All That and Then Some

MAEVE

I'M STANDING IN THE front hall, between the mystery flowers and the front door, holding a tuning fork and asking it quiet, existential questions under my breath. To reveal its answer, I hit it with a loonie.

Are Mum and Dad going to be okay? I ask the tuning fork.

Tiiiiiing, it replies.

The tuning fork was Jeffry's present to me. I'd gone straight into the shedroom after he left. When I walked in, I was confronted with the empty desk where Jeffry had kept his pencils, the space heater with its cord curled up neatly, his camp bed rolled away and placed in the corner under his favourite Duran Duran poster. The realization that my best friend was gone again sent a shudder of loneliness through me.

There was, as promised, a small wrapped present winking at me from on top of the rolled-up cot. I smiled sadly and went over to it, unsure if I should open it right away or wait until Christmas. In the end, I opted for instant gratification and pulled at the long leg of curling ribbon that he'd tied around the rectangular-shaped box.

I peeled the paper away and lifted the box top, thinking at first it might be a wristwatch based on the size and shape of the box. Inside, I found a gleaming piece of U-shaped metal with a handle. I lifted it out of the box, unsure what to make of it until I discovered the handwritten note tucked underneath it.

Maeve,
In case you need help finding your pitch.
Jeffry

Since then, I've been carrying the tuning fork around, consulting it obsessively like some kind of new-age Magic 8 Ball.

Should I have finished my degree before blowing my whole life up on a whim?

Tiing.

Is my connection with Jules deeper than friendship?

Tiing.

I am trying to decipher the cosmic messages in the tuning fork's reverberations when my Dad comes rumbling down the stairs and into the hallway on a mission.

He stops short, surprised to see me standing there. His glance slides between me, my tuning fork and the flowers.

"It's 3:30," he says in an ominous voice.

"Yep," I say.

We both know why he's standing here in the front hall at 3:30 on Friday afternoon.

"She's meeting Joss Carvil," he says, nostrils flaring.

"No, Dad, I really don't think she is."

But he's already shoving his arms into his winter coat and determinedly searching for matching gloves in the glove basket, a jumble of famously mismatched wool.

"I guess I'm going to find out." He swears under his breath when he loses the car keys momentarily, then finds them again in his pocket.

"Dad, you seem... like you need to chill. Whatever you're planning to do, don't."

"I'm just going to see for myself." He's already stomping through the snow toward the car, which will need to be cleared off and warmed up. I've got a minute to think this through. I can hear him outside, muttering and chipping ice off the windscreen.

Showing up at Union Bar with my ragey Dad wasn't my plan, but I can see he's not going to be dissuaded. Obviously, he needs to prove himself wrong. I just wish he'd have a tiny bit more faith in Mum.

"Okay, then I'm coming with you," I shout out the front door, setting the tuning fork down and grabbing a coat.

I guess we're doing this together.