Page 1 of Wishes for August

Prologue

August - Age Eight

Iwoke to screaming.Again. Woken by my mother’s begging, and heart wrenching cries. For as long as I could remember, my mother had been the happiest person I knew, giving my father heart eyes every time she saw him, smiling and laughing. I had never even seen her cry. But things had changed. Ever since my father had started his new business - with some lady - things between my parents had felt broken. I heard crying every night. I wished it would stop. I wished they would go back to being happy. To giving each other gross kisses that made me cringe.

But my wishes never came true. They didn’t when I wished for a baby brother, they didn’t when I wished my dog would come home after he ran away, and they didn’t when I sat on my bed, head tucked between my knees, trying to block out the sound of my parents fighting.

The yelling made me itch, it made my stomach ache and eventually I couldn’t stand the sound any longer. I found the small media player that had been a gift for my eighth birthday and popped in my headphones, then threw myself down on the bed.

I lay there, not moving, staring at the posters on my wall and at my prized collection of Formula One photos and merchandise. My blue night light cast an eerie glow over them, casting some into shadows. Pop music blared in my ears, the beat working hard to lift my mood. I didn’t understand it all, the crying, the yelling, but I knew something was wrong. Our home used to be happy, like I was wrapped in my favourite warm blanket but now it was gone and the coldness made me shiver. I watched specks of dust dance across my ceiling, then closed my eyes, trying to pull up memories of the last time my parents and I had spent the day together, the last time that warm blanket of happiness had hugged me.

The fighting had been louder than usual this evening, but fear had kept me locked in my room, not daring to see the sadness outside my door. I felt safe with my posters and my music. I told myself that if I blocked it out, I could pretend everything was as it always had been. I remembered a story my mum once told me, about an ostrich who hid his head in the sand and all his problems went away. There was more to the story, but I remembered liking that part, I remembered laughing at the image it brought up, of the big bird with his head hidden from the world. When I put my headphones in, I could be that ostrich.

“I wish they would stop fighting,” I mumbled to myself, my eyes squeezed tightly shut as if I wished harder they were more likely to come true.

One day my wishes would come true, I was sure of it.

I must have fallen asleep because when a loud crash startled me, my eyes shot open and I noticed my headphones had fallenoff. Jumping from my bed, I raced over to the window. Outside it was dark but a light from the front porch shone down the driveway giving me the perfect view of my father, grey suitcase in hand, heading towards his car. I raced down the stairs, yelling for him, reaching the front door just in time to see him slam the boot of the car. He turned towards me, and it looked like he might walk back up the stairs.

“Daddy, where are you going?” I asked, my voice quiet, shaking with the fear I felt but didn’t quite understand. He didn’t say anything, and I watched as he climbed into his car, the bright lights taking me by surprise, and lifting my hand to shield my eyes against the glare. I had this sinking feeling that he was not coming back. That this was quite possibly the last time I would see him.

“Daddy?” I yelled but my voice was lost under the sound of his engine. As I watched him drive off, I heard my mother crying from the kitchen, begging him to stop. But her cries were too quiet, whether because she knew he wouldn’t care or because she just had no more energy left, I didn’t know.

“I loved him,” I heard her say. “I loved him with my whole being, but it wasn’t enough, I wasn’t enough.”

Maybe I wasn’t enough either.

AUGUST – AGE TWELVE

Blood pounded in my ears and my vision went blurry at the edges as I pumped my arms harder. My legs strained, startingto ache with the force of propelling myself forward towards the finish line. I could win this. If I just pushed myself a little more, I would reach the end before anyone else did.

Cheering sounded around me moments later and I looked over to Mrs Dale, the school’s sports coach. She smiled, giving me the thumbs up. I had won. I did it. I grinned widely, pumping my fist as I looked through the crowd of people on the sidelines. It was mostly parents here to support their children and I stood on my tiptoes to look over them, but I couldn’t see her. My best friend, Branson, patted me on my shoulder then ran off and I watched as his mum ruffled his hair and handed him a cold drink. I scanned the crowd again, but still there was no sign of my mum. Disappointment knocked me down from the excitement I had just felt and I cursed myself for getting my hopes up in the first place.

I wish she had been here.

A few weeks ago, my school had sent home a letter telling my mum I had been invited to take part in an inter-school athletics day. Mum had signed the permission slip and my chest had fluttered with hope at the thought that she would be there to see me run. It had been one of her better days, one where she had come out of her room and sat in the garden.

“Will you come?” I had asked tentatively, and she’d given a small half-hearted nod, not looking at me when she handed me back the signed paper.

She had stopped making eye contact with me shortly after my dad left. With dark brown eyes and wavy brown hair, I was the spitting image of my father. Sometimes I would catch her looking at me in a way that made me wonder if it was too painful for her to be around me.

Now as I scanned the parents on the field, my chest ached at the realisation that she hadn’t come to watch after all. I excelled at school, at sports, at the multiple clubs I did all because a partof me thought that if I made her proud, she would take notice of me.

I’m still here mum.

She had never recovered from her broken heart. Instead, she had found solace in the quiet of her room. Reading, writing in her journal, drinking. Doing the bare minimum to get by. I never went hungry, my clothing always fit, but I never got what I really wanted - my mum. The one who used to read me stories, who laughed with me as we rolled around in the garden, or the one who sang to me when I had nightmares. She no longer laughed or smiled. Didn’t take me out or read to me like she used to. She just existed, in her own bubble that didn’t include me.

It had happened gradually - a missed parents evening, a forgotten birthday party, an empty seat at my school show. Day in and day out, I got myself ready, walked myself to school, came home, made a meal which I ate alone then spent the evenings in my room. My books and music being my only company.

I’d been right the day I watched my dad pack his car - he wasn’t coming back. He never returned. He didn’t answer my calls or letters. I had hoped that it was his guilt keeping him from me but deep down I knew he wanted a new start. A life with someone else. Without the burdens of his past. I wasn’t enough to make him stay.

As I stood under the hot summer sun, watching children hug their parents, excited by the day's events, there was nothing more I could do besides hope that next time it would be different. That one day my wishes would come true.

Chapter 1

August

Irolled into bed sometime after three am with a loud groan. In only a few hours I would have to get up and head to work but, the night had been worth the lack of sleep. The gorgeous blonde I’d had under me an hour ago had been very reluctant to leave. He’d dropped a few hints about staying over, remarking at how late it was but I had made it clear from the moment we met in the bar that I wasn’t looking for anything more than sex. He was fun, we’d had a good time, the orgasms had been amazing but I wouldn’t see him again. I never saw them again.