Risking Peace

Adara I stared out the window, tracing the patterns of trees passing by with my heavy eyes. It felt like we had been driving forever, chasing an elusive horizon; a feeling I should be used to by now. This wasn’t the first time we had uprooted our lives and moved to a new place. As the daughter of a private mercenary, I had become all too familiar with the momentary nature of our existence; a lifetime of fleeting cities, transient homes, and endless secrecy. Next stop: Beck Harbour, Ontario - small town would be an understatement. I’d miss London, we weren’t there for long but I always enjoyed being in the UK. As usual though, I had gotten the signal. I couldn’t count the number of times I had packed my worn and torn bag, bidding farewell to the friends I never had a chance to make. I rested my forehead against the cool glass, feeling a sense of longing, but that wallowing was short-lived thanks to dear old dad. “Whoops, sorry Adds. That pothole came outta nowhere,” dad said, laying the sarcasm on extra thick. He never called me Adara, no one did. I gave him a small chuckle and rolled my eyes while I rubbed my forehead. My father, Jay, sat behind the wheel of our truck, his face etched with weariness. We’d been on the road for a few hours, but traveling for almost two days. Dad was always adamant about never taking a direct route but this seemed to be overkill in my opinion. His light brown hair had become disheveled and his salt and pepper stubble was becoming more noticeable. I didn't look much like my Dad; he always said I got my blue eyes and stubbornness from him; otherwise, I was a copy of my mother, Bia. My mother passed shortly after I was born, but her photos have always shown me her warmth and light. She was remarkably beautiful, almost ethereal. Her skin was porcelain-like in its warm olive tone and her dark chocolate hair hung in glossy waves. But Dad said he fell in love with her eyes; those big brown eyes that could see right through his bull****, he always joked. I didn’t have any memories of my Mom other than the fairy tales Dad told me growing up. He always described her as a strong warrior who could defeat an entire army of elves or conquer fire-breathing dragons all on her own. My Mom was fearless and brave, everything I wanted to be. Dad didn’t talk much about her, outside of his imaginative bedtime stories; despite my young age, I quickly realized how difficult it was for him to remember her. Dad was a reserved guy, a little rough around the edges maybe, but he was my best friend. He did his best raising me alone, albeit his methods were unconventional; I shuddered at the memory of duct tape being matted in my hair as dad attempted to master the ponytail. There was more laughter back then. Somewhere along the way, something changed; Dad’s assignments became more frequent and far away, secrecy became second nature, and the laughter quieted. But I always appreciated his very obvious efforts to get a smile out of me. “Well kiddo, here we are,” Dad announced, his voice a mixture of exhaustion and hope. The sound of tires crunching on gravel filled the air as the old pickup truck came to a halt. I peered out the window and took in our new beginning. It was a desolate place, surrounded by towering trees that seemed to guard the secrets of the wilderness. At the edge of a clearing stood our remote house, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world. As new as this place was, it somehow felt familiar. I hopped out of the truck and stretched my legs; the air was brisk and refreshing after a stuffy drive. No time to enjoy the moment though, as Dad heaved my bag at me with just enough warning to catch it before completely toppling me over. I let out a breathy grunt as I caught my duffle in a bear hug. Dad smirked, “It’s my job to keep you on your toes.” “One of these days, old man…” I playfully challenged him. After regaining my balance, I followed Dad along the concrete path leading to the front porch. I could see his eyes scanning his surroundings, as he always did. As he trained me to do. We walked through the front door and were hit with a wave of dusty air; clearly this home had been forgotten for quite some time. I dropped my bag to the side and took a few steps in to get a better look. There was covered furniture in each room, which was nice. Dad always made sure every new place was furnished, since we were light travelers - hence my one large duffle. “Feels like home already, doesn’t it?” he remarked, trying to infuse a note of optimism into his words. I nodded. We’d been through so many towns, so many homes, but this time seemed different, he seemed different. The secrets we carried were heavy, burdening our every move, but somehow, this place felt like a chance at something resembling normalcy. “It's great Dad. So, how did you find this place anyway?” I asked him, as we had spent most of our lives bouncing from city to city. Small towns were a bit out of the ordinary for us. Dad walked into the living room and placed his bag down, while he responded “Believe it or not, I’ve made a few friends along the way.” I chuckled at his teasing. “Okay, well you haven’t told me anything about this new move yet. When do you leave?” I prodded. Dad’s work typically involved some dodgy business person or shady oligarch and what he called “private security” services, AKA he was involved in some dangerous things for even more dangerous people that my young ears didn’t need to hear about. As I got older, he’d get me set up with anything I might need after each move before taking off on his assignments. It could get a bit lonely but he always made the best of what time we had together. Plus, we were always in the city so it wasn’t hard to keep myself busy while he was gone. Which made me question his choice of destination this time around. Sure, it was never an ideal situation, but Dad was a soldier; it was all he knew. So, when the challenge of single-fatherhood presented itself, he took care of his family in the best way he could. But Dad always made sure I knew how to protect myself, in case one of these clients came back to haunt him one day. “I’m not leaving, actually,” Dad replied. “You’re not leaving? But what about work?” I asked, shocked by what I had just heard. Dad walked into the living room and pulled at the sheet covering the couch. He looked my way and smiled, “I figured it’s about time I retire. You’re 18 now, it’s time we settled down. Maybe get you ready for a better future than living out of a duffle bag. So, I sure hope you like this place because you’re stuck here with your old man,” he quipped. I smiled at him, deciding I could get used to a small town after all, “I love it, Dad.” We spent the next few hours unpacking and talking about what we wanted to fix up around the place chatting and cleaning the house up. We had stopped along the way to pick up a few household items, like sheets and toiletries, so we made the beds and got our basics in place. “Okay, that’s enough for tonight. Why don't you go get some rest and we'll grab breakfast in town tomorrow before we tackle the rest of this place,” Dad said, while taking a seat on the large couch. “Sounds good, I’m wiped,” I replied, while trying to fight back a yawn. I walked over to him and hugged him from behind. “Love you kiddo, get some rest,” Dad said quietly, while patting my arm. “Love ya too, old man.” I headed down the narrow hall and walked into the room on the right. It was bare except for a bed, a dresser, and a small desk in the corner. I walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, falling onto my back. I had no energy to strip off my clothes and change into my pajamas. I let my head fall to the side and found myself stealing another glance at the surrounding landscape out the bedroom window. As I drifted off to sleep, I felt a compelling pull towards the dark forest; the tall and imposing trees bearing silent witness to the mysteries that lay hidden within.