A Tiny Bit Mortal (6 page)

He gestured in the opposite direction that I had been heading and I complied by following him.  We walked past the jewelry store, past the plaza, eventually winding our way through the park.  Our feet made a
thump, thump, thump
over a wooden bridge.  We crossed the street and walked up through the sycamore grove, the Japanese garden, and then up a hill to a residential area.

We walked up the hill, and my legs ached.  I was tired and hungry.  The last time I had eaten was a sandwich for lunch the day before.  My head felt foggy without my morning coffee.

We approached a large, two story house with elaborate landscaping in the front yard.  I could only view pieces of the house through the trees, bushes and climbing plants as I followed him up a stone pathway to the steps of the front porch.  He unlocked the front door, and I followed him in.

There was an entry way with cushioned benches, and hooks on the wall with umbrellas and coats hanging from them.  Above the hooks was a large painting of a landscape scene with an oak tree.  Stopping, I stared at the painting while the man that claimed to be my father removed his shoes.  Turning to look at his sock feet, I then followed suit by removing my shoes and placing them under the bench next to his.

Following him around the corner, I walked into a large kitchen, with forest green walls, white cabinets, and oak counters.  There was a large kitchen island in the center with seats.  He pulled a chair out for me and then walked around to the other side.

I sat in the chair.  “You said you’d call Peter.” I said.

“You’re hungry.” he said.

“Can you read minds?” I asked.

He laughed.  “No one can read minds, not even the immortal.” he said.

My stomach growled and my head ached from the lack of coffee.  I watched him french press and deliver me a fresh glass of coffee.  It smelled glorious.

Swigging down the coffee like a thirsty sailor, I watched while he poached eggs and buttered toast. He served me eggs and toast on a plate and sat down next to me.  I had to control myself from inhaling the toast.  I chewed slowly.

“You hid?” he asked.

After chewing my toast, I swallowed, and then took a deep breath.  “I heard a car pull up and felt like something was terribly wrong.” I said. “I hid in a cabinet.”

“Strange.” he said.  “Are you sure they were The Corrupt?  They should have sensed your presence.  If they were in the same room as you, they should have heard you breathing.”

“They said ‘it’s like she recently left, I can feel it.’” I said.

“Very strange.” he said.

He was silent for several minutes.  Picking up my fork, I began working on the eggs.

“And how did you know they were at your apartment?” He asked.

I took a moment to think.  How did I know, I wondered.  I replayed the evening in my mind while I finished my eggs.  He didn’t seem impatient or troubled by the minutes that passed by before I answered.  I just sat there, staring out at the trees through the window above the kitchen sink.

“I
felt
they were there.” I said. “The same way I felt them approach me.  It was like...”  Pausing again, I tried to think of how to describe the feeling.  I had been feeling that same feeling a lot in those weeks that had passed, but I hadn’t articulated it yet.  It was the same way the tiny microbes in my microscope were “speaking” to me.

“It was like the air around me was speaking to me.” I said.  “It said,
‘wrong, wrong, wrong,’
but
without words.”

“Ah,” he said, seriously.  “Now that makes sense.”

Freezing my fork in mid air on its way to my mouth, I laughed.  If I had told anyone I knew, Rick, or my Mom, about the way things “spoke” to me, they would have been worried.  The man that claimed to be my Dad thought it “made sense.”

After my laughter, I looked over at him and he was looking at me, smiling.  That was the first time I had seen him smile since I met him that morning.  So he had a sense of humor after all.

We sat in silence while I finished my breakfast and my coffee.  Without asking, he poured me a second cup of coffee.  For someone that couldn’t read minds, he was remarkable at predicting what I wanted.

After he deposited the french press carafe on the counter, he stood next to the sink, turned towards the window.  I saw him pull a cell phone out of his pocket, and a few seconds later place it up to his ear.

I thought “Finally, he’s calling Peter.”

“Thomas.” he said.

I thought “Okay, so not Peter.”  Looking into my coffee, I frowned.

“Can you help me with something?” he said.  He said nothing else and placed the phone back into his pocket.

“You said you’d call Peter.” I said.

“You said your cat was hungry.” he said.

I thought about George, and how mad he probably was right then.  I felt terrible, there I was eating my breakfast, and George was going hungry.  “Thank you.” I said.

Moment’s later, there was a knock at the front door.  The man that claimed to be my father left the kitchen and turned towards the entry way.  I heard voices, but couldn’t make out the words.

He returned, and I looked at him with a questioning face.  “That was my neighbor, Thomas.” he said.  “He’s going to go get your things, and your cat.”

After finishing my coffee he gestured towards the hall.  I followed him.  We entered a large living room with a high ceiling.  It was full of natural light.  I looked up and saw several skylights between beams of oak.

A large, wrought iron chandelier hung from one of the beams over the center of a room. Below was a square, oriental rug, surrounded by two couches and three chairs with a large oak coffee table in the center.

I looked to my right.  One wall had two huge windows looking out into the trees into the front yard.  The dark brown curtains were half open, half closed. 

Between the windows there was a tan wall, with a huge 18th century family portrait painting.  They were all very smartly dressed, smiling, and the woman in the painting had her arm around a little boy that looked remarkably like the man that claimed to be my father.

I looked straight across the room, and there was a large, stone fireplace.  While I was gawking at the painting, he’d made his way across the room and was placing logs in the fireplace.  There was a rectangular rug in front of the fireplace, with two armchairs facing each other at either end.  Both had footstools in front of them.

“Why don’t you put your feet up?” he said, facing the fireplace.

