THE THINGS THAT CHANGE
1334 Words
By the following Monday, I had almost convinced myself that nothing was happening. Dad hadn't mentioned New Zealand again. Mum hadn't asked for an answer. Claire had gone back to her usual routine, and I had gone back to mine. It was easier that way. If nobody talked about it, I could pretend the decision wasn't sitting somewhere in the middle of my life, waiting for me to pick it up.
At school, I kept myself busy. I had assignments, classes, lunch, and the usual amount of nonsense that came with spending seven hours around people my age. I even forgot about the whole thing for a few hours. Then my English teacher handed back our essays. I looked at the mark at the top of mine and smiled.
“You did well,” she said as she passed my desk.
“Thanks.”
She glanced at the page again.
“You should consider entering the writing competition next term.”
I looked up.
“What writing competition?”
She smiled. “See? You're already interested.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.”
I laughed.
She moved on to the next desk, and I looked back down at my essay.
Writing had always been something I did without thinking much about it. Journaling, little scraps of ideas, photographs with notes written underneath them, things I wanted to remember for no particular reason.
Maybe remembering things was just another way of being afraid of losing them.
I closed the folder.
I didn't want to think about that.
At lunch, I sat with my friends and listened to an argument about whether pineapple belonged on pizza. I stayed out of it. And that was apparently suspicious.
“You're quiet,” Quinn said.
“I've been quiet before.”
“Not like this.”
I looked at her.
“Like what?”
“Like you're thinking.” added Sasha
“I think all the time.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She laughed, and the conversation moved on.
I smiled to myself.
That was what I liked about them. They noticed things, but they didn't always demand explanations.
Sometimes they just let you be.
When the final bell rang, I packed my bag and headed outside. I was halfway down the steps when I saw someone standing near the gate. I stopped. Not because I knew him. Because I didn't. He was leaning against the fence, talking to someone from my year. He wasn't doing anything particularly interesting. He wasn't trying to get anyone's attention. He just looked comfortable. I watched for a second before realizing I was staring. Okay. Weird. I looked away and kept walking. I didn't think about him again. At least, not until the next morning.
Dad wasn't home when I got back that afternoon. His car wasn't in the driveway, and the house was unusually quiet. I dropped my bag upstairs and went back down to get something to eat. Claire was sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open.
She looked up.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Your dad called.”
I opened the fridge.
“Is everything okay?”
“He's fine. He had to stay late.”
I grabbed a drink.
Then I noticed the expression on her face.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you're obviously about to say something.”
She smiled.
“Your father mentioned that you've been thinking about New Zealand.”
I closed the fridge.
“Of course he did.”
“He's worried.”
I leaned against the counter.
“He shouldn't be.”
“He's your dad. He's going to worry.”
I didn't answer.
Claire closed her laptop.
“I won't tell you what to choose.”
“Good.”
She smiled.
“But I will say one thing.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You shouldn't stay because you think leaving would hurt him.”
I looked at her.
That wasn't what I'd expected.
She continued before I could respond.
“And you shouldn't leave because you think staying would hurt your mum.”
I stared at her.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
She shrugged.
“Pick the place where you think you'll be happiest.”
I laughed quietly.
“That's very easy for you to say.”
“No, it isn't.”
Something about the way she said it made me stop.
She looked down at her hands.
“I've made choices because they were easier before.”
I didn't ask what she meant.
She didn't explain.
After a moment, she looked back at me.
“Sometimes easier isn't the same as better.”
I nodded slowly.
Then I grabbed my drink.
“Did Dad really say all that?”
Claire laughed.
“No.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because you're standing in my kitchen looking like you're about to run away.”
“I was getting a drink.”
“Right.”
I walked upstairs. Halfway down the hallway, I stopped.
Sometimes easier isn't the same as better.
I didn't like how much I was going to think about that.
That night, Dad came home later than usual. I heard the front door downstairs, then his footsteps moving through the hallway. A few minutes later, he knocked on my bedroom door.
“Come in.”
He opened it.
“You awake?”
“No. I'm sleepwalking.”
He smiled.
“Very convincing.”
He sat on the edge of my bed.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
Then he held something out to me.
An envelope.
I looked at it.
“What is that?”
“Something your mum sent.”
I took it.
There was no name written on the front.
Just my name.
I looked at Dad.
“When did she send this?”
“A few days ago.”
“And you just kept it?”
“She asked me to give it to you when you were ready.”
I turned the envelope over in my hands.
“What's inside?”
“I don't know.”
“You didn't open it?”
“No.”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“You're actually telling the truth?”
He looked offended.
“Obviously.”
I smiled.
Then I looked down at the envelope again.
Something about it made my chest feel tight.
Mum had always sent messages.
Photos.
Packages.
Cards.
But this felt different.
Maybe because it was physical.
Something she'd touched.
Something that had travelled from New Zealand all the way to me.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
I pulled it out.
It was a picture of Mum standing outside a small house.
Behind her was a garden, a wooden fence, and a tree that looked like it had been there longer than either of us.
On the back, she'd written:
I thought you might want to see where you'd be staying.
I stared at the picture.
Dad watched me carefully.
“You don't have to decide tonight.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
He stood.
“I'll let you get some sleep.”
“Dad?”
He stopped at the door.
“Yeah?”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Do you think I'd like it there?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, “I think you should find out.”
He left.
I looked at the picture for a long time.
Then I turned it over again.
Underneath the first sentence, Mum had written something else.
There's a room waiting for you.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
For the first time since Dad had given me the choice, New Zealand stopped feeling like an idea.
It felt like a place.
And there was a room there with my name on it.
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