Chapter fifty-seven

Ever heard of the saying, The calm before the crazy? That was the day my dad returned from his six-month business trip with barely a word to either his wife or son. The day he rocked back up on our doorsteps with four strangers who would later become more than just acquaintances, and the day my mum would never be my mum again.

I remember how cosy I felt, surrounded by my family and new friends, red fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, sighing at the warmth of the burning kindling against my cheeks, staring at the white what-used-to-be-marshmallow bobbing on the surface of a sea of delicious brown.

We had all been occupying the living room; the rest of the house was rather cold, and despite having the money for it, my mother always insisted on saving that money for something other than heat. The adults spoke continuously about things that didn't matter to me, with the only piece of information interesting to me was the fact that my father and the strange man used to be colleagues.

As they furiously chatted, my acquaintanceship with the two children was nothing more than polite glances and a couple words murmured out of necessity. It may have been around nine o'clock when their father must've noticed that they weren't speaking and slapped his son on the back, encouraging him to speak to me.

This boy looked young at first, but up close I noticed the eyebags pooling beneath his brown eyes, the pointiness of his chin, and then the way he spoke.

"Hey," he said with a voice that others might call raspy, but I called it hoarse.

"Hi."

We stared for a few seconds, and then he turned back to glance at his parents. When he did turn back to me, he was leaning forwards to whisper something in my ear. Weird first impression, but I leant towards him to listen.

"Sorry for barging in like this," he apologised, sounding genuinely exhausted. "My parents are party animals, unlike me."

I smiled at him. "It's okay." I bit my lip. "I just didn't expect it."

"Well, I don't know if you heard my old man earlier, but…" he puffed out his chest and lowered his voice to a croaky groan. "Always expect the unexpected." Imitating his father.

We both burst out laughing, and the dimples that appeared below his cheeks made him look his age again.

"What's your name?" I realised that their parents had never even introduced their kids to us, and I felt slightly sorry for them. It would've been polite to ask.

He opened his mouth to respond, but then my parents and his parents were rising from their seats, my father leading the way to his study to show them something. As they filed out the door, still engaged in conversation, the boy's father swivelled to face my mum and muttered something unintelligible to me. Then my mother nodded furiously, saying, "Of course, of course," before averting her journey to the study and heading towards the kitchen.

I rose. "Mum, do you need anything?"

She looked slightly flustered, but stopped to give me a weary smile. "Nothing, Harry. Mr K just wants some tea." She thought for a moment. "Do you kids want anything?" she asked kindly.

For a moment, everyone felt too polite to say anything; my mum had that effect on people, but clearly not all people.

Then she encouraged us: "Oh, come on."

I grinned, turned to the boy. "What do you want, uh…?"

"Jim," he finished, smiling. "I know it sounds crazy in this weather, but a cold drink would be nice."

My mum nodded. "Sure!" To me: "Honey?"

"Can I have some tea, too?"

"Yes, yes."

Jim's little sister had hopped off of the couch and wrapped herself around my mum's leg. She stared up at my mum with big, emotion-filled eyes. "I'm hungry…"

We all laughed, and my mum happily took the girl's hand and led her into the kitchen. A few minutes later, the young girl rushed back out with a plate stacked with fresh cookies my mum had baked and not bothered to inform me about. She hopped onto the couch, took a bite out of one cookie, but I never saw her take another bite again; perhaps she didn't like it? But my mother's cookies were the best.

"What's that?" Jim asked me, pointing at an antique piece of machinery tucked into the corner of the living room.

"It's a jukebox."

"Woah, is it yours?"

"Well… my dad got it for me when I was younger, so, yes. But everyone uses it. And by everyone, I mean my mum and I," I told him.

I remember taking him over to see it, and letting him play around with it, blasting old tunes and bobbing our heads to the music.

By the time my father returned into the living room with Jim's parents, my mum had had the tea prepared, carefully passing my mug to me with a napkin wrapped around it, and placing the other cup (without a napkin) down where Mr K was sitting. He looked down, stared at it for two seconds, then glanced back up at my mum and said, "Actually, I changed my mind. Sorry for that, but after seeing your husband's plans for his company, I'd rather pop a bottle of champagne. Ha-ha."

My mum smiled at him reassuringly, but I could tell she was frustrated. She picked up the drink and returned to the kitchen, where she stayed for the next ten minutes while I sipped my tea, giving Mr K a few death glares all the while speaking with his son.

When the family finally decided to leave, I was beyond relieved. At that point, my mother appeared from the kitchen to bid them farewell, and it was only after they were gone that I noticed something was very wrong.