Settling into the chair to the left I watched him work.  He stepped back from the fire, without lighting it, and settled into the armchair.  I looked into the dark fireplace at the logs and then noticed a tiny spark in the kindling he’d placed under the logs.  It erupted into tiny flames, then up the logs until they were engulfed. 

The warmth of the fiery logs radiated onto my legs.  It felt luxurious.  I closed my eyes and felt sleep calling to me.

“Peter.” he said.

Jolting awake, my eyes opened to seeing him with the phone up to his ear.  “I have Emily here.” he said. 

He paused, listening.  “No time to explain, Peter.” he said.  “Just get on the first flight you can find.  Don’t worry about the expense, I will cover it.”

He shifted in his chair, placing his phone back into his pocket.

“Does he know?” I asked.

“Know what?” He asked.

“That you say you are my Dad.” I said.

He shook his head. “I am Peter’s mentor.  No, he doesn’t know.  But there is no supposing, Emily.” he said.  “I am your Dad.”

“
My
Dad is dead.” I said, smoothing my skirt out over my legs.

“I didn’t die.” he said.

Feeling a storm of emotions erupt inside of me I said “So you abandoned us, then.  I think I prefer the story where you died.”

“I…” He trailed off.

We sat in silence for some time.  Listening to the crackling of the fire, I calmed down inside, slightly, but I couldn’t accept the narrative of my Dad abandoning me voluntarily.

“When you were first born,” he said. “I followed you around practically everywhere.  You seemed so fragile, so mortal.  I held you, often, after your mom went to sleep.”

I thought “You were lurking around in our house when Mom thought you were dead?” I held my tongue, and just listened.

“Your Mom,” he said. “would occasionally catch a glimpse of me.  This happened a few times a year even though I was so careful.  It upset her so badly.  She thought demons were playing tricks on her.”

“If you can’t read minds,” I said. “then how do you know what she was thinking?”

“Well,” he said. “She would often say ‘Be gone you demons!’ and recite The Lord’s Prayer over and over after she saw me.”

“Oh.” I said. “That makes sense.”  That sounded just like my mom.

We sat in silence, once again, and I listened to the crackling of the fire.  One of the logs shifted and rolled slightly in the fireplace.  I stared into the fire.

“Why?” I asked. “Just, why?”

He was silent for several minutes.  I didn’t even look at him.  I didn’t want to look at him. 

“I was never supposed to be with a mortal.” he said.  “I loved her.  I still do, very much.  But it was wrong.  It was selfish of me.  I could never grow old with her.  I could never tell her about our world...”  He trailed off, his voice full of emotion.

He paused for a while, and there was silence again.  I processed his words, but I still felt abandoned.  It was like Peter’s words when he left.  The words were full of good intentions, but I couldn’t escape the feeling hurt part.

“There was also the problem,” he said. “that she may have only seen my beauty and loved me for that.  Mortals don’t usually see us for ourselves when we show ourselves to them.  I wanted to believe she loved me for myself, but it wasn’t fair to her.”

Peter’s question to me in the Jewelry shop of “Do you see my beauty, or me?” suddenly made sense.  Peter must have been wrestling with the same concerns that my Dad had for my Mom.

“My mom,” I said. “Loved you, and only you.”

“Do you read minds?” he said.

I looked at him with watery eyes.  It seemed like he believed he did the right thing, and he only meant to do good.  It didn’t mean I liked it, but it did soften the blow.

There was a knock at the door.  My Dad rose from his chair and into the hall.  I heard the sound of something rolling along the hardwood floor and saw a large suitcase trailing behind my Dad.  His neighbor followed behind, with George nestled in his arms.

Wondering how he made it across town with George, I remembered the first visit where I’d taken George to the vet.  He meowed the whole way like he was being stabbed and peed in his pet carrier.  I stared at the man, that was somehow holding a very relaxed George.

“Where should I put him?” Asked the neighbor.

“Follow me.” Replied my Dad.

He turned to me and gestured to me as well.

We went up some stairs from the hall, into another large hall.  My Dad opened a door to the left, and we followed him in.  He placed the suitcase on a bed.

He gestured to Thomas for the cat and took George in his arms.  He thanked him and then Thomas left the room.

My dad stroked George’s back and then placed him on the bed.  George looked up at me inquisitively and let out a
prrrrbt-mrow
.  Walking over to the bed, I sat down next to him.

“I want you to make yourself at home, Emily.” he said.  “This is the only safe place for you to stay, for now.”

His “for now” stuck in my mind.  I remembered Peter’s concerns that I would be “taken away.” 

I just wanted to go home, back to my apartment, and snuggle up with George on my blue chaise lounge in my book room.  My only comfort was that Peter was on his way to me, and at least the room I was staying in had the style of how I had decorated my own place.

“I have some phone calls to make.” he said. “Please, make yourself at home.  There is a bath across the hall, you are welcome to use it and put your things in there.  This room is all yours.  Tom left George’s food downstairs, and his litter box.  Oh, and eat anything you’d like in the kitchen if you get hungry.”

Leaving George alone on the bed, I went to go find his food.  He was remarkably relaxed for being in a strange new house.  I’d expect him to be cowering under the bed under the circumstances. 

Padding my way down the stairs, I found George’s food in the entry hall, sitting the bench next to his litter box. I grabbed both and made my way back upstairs.

Looking around for a minute, I wondered what to put George’s food into, and then found his food and water dish inside the food bag.  I filled the water side in the bathroom, and then the other with food. 

After walking over to the bed, I flopped down onto my back, feeling weightless on the mattress.  My eyes grew heavy, and I fell into a deep sleep.

When I woke up, I felt disoriented.  I got up and looked out the window.  It was nearing dusk, so it was probably around dinner time.  My stomach rumbled.  I hadn’t even showered yet though, and I felt gross.