That’s a lie. There’s one person I want to see.
Digger coughs, and it’s loud enough to make me look at him. He doubles over with the paroxysms, his tattooed hand covering his mouth, and my brow furrows with concern.
Why on earth am I worried about him?
“Are you alright?” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve voluntarily said something in two days.
He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face. “English colds. Something I didn’t miss while I was away.”
“That’s what killed off the aliens in War of the Worlds,” I tell him, in an attempt to fill the silence. “A simple cold.”
He smiles. “Your mum’s right. You’re a clever kid.”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m not a kid, and then close it again, b
ecause right now that’s exactly what I am. Curled up in a ball, wailing at the inequities of the world, I’m nothing but a child.
“I know you’re hurting,” he says, running a hand across his stubbled chin. “And believe me, I know what that feels like. But bottling everything up and refusing to talk is the worst thing you can do. I know that from experience, too.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “After I came back from the war, I was in a state. I’d seen things nobody should have to see, done things nobody should have to do. I thought I could forget about them or put them to the back of my mind. I really believed that if I threw myself into looking after you and your mum then I’d feel better.”
His eyes are watery when they catch mine, the reflection of the sun making them glint. I don’t know if he’s tired, or if he’s upset, but either way I stay silent.
What he says next shocks me.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you. Every day I think about what I did, how I broke your wrist. I hate myself when I look in the mirror.”
This time, it’s me who starts to cry. Fat, hot tears that trail down my cheeks, dripping onto my nightshirt and staining the pale fabric. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”
“What kind of man hurts his own kid?” he asks. “A baby at that. I wasn’t a man, I was a fucking devil.”
A lump forms in my throat. “It was a long time ago…”
His head snaps up. “Don’t make excuses for me. I was the worst kind of father. I still am, I haven’t been here, haven’t made things up to you, and I’m so bloody regretful about it all.”
“I thought you were dead, I didn’t know any better.”
Digger squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t tell you how many times I wished I was dead. Or how long I waited to come and find you, too scared to admit what I’d done.”
He’s crying openly. The tears stream down his face unwiped, making him look even younger.
“I’m not scarred by that,” I whisper, somehow needing to reassure him. He might have hurt me when I was a kid, and he might have disappeared from my life, but at the end of the day he’s a man who did something he regrets. “There are no lasting effects. Bones break and they heal again.”
“So do hearts,” he says pointedly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time.” His eyes shine even though the tears have stemmed.
“I don’t think mine will.” I let out a sob, covering my mouth with my hand. “I’m never going to be happy again.”
I miss him, Christ how I miss him. His smile, his touch, the knowledge he feels the same way I do. It’s hard to believe it’s only been three days since I last saw him; three days since his lips last pressed against mine. A day without Callum seems dark as night.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Digger covers the short distance between the chair and my bed in less than two seconds. Maybe I shouldn’t let him scoop me into his arms and drop my head onto his shoulder as I cry hard, letting his t-shirt soak up the tears. But I do it anyway, and it actually makes me feel better, if only for a moment.
“I love him,” I wail, holding onto him.
“I know.”
“And he doesn’t want me.”
He strokes my hair softly. “Who wouldn’t want you? You’re beautiful, you’re funny and you’re clever as anything. I’m so proud to see how you’ve turned out.”
His words begin to warm my ice-cold heart. “It’s not enough,” I say.