I Want To Believe

‘I WANT TO BELIEVE.’

It was a mock declaration from Malcolm, Andra’s older brother.

She found the crumpled sticky note on the dining room table—the cheap, pink kind from the American dollar store chain down the road. It was in Malcolm’s familiar pen scrawl, scribbled in all caps and how a hint of cursive slipped into his As and Es despite how it remained mostly illegible many years on.

Reading the note, Andra understood in a moment why her father was throwing a fit at four in the morning in his apartment living room. An overturned coffee table, spilled glass, the couch shifted over three feet, and his phone impressively shoved into the dry wall—two inches deep.

Drunk again.

At first she thought it was a fever dream from the first crash sound. Opening her eyes in the darkness, maybe it was a break in by one of the local high school hooligans. They often lacked the money and grades to attend college and would get piss-poor drunk on weekends. At least based on the sound of an exploding glass vase, which she thought was a broken window.

Get downstairs with her softball bat. Nope, it was just her father rearranging the furniture. A rack of six Labatt Blues. Two of the bottles were missing despite carrying evidence of refrigerator frost on the rest.

“Neville,” Andra called out with a gentle sternness, using her father’s born name. “Look at me.”

Andra’s father dark blue eyes, shadowed like a panda from lost sleep, dragged themselves off the silent television tuned to a late morning indoor hockey league season update. His eyes found Andra’s similar blues, and she noted the bloodshot white stood out more than the usually beautiful cerulean.

“Dad. You’re drunk.”

The father seemed to stare for a second, castaway in some kind of waking nightmare. He seemed to start up twice, a off-color gleam focusing in and out before settling on Andra.

“Oh, yeah. I guess I am.”

“Why you up at 4?” Andra asked, she glanced at the stove clock across the room. She amended, “4:48?”

Neville’s eyes drifted down, somewhat downcast. Maybe from a sleep spell, maybe out of shame.

“I just needed a walk…”

Andra planted her arms against her waist.

“To the pub?”

Her father made a gurgling sound.

“Thought so. Thanks for the honesty at least…”

Andra trekked across the room, making sure to stay four-to-six paces clear of her father. One of her eyes never left his vision, in case his lousy brain-arm complex suddenly wanted to reload its catapult throw.

“So why the mess?”

Neville gurgled and took another beer swig, clearing his throat. He slurred out his answer, “On the table. Your brother being an idiot. Again. Again?”

Her father’s answer seemed more unsure by the second. Andra picked up the note and saw the scrawl.

“I want to believe…” Andra muttered.

“Your brother does have a sick sense of humor.”

“Where is he?”

The drunken father shrugged, seeming happy to have a conversation. He turned away from Andra, took two stumbling steps back and collapsed into the shifted couch, dust and broken glass spread out but ignored. He answered after a moment, “Out probably.”

“He doesn’t just ‘go out,’ you know?” Andra pointed out. At least not when around their Mom’s place.

“Then I guess this is a first.”

“Have you tried calling him,” Andra questioned, setting down her bat and reaching for her smartphone.

“Goes to a blocked number.” Neville groaned out. He threw up his hand and accidentally let go of the bottle. It clinked off his shoulder and fell to the carpet with a soft thump. At least it didn’t shatter this time.

Andra punched in her brother’s phone number. Low and behold, blocked number too.

It was one thing to block Dad. She understood that, but why her too? The warble of her phone connection cut out, “The voicemail for this number has not been setup yet. Please try again…”

The high school girl lowered the phone to her side and lowered her head as her father had, maybe in shame, maybe in frustration. There was the roar of the sea in her ear, thundering with battle and betrayal.

She could’ve joined her father but the opportunity was never in consideration. She was much too young to drink, and not remotely violent despite what her middle school behavior and report card stated.

Andra sighed. Glancing back at her father, “You going to clean this up right?”

He didn’t look at her, but after another pregnant moment… “In the morning.”

She stopped herself from pointing out the time of day again.

“Alright, I’ll go sleep a little more. Maybe Malcolm will be back soon?”

Neville huffed back.

Andra understood, yesterday was a huge blow up match between father and son. Over breakfast, Dad was getting all excited about some Ham radio signal he heard towards the north, maybe out to sea. Andra didn’t much care for it then, but Malcolm used to be an enthusiast too.

But not anymore. Not since Mom and Dad divorced.

Malcolm had screamed about Dad not taking his finances seriously and getting out of this ‘dead town.’ He wanted him to sell the family boat, go into car mechanics or truck hauling. The money was still good there compared to the defunct family business. And searching for aliens, Big Foot, or American spy submarines was a waste of time—the dreams of a young boy.

Dad told him to sit down and eat his oatmeal. He grumbled about the son not appreciating anything since going to college and not learning any better. Andra tried, maybe made the mistake of trying to get the two to calm down.

Maybe Dad was calm in the moment. Maybe the engagement wasn’t Malcolm’s fault. Dad might have made some off-color comment about their mom or Malcolm’s previous disinterest in their planned two-week boating trip. The previous morning’s argument was hazy to a sleep-addled Andra.

But she did remember one thing. Maybe that was her mistake.

Malcolm’s voice echoed in Andra’s head, leaving a frustrated storm cloud on her heart and mind.

“You always take his side.”

Andra stared back at the hockey-lit silhouette of her father, drunk and in a state of living decadence. Maybe Malcolm was right? But was he right to walk out in the middle of the night, or to leave a note after dark in a place their father would easily find. Was he right?

Andra’s cerulean blue eyes lingered on her father. Then put away difficult thoughts for the next few hours. Tomorrow rose with the new day sun. There would be more time to contemplate things in the morning.

The good daughter fled back to her bedroom, phone and softball bat clutched in hand. She tried, hoped there were things worth believing in—at least in her dreams…