The worm that had crept into my body grew into a sickening snake. The beast slithered and writhed and knotted before transforming into a stone that sank to the pit of my stomach.
“What’ve you got there, dad?” My heart pounded against my temples. My throat was too dry to swallow.
With a startled jerk, like a child caught reading the most recent Cosmopolitan magazine, he slammed the U.S. Atlas closed with a swift stroke of his hand that had once been so comforting to me.
But not before I had seen California canvasing the page.
“It’s nothing, sweetheart.” He looked as flustered as I felt.
Fighting down the panic, I steadied my voice.
“Why, dad? Why were you looking at a map of California?”
We had never been to California in my life. Not even close.
Defeated, he closed the window of his computer and spun his chair around to look at me. A cold hand clutched my heart. Something was horribly wrong. This could not be happening.
Not to me.
I swallowed hard. The hairs on my neck bristled. My head was spinning, but I stood firm. I flexed my jaw. My eyes were cold.
At that moment, my once youthful father aged ten years. The skin around his cheekbones sunk. His brows knitted and became heavy. His eyes, once laughing and lively, were now full of sympathy.
“How would you like to live in San Francisco?”
This could not be happening. This could not be happening. This could not be happening.
I had lived here as long as I could remember.
“The Golden Gate Bridge is amazing, I heard,” he continued. “California is beautiful, I heard.”
The panic erupted inside me. The tears threatened to spurt and spew. I fought with all of my fading strength to keep them in. I clamped my teeth and bit my tongue hard. I dared not say a word.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
“What’s wrong with you?” he joked. “I bet all your friends would be jealous! Who wouldn’t want to live in California?”
He didn’t understand.
In a rush to finish what he had to say, or perhaps trying in vain to avoid a water show, he went on to say that he had gotten a brilliant job offer, that it would be good for the family, that it would be a nice change. A challenge is what we need, he said. A risk is fun to take, he said.
And all the while he spoke, I had become as fragile as a glass vase tipping on the edge of a table. Any moment now, I knew. A thousand shards of glass. Any moment now.
“We don’t know for sure yet, of course,” he said hurriedly, matter-of-factly, as if that atoned for everything.
It didn’t.
There had been a “fifty-fifty percent chance” of his getting my brother and me a puppy for Christmas.
There had been a “fifty-fifty percent chance” of his sending me to New York to spend the summer with my aunt.
There had been a “fifty-fifty percent chance” of his letting me go to last week’s midnight premiere.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
“As of now, there’s only a fifty-fifty percent chance.”
I shattered.