging. The leaves shushing in the breeze, but I had my reservations about doing that without a flashlight. There were porcupines and skunks. Potential rabid squirrels. You never really knew.

That left the beach, five minutes away. It would be deserted and the cold air would clear my head and make me feel less sick, but I don't want to dig sand out of my sneakers. No, for this night I need somewhere quiet and safe. Somewhere that I know I can be completely alone, or at least feel that way.

It's cold for April, spring not having set in yet. I grab a sweatshirt and pull it over my head. The keys to my rusty Honda Civic are still in the kangaroo pocket. My car had been a gift when I'd gotten my license last year, just before she was diagnosed, actually. I hate associating the car with that, but I do. Soon I'll be rid of it; Dad said there was no way it would pass inspection.

I slowly back down the driveway. There isn't enough room for me to turn around without driving on the lawn. It's hard to do in the dark without the headlights, but there is no way I'm turning them on. I'd done this enough in the last year, so it had gotten easier.