This past summer, Dad wasn't around a whole lot.
Now, I know what you're thinking. What kind of father leaves his daughter behind right after her mother dies? Well, it's not like that. See, Dad's a runner. He likes to be away. He might even like the act of leaving more than he likes the idea of being gone. The thing he doesn't tell anyone—not even himself—is that he prefers the chaos. He likes it when things aren't working the right way, because then he can fix them. Then he can feel like he's doing something.
And Dad runs towards that feeling, wherever it may be. Toronto, Belgium, Costa Rica—anywhere. He runs so that he can fight and fix and figure out what his next step is, but most importantly, he runs to see who will follow him into that life of calamity.
My mom used to follow him.
But my mom was dead. The only person who might've known that fact better than me, was my father.
And so he ran and at first I didn't understand. Dad has always been one to run towards the messes, and no place in the world seemed messier than the inner workings of my brain. I couldn't understand why Dad had started running away instead of just running.
But then I realized that I was doing it, too.
Thats what the Gathering was, after all. A way to get away. A way to keep myself distracted. Even though my grandfather was still down the hall and I was still well within the safety of the Blackthorne Military Academy for Boys, I was running. Leaving. I guess you could call it escaping.
And even though he was out scavenging the globe, Dad was still with me, because he called me. Every night.
I mean, sure. A part of me was always pretty terrified that there'd be a night when he didn't call. Missing calls make for missing agents, after all. But Dad hadn't missed one all summer and I think that's because he knew. I think he knew how scared I was for him. How I would spend hours at a time wondering if he was going to call that night and what I would do if he didn't. How one missing phone call would probably turn into an endless night of panic, pressing the replay button on the most hearbreaking moments of my life. He had known that I would lie in bed and stare helplessly at the ceiling until Grandpa Joe or Mr. Hughes or Will and Bill would come knocking on my door, telling me I had a call. Dad had known my fear. Maybe he had felt it. And so he called. Every night.
So, yeah. Dad had been around. Even if he hadn't exactly been around.
The start of school had marked the end of our nightly calls and now the only time I saw him was either in class or, as was the case in this particlar moment, on Friday nights. It had been almost a week since we'd last seen each other. It was the longest stretch of time I'd gone without my father's voice in months. I guess you could say that I had missed him.
Now, you would think that as an international superspy with a daughter known for her listening capabilities, Zachary Goode would know how to close a door every know and again, but he doesn't. For as long as I can remember, he's left it open just a crack. I have this theory that he secretly hates soundproofed rooms. Seriously. I think they freak him out. I think that the soundproofing is too effective for his liking and he hates not knowing what sounds are on the other side of the door, so he just keeps it open so that the outside sounds can come in. The thing he forgets is that he's also letting the inside sounds out.
He was playing the tape again. I wondered how many times this made. Number one thousand? Five thousand? Ten? I didn't know, but I did know that it wasn't good for him. I knew that, at some point, the tape had to run out.
Except there was something different about it this time. I was pretty sure that Aunt Bex wasn't saying the same things that she had the first time. I wondered if maybe there was more to the tape that Dad hadn't let me listened to. Some super classified bit of information that was exchanged after the ugly sobbing of my aunt was over. I listened to Aunt Bex's tear-stained voice as she spoke, waiting for my talented ears to pick up on something that I had missed the first time around.
And then Dad responded to her, sending me into a haze of confusion.
Had he seen me again? But no, the door was nearly shut, there was no way he'd seen me. Was it a phone call? Dad never spoke with anyone on speaker. Maybe it had finally happened. Maybe Dad had finally cracked and now he was talking back to the tape, expecting it to respond.
But then the tape did respond and I realized that it wasn't a tape at all. Aunt Bex was actually there, at Blackthorne, talking to my father.
<t>Begin Transmission</t>
Transcription of Intercepted Intelligence
Transcribed by Operative Morgan Goode
AUNT BEX: Stop kidding yourself. We both know that something isn't right.
DAD: Don't do this again. Not tonight. I can't do this tonight.
AUNT BEX: I should have seen her, Zach. She flew right by me and I should have seen her.
DAD: Stop it, Bex.
AUNT BEX: It's—it's driving me crazy, Zach.
//: The Operative has never heard of anythign driving Aunt Bex crazy. The Operative has also never heard Aunt Bex stumble over her own words. :\\
AUNT BEX: Why else would she fly by like that? She felw right by the tower and she wasn't there. It's like she wanted me to see that no one was in there.
DAD: You found the body.
AUNT BEX: We found a body.
//: The Operative's heart hums to life as if it's finally got reason to start beating again, but she tries to control it. She's spent an entire summer trying to kill the very hope that was flowing through her now. She can't let a few words send her crashing back down. :\\
DAD: Dental records don't lie.
AUNT BEX: Sometimes they do. You know as well as I do that any record can be faked.
DAD: She's dead. That's it.
AUNT BEX: Would you just admit that we're missing something? Doesn't it feel like we're missing something, Zach?
DAD: Maggie's going to be here any minute.
AUNT BEX: Answer the question.
//: There is a long and painful silence that follows, during which, the Operative realizes that she's waiting for an answer just as much as Aunt Bex is. :\\
DAD: She wanted us to stop looking, Bex. She specifically told us to stop looking
AUNT BEX: What if that means there's something to look for?
//: The Operative knows that if her father believes it, then maybe she could let herself believe it, too. But he doesn't, or maybe he doesn't want to. Either way, he voices what everyone else is already thinking. :\\
DAD: What if it means there isn't?
AUNT BEX: You're unbelieveable, you know that?
