Leak

• Eleanor Hall, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2014

There’s a leak in the roof. Tiny droplets of water seep through and fall on a corner of my desk when it rains. If you look up at the ceiling you can see the damage spiraling around, waterways venturing out like spider webs, bulging and trying to break free of the paint. It doesn’t rain often here so it doesn’t bother me much. It’s… just that when I try to study my papers get wet and the ink begins to smudge and crumple when it dries. But it doesn’t matter. Not to me.

The study is a dark room. It used to have bright lights, but one by one the bulbs on the chandeliers have blown and now only a dim glow is present. Dad said he would fix them, but he’s a busy man. His desk is next to mine and it’s always cleaner than the preposterous mess where I work. Files are ordered neatly and I can see the expression he sometimes gives when his eyes pass fleetingly over my disarray.

But it doesn’t really matter. Not to him.

We’ve lived in this house all my life – I think. I can’t really remember much from when I was very young. But I see that he remembers and it pains him that I can’t. I like to think that ignorance is the best gift I could have been given. To not remember is to be free. Back in fourth grade when I was insufferably shy the counsellor tried to force it out of me, as if not discussing it was some kind of farce. I rummaged through my brain for answers but it’s like a glitch. Dad tells me about all these moments, desperate to see my recognition, and sometimes I can remember so many places, scents and tastes, even a man handing out candy on swirly sticks. But for the life of me I can’t recall her or her peppercorn hair or the way she used to hold me and laugh when I sneezed. These, all memories given to me… and not one of them my own.

But it doesn’t matter. Not to me.

There’s a photo of her on my desk. I’m not quite sure when it got there, but I think dad might have snuck it in a few years ago. There’s no real reason for me to move it. It collects dust, dulling and muddying her vibrant red dress and concealing her smile. It’s bizarre, but for a few months I would just stare at it and try to cry or laugh or even smile. Everyone told me how sorry they were, teachers, parents, even other kids looked at me with this weird pitying expression, but I didn’t feel a thing. Just confused. Dad sometimes looks at me and I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing – that I’m defective. That maybe if she were here she would be crying over me.

But it doesn’t really matter. Not to us anyway.