In My Dreams I Hold a Knife by Ashley Winstead
Chapter 44
The summer before high school
I woke to soft Virginia sunshine and the sensation—the finely honed human instinct—that someone was sneaking up on me. I had only enough time to register my brightly lit bedroom ceiling before they pounced.
“Happy birthday,” my father yelled, landing next to me in bed.
“Ah,” I shrieked, rolling away from him.
He laughed. “It’s just us.”
I lifted my head, heart hammering. Sure enough, there was my dad, stretched out on my bed, grinning, and my mom, standing in the doorway with a cake, candle flames flickering light over her face.
“It was your dad’s idea,” she said, scooting into the room. “Blame him.”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said happily. “Cake for breakfast. It’s not every day my princess turns fourteen.”
His princess.The words were hollow. I wanted to be his princess too badly for it to be true. That was the way life worked, a lesson he’d taught me himself: Wanting is dangerous. The less you want, the safer you’ll be. He was better nowadays, on a serious upswing, but the lesson had stuck.
My mother placed the cake in front of me, and I sat up straighter on the bed. “Make a wish,” she said.
I looked at her, then my dad, closed my eyes, and blew. All the flames disappeared into tiny swirls of gray smoke, the smell faintly sweet, like burned sugar.
My dad bounced on the bed. “What’d you wish for?”
“You can’t ask her that,” my mom admonished, setting the cake on my desk. “If she tells you, it won’t come true.” She turned to me. “I’ll cut that up in a second. First…”
Shockingly, my mom jumped on the other side of me, rocking the entire bed.
“Ah!” I shrieked again. My mother never played. What kind of alternate universe had I woken up in?
“Torture her until she tells us,” my dad suggested and descended on me, tickling my sides. My mom joined him, and then I was gasping, rolling side to side, trying to protect myself but finding no recourse.
“Okay, okay!” I shouted.
They paused midtickle, my dad’s hands curled like cartoon claws.
“I didn’t wish for anything,” I said.
My mom’s face fell. “Nothing at all?”
My dad scooped me against his side. “I think that’s great.”
Alone on her side of the bed, my mom looked at him and raised her brows.
“You, princess, won’t need to wish. You’re going to earn.” My dad looked down at me, beaming. “You’re off to high school in a month. And you’re going to work until you’re the best student in the whole damn school. After that, the good things will come to you. ’Cause you’ll deserve it.”
“Stop it,” my mom said softly. She was looking at him with the strangest expression.
“What? I’m telling her to work hard to achieve things. That’s a good lesson. I’m not saying things will get dropped in her lap. I’m saying if she’s talented enough, and works hard enough, the world will deliver. It’d better, huh? I’m counting on it.” My dad squeezed me tighter, and I let him, let myself think about how nice it felt, even though there was no guarantee he’d do it tomorrow. “Come on, you’re going to make me proud.”
I wanted to. A fierceness came over me. I would. If hard work and being good were what it took, I could do those things. If that could keep us in the sunlight, keep the darkness at bay, I would work at it every day.
“I promise,” I said.
My dad laughed and kissed my forehead. And before my mom could say anything, he’d pulled her in, making us a three-person sandwich, me in the middle, my parents hugging me on either side.
Warmth flooded me.
“Just try your best,” my mom whispered into my hair. “That’s all you can do.”
My dad pulled us closer. “My little family,” he said. “You two are the best things in my life.”
I caught my mother’s eyes. She was smiling, telling me it was okay. “It was your dad’s idea to surprise you,” she said, tucking a strand of my hair.
“This is just the beginning,” he said. “We’ve got a whole day of fun. I remembered a certain someone loves the zoo.”
My mom rolled her eyes. “When she was eight. She’s fourteen now.”
He only laughed.
This version of my dad was surreal. I didn’t know how to make sense of it, how to square it with the other version. Then a thought struck me: my dad was the angry man in the dark place, true. But maybe he was also this man—this bright and funny father. I’d always thought it was one or the other, fixed and definite. But maybe it was more complicated. Maybe he was both.
He kissed my forehead. “You’re going to do great things, I’m telling you.”
I buried my face in his shirt, and he put his arms loose around me, like he was making a basket with me in the center. If this upswing ever ended, and the darkness swallowed him again, maybe all hope wasn’t lost. Maybe I could find a way to keep this version of my father with me. Then, no matter how bad it got, I could remember how he was now. Maybe that way he could keep being this person, even when he wasn’t. Maybe then he could stay mine, stay warm and solid in my arms. Even one day, when he wasn’t.