eight

After the mugging, I ran straight home, skipping the visit to the police station. When Mom came home at 9:00, she found me curled up in a ball on the sofa. She had to call my name about seven times before I realized that she had come home.


Through the tears and fits of hyperventilation, I told her what happened. She was furious, angrier than I had ever seen her before. She insisted that we go to the station immediately, but I begged her not to. I cried like a baby, screaming about how much I hated the police, how much I feared them. In my mind, it was the police's fault for the mugging, not the muggers themselves.


Mom wouldn’t let me get away with not talking to the police at all, but quickly abandoned the idea of talking to them that night. She called the station and scheduled a meeting for me to talk to them in three days time at 5 pm. Apparently they were too busy to schedule me in any sooner.


Now it’s the afternoon after the mugging, and all I’ve done is stare at a blank wall. I spent the entire night battling with my mind, straining not to let the memories flood my brain. I lost. Every thought would send me spiraling. Every thought was about my father. 


“Lucy, why are you moping around? I know I taught you better than this,” a voice said from the corner of the room.


I know that the voice can’t possibly belong to my father, but it sounds too much like him. I can’t help but to turn toward the sound. My father’s sitting in the corner at his old desk. His back is facing the desk and he’s slouched on the plush desk chair, like nothing had changes. He used to tell me that the chair inspired him, that without it, he would never be able to write. My mom always hated the chair, but once Dad died she couldn’t stand to throw it away. 


I can’t believe my eyes! My father has been dead for five years. How can he possibly be sitting in the same room as me? 


Dad seemed indifferent to the state of shock that I was currently in. He casually picked at the seam of the chair and glanced up, “I want you to starting writing again. I don’t like seeing you like this. You can’t stop living your life just because mine’s over.” 


Everything’s moving so quickly! I still can’t believe that my dead father’s sitting in front of me, and now he’s giving me advice. I open my mouth and start speaking at a lightening pace, “Daddy! I can't believe you're here! Yes, Of course! I’ll do... I’ll do anything you want me to. Just don’t leave, okay? You can’t go anywhere. You have to stay here, with us. Mom and I, we miss you so much. Nothing’s been the same since...”


I hear a noise behind me and turn around to see my mom closing the door behind her. She’s staring at me with concerned eyes. “Lucy,” she says, “who are you talking to?” 


“Mom! Don’t you see him? It’s Dad! He’s right over...” I turn around only to find an empty desk and chair. I jump up and begin to run frantically around the house. I bust through every door, look under every chair, bed, rug, but find no sign of Dad. I return the the living room just in time to find my mom on the phone.


“Good Samaritan Clinic. This is Carla Kate Holloway, how may I help you?” shouts the phone.

“Hi. Yes, I’d like to schedule a mental evaluation. It’s urgent.” replies my mother. 


I don’t need to stay any longer to know where this is headed. I run to my room, open up a notebook and feverishly begin to write.