hiding spots were in the back of the house. His palms started sweating. Once a robber broke into Willâs house and took their television, computer, and all of his motherâs jewelry. Mum would be upset if everything was stolen when she came home from work. Or if Ethan was murdered. Maybe it was a murderer.
Something slid under the door. Then footsteps and the creaky front gate banging against the latch.
Ethan didnât move for a while. His body was so still it felt like blood stopped moving through his arteries and veins. Once he was positive the robber wasnât coming back, Ethan went to the door. There was an envelope, addressed to Mum. The handwritten letters were squished together with an agoraphobic compression, scared of the vast whiteness of the envelope. Ethan held it up to the light to read the overlapping words. He saw his own name and brought the envelope closer to his face. This paper had an exotic smell, of dust and damp and gasoline.
Ethan knew he shouldnât open it but the letter had a pulse. It felt alive. Sentences beating and pounding, the paper persuaded him to rip it open and read. He peeled the envelopeâs flap, the sticky seal tearing apart in fine filaments like a spiderweb. Squiggly lines turned into words that fell out from the page.
Dear Claire,
Iâm sorry to get in touch out of the blue like this but I urgently need to speak with you. I sent a letter to your office but Iâm not sure you received it. Your old phone number is disconnected. I donât know your email address. Hopefully this is still your address; Anna gave it to me awhile ago. She said you two werenât close anymore, which was a surprise. Itâs been a long time.
I want to ask how you are but it feels like a stupid question after all these years. I want to ask how Ethan is too. I hope he is well. Heâs my son, but I donât know anything about him. Maybe I shouldâve sent him birthday cards, called him at Christmas. I donât know. I wasnât sure if you wanted to hear from me. And I needed to focus on getting my own life back on track. I often wonder what youâve told Ethan about me and about what happened. Iâm his father. How have you explained the fact that Iâm not around?
Iâve been living in Western Australia for the last few years now. Iâm back in Sydney. Dad is really sick. Heâs asked to see Ethan.
Iâm staying at my parentsâ house. Maybe you could give me a call?
Mark
Ethanâs face burned and his legs shook. He read the letter several times. Pen marks moved around the page, words collided with other words, until Ethan couldnât read anymore. It was just a jumble of ballpoint lines, curves and hoops, dancing across the paper.
There was a dirty fingerprint in the right-hand corner. Ethan pressed his finger against it. His fatherâs fingertip. His fatherâs handwriting. This was an object his father had held, folded, and touched. Just moments before, his actual father had stood at the front door. Heâd knocked, sighed, breathed. That shadow against the curtain had been the shape of his fatherâs body. He was tall. He had loud footsteps. He was real. All that had separated them was a pane of glass and a length of fabric. What might have happened if Ethan had opened the door, would that have broken the universe?
Western Australia was far away but right now his father was here, in Sydney. The letter was written on the personal stationery of a man named John Hall. Was this his fatherâs fatherâhis grandfatherâwho was sick? Ethan didnât know anything about the other side of his familyâwhat were their names, where did they live, what did they look like, how did they smell? John Hall lived in Woollahra. Ethan looked up the address: 5.6 kilometers away, a fifteen-minute drive, or a one-hour-and-twenty-three-minute walk. All this time heâd had family nearby, but they may as well have
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