Page 26 of Finding Him
My father was dead—which wasn’t fair.
It just wasn’tfair.
“Shh, Niall,” Uncle Paddy whispered, rubbing my back. “Shh.”
But I didn't want to shush. I wanted to scream.
I wanted my dad back.
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I'M LIKE THEgrinch of birthdays.
I don’t mind the other holidays. Easter is fine, once you get past the stiff collars and the church pews. Valentine’s Day is a bit of a laugh if you’re seeing someone, and a good excuse to get hammered if you aren't. Plus the craft things are fun when you’re in primary school. Christmas has its own brand of magic, even if the house feels a bit too quiet these days.
And honestly, I love my Mam’s birthday. I like making a fuss of her, making sure she doesn't spend a single second thinking about what’s missing. I even enjoy the massive, chaotic joint parties JJ and Claire have in March. Since their birthdays are only two days apart, it’s always been one big blowout. Usually, it’s whatever Claire wants and JJ just agrees to everything she decides. That’s how he ended up with a pink-princess-themed tenth birthday. Though to his credit, he wore the plastic tiara with a disturbing amount of confidence.
But September 13th? That’s the one day on the calendar I’d like to take a torch to. Every year it crawls back around, a silent, mocking reminder: You’re alive another year, and he isn’t.
Comet and I round the corner on our nightly circuit around the estate. He's only eight, still in the prime of his life, but I’m a hawk about his health. Ever since JJ’s golden retriever passed last year, I’ve been obsessive. The vet says exercise is the key, so I make sure we hit the pavement every evening, rain or shine. Comet’s tail wags in a rhythmic blur, his nose twitching as he investigates every tuft of grass along the curb.
We make our way toward the Town Square, the yellow streetlamps flickering to life against the deepening blue of the sky. Most of the shops are already shuttering for the night. I stop outside the pound store, looping Comet’s leash around the post.
“Alright, Niall?” Mr. O’Reilly calls out, not even looking up from the paper as the bell jingles.
“Alright,” I mutter. I grab a bottle of water and a pack of peppermint gum, moving toward the counter with a brisk efficiency.
“Big day tomorrow, eh?” He grins, ringing me up. Of course, he knows what tomorrow is. Everyone in this town knows everybody’s business.
I feel my jaw tighten on its own, even when I try to force it to relax. “Suppose so.”
He chuckles, clearly oblivious to the storm clouds behind my eyes. “Seventeen. Lord, I remember when you were knee-high to a grasshopper, causing havoc in the aisles. Nearly an adult now, lad. Driving, pints... the world’s your oyster.”
The world is a graveyard, I think, but I just force a stiff nod. “Yeah. Cheers, Mr. O’Reilly.”
“Tell your Ma I was asking for her.”
“Will do.” I shove the change into my pocket and head back out. Comet lets out a sharp, happy bark when I emerge.
I wish I could be a dog. Or a little kid again. It seems like dogs and little kids never have anything to worry about.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re the star of the show, I know,” I mutter, untying him. “Let’s go home, lad.”
We jog back toward Alderbank, the orange glow of the sunset bleeding into a bruised purple. It is quiet in this part of town, save for the occasional car driving by or someone walking their dog—the latter always slowing us down. Comet just has to stop and say hello. He’s much more sociable than me.
I check my phone. 8:30PM. Mam is next door with Aunt Ro, probably drinking tea and talking about the bakery or whatever it is grown ladies chat about. Claire had been in the kitchen when I left, surrounded by flour and coloured sprinkles. She’s insisted on making cupcakes for me for tomorrow.
I'm dreading tomorrow. I'm dreading the birthday dinner at the Keane’s where I’ll inevitably be a brooding prick, ruining the atmosphere despite my best efforts to be “normal.” I'm dreading the party on Friday, where I’ll likely drink until I can't remember my own name just to stop the clock from ticking forward.
Tomorrow should be a celebration. It should be chocolate chip pancakes topped with that sickeningly sweet cake frosting Da used to make. We would have frosting spelling out 17 and 43, and Claire would be hovering, making sure the ‘Da-sized’ plate is ready. I would have to endure one of his ‘Man-to-Man’ talks—those long-winded, wisdom-filled lectures about integrity and hard work that I’d give anything to hear just one more time.
But that tomorrow is a magical fantasy land that doesn’t exist.
My feet pick up as I come back around the corner, back into the estate and onto our road. Comet begins pulling on his leash as the house comes back in sight, excited to get inside and have his treat.
I unlock the door and let Comet run in ahead of me, kicking off my shoes and tossing my keys on the table by the door.
“Mam?” Claire calls from the kitchen.