DAD: Bex—
AUNT BEX: She wasn't flying the plane, Zach!
DAD: She had to be!
AUNT BEX: Oh. I'm sorry. Were you there? Did you happen to see it? Did you watch your best friend crash her own plane into a million bloody pieces?
//: The Operative winces at the thought of actually having to be there and comes to the conclusion that Aunt Bex is even tougher than she looks. Dad must know this already, because he responds through gritted teeth. :\\
DAD: No.
AUNT BEX: No. You weren't. If I recall correctly, I'm the one who saw it so how could you possibly know—?
//: Someone slams a drink onto the table with a crack. The Operative can't shake the feeling that even if the door had been closed, she would have heard the next part of the conversation. :\\
DAD: Beacuse she's dead, Bex! She's dead, okay? Because there's no way in hell...
//: Dad stops himself. Aunt Bex seems to wait for him to finish, but he doesn't. Not without being prompted. :\\
AUNT BEX: No way in hell... what, Zach?
DAD: She wouldn't leave us. Not again.
//: Again? :\\
AUNT BEX: She would if she had to.
DAD: She knows better than to leave without backup.
AUNT BEX: Who's to say she doesn't have backup?
DAD: No—just. God, Bex. No. Because forget about me or Rachel or you. The only way she'd leave the kids is if she were dead. God, this is exactly what you did last time.
//: Last time? :\\
AUNT BEX: Last time—
//: Another crack as glass hits wood. :\\
AUNT BEX: —I was right.
//: The Operative can practically feel the tension oozing through the slim crack at the base of the door and It occurs to her that in a fight between Rebecca Baxter and Zacahry Goode, nobody wins. :\\
DAD: Maggie's going to be here soon. Put on a smile.
AUNT BEX: That's it? You're just not going to talk about it anymore? You're just going to run away from all your problems like you did when we were sixteen?
DAD: I'm not running, Rebecca. My daughter is going to be here soon and she doesn't need to get her hopes up.
//: Aunt Bex scoffs. :\\
DAD: What? What could you possibly have left to say?
AUNT BEX: You're right. It's nothing.
//: It doesn't soudn like nothing. :\\
AUNT BEX: Just never thought I'd see the day that Zachary Goode stopped chasing after Cameron Morgan, is all.
<t>End Transmission</t>
The seconds felt bloated and like they didn't quite fit together the way that they were supposed to. My head spun and I clutched at my mother's necklace, my only anchor in this whirpool that threatened to wash me away completely. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't swim. Drowing in my aunt's words and my own thoughts.
Mom was dead.
She was dead.
Mom. was. dead.
I tried listening for more, desperate to hear the rest of Bex's theory. Desperate to hear Dad tell her she was right.
Every record can be faked.
Mom was dead.
They weren't saying anything else. Maybe they would've sat in silence forever if I hadn't worked up the courage to knock on the door. I think I remember Dad telling me to come in and I vaugely recall the sqeak of the door as I pushed it open, but I can't remember.
Mom was dead. Right?
Dad and Aunt Bex were good. Really good. If I hadn't already known this before, I would have known it then. There wasn't a sign of their gloomy conversation as I walked in. Just two, half empty bottles of beer leaving temporary wet rings on the trunk in front of them and a pair of smiles leaving permanent lines on their faces. The two of them lounged across that couch like they were the most innocent people in the world. "Hey, there she is." Dad greeted me like I was the best part of his day or something, which, let me tell you, I was not. "We were just wondering when you were going to get here."
I knew that it wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Suddenly, I didn't feel so bad about keeping D.C. a secret. If he was going to start hiding things, then maybe I would too. At least my secrets were justified.
I almost confronted him about it. I almost asked him what the status on Mom really was and I almost told him that I had been listening. But I didn't. Because even though I knew the smile on his face was fake, I had somehow convinced myself that it wasn't. That Dad was actually happy and that I didn't have the heart to make him talk about Mom again. Somehow, I convinced myself of all of that, and I think maybe he had convinced himself, too.
"You don't mind if I stay for dinner, do you?" asked Aunt Bex. "Your dad makes the best grilled cheese. When I heard he was making it, I couldn't resist staying."
And, well, that part was the truth. Dad did make the best grilled cheese. He used two slices of cheese instead of one and had been graced with the invaluable skill of knowing the exact moment to flip the sandwich over. It was kind of like eating heaven, if we're being honest. "Sure thing, Aunt Bex."
Dad and Aunt Bex have been really good friends for as long as I can remember. When Aunt Bex came to the safe house, she would always sit next to Dad. Whenever the two of them were within a 300-mile radius of each other, they met up at a gym somewhere and hit each other for a while. Even over the summer, when Dad had been out exploring the world—running in whichever direction he could—Aunt Bex had been with him, keeping an eye on him. She’d even steal the phone sometimes and chat with me about how cold Greenland was or how stingy the market folk had been that day.
So yeah, Dad and Aunt Bex had always been close, but I wondered if they’d ever been as close as they were in that moment. Like, physically close. Like, grossly, physically close. Their knees were touching and Dad’s arm was stretched across the top of the couch just behind her. When they moved, they seemed to have that same supernatural sense that Will and Bill had, not one moving without the other. I saw the way Aunt Bex punched his shoulder and how Dad leaned in closer when she was talking and I wondered just how close they had gotten that past summer.
But then Dad got up, twisting the tie from a bag of bread and I made a silent pact to never, ever, ever, ever, never think about how close Dad and Aunt Bex were again.
“So,” Dad said in that voice he did when he was trying to imitate the dad from Leave it to Beaver. “What did you learn at school today, sweetie?”