FIVE
APOCALYPSE NOW
“Brook no opposition with Dr. Mackibbin’s Arch-Disciplinator And Helico-Rotary Parenting Harness.”
—Alan Tyers, Gin & Juice: The Victorian Guide to Parenting
So, what was it that Mr. November did, exactly? Mr. November had an honest answer ready for that question. He looked my dad straight in the eye and said, “I am currently unemployed.”
My hands flew to my mouth at the same time the U word escaped him. My dad went rigid; his moustache quivered. “But your company . . .”
“Has been left dormant for the past few months. I’m working on reopening it.”
Visibly reeling, my dad turned to me, as if searching for some confirmation that he was awake and this was no nightmare. I half-expected him to keep grilling March about his short-term career prospects as a coping mechanism for the whirlwind of revelations of the past nine hours, but he shook his head slowly. “No, no . . . we’ll get back to that later.” His posture straightened, and his gaze hardened. “I need answers. I want to know what happened to my daughter.”
I took his hand. “I know. But let’s go back to the apartment for that.” I exhaled a puff of fog. “I’m freezing, and I’m sure you must be too.”
He pulled me closer, rubbing my arms and shoulders. “I’m fine. I would have gone to Antarctica to find you if I had to. And you know I hate penguins.”
A smile tugged at my lips as an old memory resurfaced: He had taken Janice to the Easter and Falklands Islands for their honeymoon because it was her dream to go there, but he nearly died on Saunders Island—according to him—when a group of rock hopper penguins ganged up on him and started pecking at his legs. The incident had changed him, and he could no longer see a penguin on TV without gritting his teeth.
“I promise there’re no penguins where we’re going,” I reassured him.
•••
The ride back to Ile Saint Louis was a silent, awkward affair. My dad watched us like a hawk from the back seat and kept flashing wary glances at the road signs, then March—clearly, he worried that the Predator might be trying to take us somewhere secluded to snap our necks too, and my repeated claims that we were “almost there”, didn’t seem to help much.
It was only when the SUV stopped in front of our building, in a well-lit street, that he seemed to relax a tiny bit. That is, until March went to open his door and he bristled all over again, stepping out of the vehicle with careful, controlled movements as if maneuvering around a savage and unpredictable beast. March’s chest heaved, but he contained his sigh as he took my dad’s suitcase for him and showed him into the lobby.
After an elevator ride so tense you’d think it was a filmed social experiment, we finally closed the apartment’s doors and gathered in the living room. My dad settled in an armchair while I sat across from him on the couch, clasping my hands together in an effort not to fidget.
March made his way toward the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink, or perhaps to eat, Mr. Halder?”
“Sparkling water,” my dad grunted.
“Anything for you, biscuit?” he asked.
I shook my head with a nervous smile. We were barreling fast toward disaster: the mere use of March’s favorite pet name for me was enough for my dad’s jaw to work in silent anger . . . I took deep, slow breaths, mentally flipping through a manual on how to land helicopter parents in a crisis situation. Let me tell you that there weren’t that many chapters, and they all said: “Your dad hates your boyfriend, and he’s going to napalm him. Good luck.”
Moments later, March returned with a sealed bottle of San Pellegrino and a glass—I suspected he meant it as a statement that he would not poison my dad. He sat by my side on the couch, and a deafening silence fell onto the living room, only troubled by faint sloshing sounds as my dad poured himself a glass. He drank with slow gulps and eventually slammed the glass back on the coffee table, signaling he was done.
He crossed his arms over his suit and breathed hard through his nose, his eyes traveling between me and March. I realized with a chill of panic that I had seen him pissed at pretty much anything and anyone a zillion times, but until that day, I had never seen him fricking mad.
I gulped. “Where do you want to start?”
His stony expression wavered, letting through raw anguish. “Honey, what happened?”
“I was kidnapped during the destruction of the Poseidon,” I said matter-of-factly.
He nearly jumped from his seat. “By Dries?”
Of course. He’d seen the news like everyone else, the careful campaign orchestrated by Anies to frame his brother and get rid of him. All my father knew was the official version, that Dries had bombed a commercial airliner and the Poseidon, killed hundreds of people in a matter of days, and died in the destruction of the dome . . .
“No. He’s dead,” I managed out, feeling March’s attentive gaze on me. “It was his brother, a guy named Anies. He was the one behind . . . everything.”
My father leaned forward, his head tilted in confusion. “Everything?”
“It’s a long story . . . that started before I was even born.”
Over the next couple of hours, my father paced, sat back, drank the entire bottle of San Pellegrino, and paced some more as I told him everything. Okay, not really. My tale skipped a lot of details—like the fact that Alex, the nice ex-boyfriend my dad had been placing so much hope in was a CIA agent, a traitor, a one-eyed psycho thanks to Dries’s intervention back at the Poseidon, and . . . dead.
I was relieved to see my dad’s attitude toward March shift as I painted him as this mysterious hero who worked for the US government and who’d looked for me for eight months until he’d found me, freed me, and battled bad guys onboard Odysseus to save the world. I told him what Anies had done to me, showed him the scar on my nape, at the center of Kalahari’s hair tattoo, and his tears shattered me. I left out the space part though and vehemently insisted that Yayleaks had it all wrong: Anies’s evil plan had been foiled before the ship could take off. I mean, supervillains launching stolen spaceships? Come on!
My stomach sank as I also omitted the fact that I had been the one to kill Anies. I would take that with me to the grave and live with that scar, those few abominable seconds I could never wash away, never undo . . .
