Chapter 6
His broad hands hung by his sides.
His knuckles slowly curled, whitening at the joints.
After a while, he walked out of the bathroom and called out, "Emily?"
I answered automatically.
When I didn't hear anything, that's when I realized I couldn't say a word anymore.
Dad, I was dead.
The daughter who used to answer you right away whenever you called, she had gone for good now.
My dad suddenly got all worked up.
He grabbed my pillow and blanket off the bed, then snatched up my backpack from the nightstand, turned around, and headed out.
Grandma saw him in the living room and snapped, "Why are you bringing out all that unlucky junk?"
My dad headed upstairs. "Emily's going to stay in the room next to mine from now on.
"She's always out all night; if nobody keeps her in check, who knows what trouble she'll cause?"
Grandma hurried after him, panicking. "You're being reckless.
"Do you think everything's gone so smoothly for our family all these years for no reason?
"That fortune teller said Ry could ward off her bad luck.
"If her stuff never enters the main house, it won't mess up our family."
My dad suddenly stopped in his tracks on the stairs.
He looked down at Grandma from a few steps up, his eyes sharp and intimidating.
His eyes were burning with anger, and Grandma looked a bit scared and shut up.
After a moment, my dad's face finally relaxed. "Mom, that's all superstitious nonsense."
With that, he turned and headed upstairs.
Grandma was stomping her feet and yelling after him.
But my dad didn't pay her any mind. He carried my stuff into the guest room.
He straightened out the bed, making sure my blanket was right.
Then he took my handful of clothes and personal stuff, putting each item away with care.
He organized my desk, setting my backpack and books where they belonged.
Once he was done, he at last sank onto the couch.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled to our chat window.
The last message was from Christmas Eve, sent by him: [Why don't you move into prison and spend the rest of your life with that kidnapper?]
There was no reply from me after that.
Looking back at our chat history, I was always the one to start things.
If he ever replied, I'd text him right back.
This was the first time he texted me, and I didn't reply.
My dad stared at the screen for ages, then finally started typing something.
He typed, deleted, typed again, and deleted once more.
Finally, he sent a message: [How long are you planning to keep this up?]
It was like dropping a stone into the ocean, no reply, no sign of life.
If only the WhatsApp avatar could change color depending on whether someone was online or not.
If he could, he'd see my profile picture was already gray.
My dad dropped his phone onto the coffee table, then after a moment, picked it up again.
He dropped it again, then picked it up once more.
He sent another message: [Have you been crashing at a friend's place this whole time?
[It's Christmas, don't go bothering other people. Get your butt home, now.]
When I saw that long message, my nose prickled, and I was caught off guard.
All these years, I could count the texts from my dad on one hand.
The longest message he ever sent me was never a full sentence.
Most of the time, it was a single word, like [Yeah] or [Mm-hmm]
If I were still alive, I'd be itching to reply to him right away.
But back when I was alive, I'd stormed out in a huff more times than I could count.
But I'd never gotten a text like this from him, not once.
The longest I ever stayed away was nearly ten days.
When I finally came back, I was soaked to the bone from the pouring rain.
Water dripped from my hair as I walked in, and there they were, my family, hanging out on the couch, watching TV together.
There was a fruit platter on the coffee table, and the whole living room felt warm and cozy.
When I walked in, it took them a while to notice me.
Grandma snorted dismissively. "Oh, back again, huh?"
My dad gave me a cold look. "If you run off again, stay gone."
So, Dad, now that I had gone, you finally started texting me as if you cared?
Why was it only after I was dead that you suddenly acted as if you cared?
My dad stared at his phone.
His expression shifted from irritation to disbelief.
I wasn't sure if I was imagining it, but it looked like there was a hint of unease in his eyes.
I'd never stayed away from home this long before.
I'd also never ignored his messages like this before.
My dad got up and started pacing around the room.
He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, pulled back the curtain, and looked outside.
Then he turned around and headed for the door.
His steps got faster and more frantic, his face growing darker and more anxious with every move.
When he reached the door, he suddenly turned back and slumped onto the couch again.
He started scrolling through his contacts.
He went through every single name, from top to bottom.
Maybe he was hoping someone else might know where I was.
But in his contacts, there wasn't a single friend or colleague of his that I knew.
His relatives were my relatives too, but none of them would ever take me in.
Because he and Grandma couldn't stand me, none of our relatives ever cared about me.
As for my classmates, friends, or teachers, my dad didn't have a single one of their numbers saved.
The door was locked.
Grandma's knocking and shouting echoed from the hallway.
My dad didn't react at all, as if he couldn't hear her.
He kept scrolling through his contacts, over and over again.
Then, out of nowhere, a landline number popped up on his screen.
My dad's finger slipped, and he answered the call without meaning to.
A serious-sounding man's voice came through. "Hello, are you Emily Turner's father?"
My dad shot up from the couch. "Yes, I am. Where is she?"
The voice on the other end was grave. "This is the Rivertown Police Department.
"About two weeks ago, your daughter passed away after being assaulted by a mugger, which triggered a fatal heart attack.
"We contacted you back then to let you know what happened."