In my father’s eyes, distrust gave way to shock and, ultimately, a spark of genuine gratitude when I recounted that March had also been the one to save me from my mother’s burning car on the day of her assassination by one of Anies’s goons. And ten years later, when he had heard through the grapevine that my mom’s past was catching up with me, he had flown to my rescue again, fought the bad guys, helped recover the legendary Ghost Cullinan, and generally been cooler than James Bond—and also a total gentleman.
Yeah, I kinda glossed over the whole kidnapping thing, or the fact that March was Dries’s disciple and therefore . . . You know. Let’s call it poetic license. I chose my words carefully and, once more, took more shortcuts than a keyboard when trying to explain how March and I wound up being dragged into Anies’s attempt to destroy Dries: I mostly made it sound like a series of unfortunate coincidences. I could tell my dad wasn’t buying it, and I started sweating hard when his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, and furrowed some more . . .
Already, I could hear the ominous droning of the rotor.
His pale irises scanned March, no longer angry but intrigued. “I’m getting the feeling I’m missing something here. I don’t fully understand why you were there when Léa died, or why Dries insisted on dragging you into his mess . . .” I slowly shrank into the couch’s cushions as he went on, nodding to himself. “I took note that you created your business about a year ago and that you’ve been involved with the US government on three separate occasions since, as some sort of . . . contractor. What remains unclear to me is what you did before that. Were you already working for them?”
I should have known that my dad’s analytical mind would be my undoing. I balled my fists as March remained silent, his goddamn poker face letting nothing through. My father cleared his throat to indicate he was waiting for an answer. March rose from the couch. A thousand ice cubes cascaded down my back when I recognized in his eyes the cold-killer look I hoped I’d never see again. Pure, dark ice.
He gave my dad that courteous, soulless smile he reserved for clients . . . “Simon.”
I jumped a little at his use of my father’s first name, and my father too seemed to perceive the change; his expression grew guarded.
March went on. “I believe Island did her best to explain the situation to you, but I’m afraid she forgot a few details. Will you follow me to the bedroom, please?”
I shook my head silently, fighting back tears. I didn’t want him to tell my dad. What if he couldn’t understand? If he freaked out and asked me to choose? I couldn’t do that. I could never.
My father’s gaze searched mine for answers, for any sign that he shouldn’t follow March. “Island?” was all he said. There was no need to elaborate. One word from you and I’m taking us out of here, just give me a sign . . .
I took a calming breath and nodded. “You need to hear what he has to say.”
•••
They spent fifteen minutes in there, which sealed the rest of my life. When he came out, my father was white as a sheet, and I read a mixture of relief and regret in March’s eyes. It was done. March never told me exactly what he’d said to him, and my dad never mentioned that conversation again either, not even to me. Like Anies’s lifeless body floating in zero gravity among black pearls of blood, Dries’s identity, my mother’s career . . . March’s former life became our secret, and I was overwhelmed by guilt that I’d forced my dad into this ugly covenant.
He staggered back to the living room, let himself fall back into his armchair, and leaned forward to rest his head in his hands, massaging his scalp.
I approached him tentatively and knelt by his chair. “Dad?”
He drew a ragged breath. “I need a steak . . . and weed.”
March and I looked at each other. I hesitated to make him repeat that, for posterity.
March checked his watch. “We can probably find a restaurant open at this hour in Châtelet. As for your . . . other request, I’m not certain that’s—”
My dad’s head snapped up—by the way, he was right: with that dark look and the moustache, he did look a little like Burt Reynolds. “Don’t you of all people goddamn dare lecture me about marijuana.”
March cleared his throat. “No, of course, not . . . obviously, no.”
My dad got up and grabbed his coat without a word. It was only once the three of us were standing in front of March’s car that he pulled me into a tight hug and whispered in my ear, “I love you so much, honey. But why couldn’t you stay with that nice boy from Washington?”
I kissed his cheek. “He lied all the time. March was honest with you.”
My dad avoided March’s gaze as he broke our embrace. “I think I would prefer a liar, or even a Sociology major, at this point.”
•••
I don’t remember the name, but it was one of those typical Parisian brasseries: a warm, cozy, and noisy place serving the holy trinity of French restaurant food 24/7—steak, oysters, and croque-monsieur, of course. It was past 1:00 a.m., and diners were becoming scarce, replaced by nocturnals who would drink and smoke on the terrace for a couple hours more under umbrella heaters.
In a quiet corner of the room, March and I watched my dad tear through a twelve-ounce tenderloin steak and its side of french fries, all washed down with a few glasses of Pinot Noir.
He gulped down a mouthful with an appreciative grunt. “That’s the one thing the French know how to do well. Worst bankers I’ve ever done business with, but they always take you to great restaurants to seal their deals.” He toasted us absently and finished his glass. “Christ . . . I haven’t had a steak in three weeks.”
“Is Janice still into veganism?” I asked.
“It’s getting out of control.” He dragged his chair away from the table to show us his shoes. “See this? That’s not leather; that’s some kind of PVC they make with recycled tires.”
My jaw went slack. “Wow.”
March pursed his lips in appreciation. “Very nice.”
My dad paused in his eating to stare at him weirdly. “I eat tapioca every goddamn day, and I wear recycled tires.”
Sensing he’d committed a faux pas, March immediately sobered. “And I am terribly sorry for you, sir.”
Nodding to himself, my dad went back to his french fries. “I love her, but we can’t go on like this.” He looked at me. “Did you know there’s milk and eggs in pancakes?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Well now she’s making them with soy milk, and she tells me it tastes the same,” he said somberly.
“I’ve read almond milk is an excellent substitute as well,” March remarked.
In my father’s hand, the steak knife sliced angrily into the remaining piece of meat. He sent me a pointed look. “I liked that boy from Washington.”