Intervention...

It took Martin a while to find the bar. He walked past the alleyway twice before realising it was more than just a narrow gap between buildings. After a dozen yards in deep gloom the tiny lane widened into an enclosed square paved in ancient, moss-covered cobblestones. A rusty iron stairway led to a heavy wooden door set into the first floor wall of an equally ancient building of patchwork brick.

Arching out from the wall above the door, an elaborate wrought-iron cage held a single electric bulb; its rinsed yellow light picking out the faded colours of a sign.

“The Alchemist”.

Martin squared his shoulders before mounting the stairs and, wrestling briefly with the wobbly brass doorknob, stepped inside.

…

His first impression, as the massive door closed behind him, was of sliding under a favourite doona on a cold night. Warm and smelling faintly of woodsmoke, the large, rectangular space may once have been some kind of warehouse or factory floor. Persian rugs of indeterminate age softened the bare floorboards. Armchairs and couches – looking like they had been rescued from a Transylvanian Op-shop – clustered in twos and threes around an assortment of garage-sale coffee tables. This seemed to suit the patrons, who appeared to eschew large groupings themselves.

Other than an open fire crackling in a huge stone fireplace in the far wall, the place was lit only by candles and stained glass lamps; its vaulted ceiling wreathed in smoke-tinged darkness. It was brightest around the bar, where a young man and two young women prepared and served drinks – anything from absinthe-and-lemonade to camomile tea – under the honey-gold glow of a dozen bare, antique-looking globes.

The place was almost full, and conversations were in full swing but muted, subdued – muffled in part by the thick rugs on the floor and rich materials draped about the walls – but also because no-one was talking particularly loudly. Martin could clearly hear the voluptuous crackle of the fire in its hearth and some sort of music was being piped through small cube speakers dotting the high walls. He could not be sure if it really was music or just some amalgam of natural sounds blending with, and adding a deep, pulsing rhythm to the soft hubbub of conversation.

The overall effect was incredibly calming, and Martin breathed deeply as he shrugged out of his silk-lined trench coat and found a vacant seat near the fire, hanging the heavy garment on its high back. Following the lead of several other customers he took off his shoes, settled into the armchair’s deep crimson velvet and tucked his feet under him. He scanned the room, looking for Scarlett and wondering if he would know her, having only seen pictures of her when she was ten years old.

He need not have worried. One of the women behind the bar turned from a steaming maze of copper pipes and dials to plonk two mugs of fresh coffee on a waitress’ tray. He recognised her immediately. A streaky blonde ponytail fell between wide, strong shoulders and her sleeveless, cornflower-blue top showed the muscled arms of an athlete – when she moved it was with the easy strength of one.

As a child, Silas told him, his daughter had loved Circus acrobatics, high ropes courses and Ninja Warrior training. Clearly she’d continued excelling at one or more of those over the intervening years.

Huge, blue eyes matched her cotton shirt and glinted with barely contained mischief as she said something to the waitress collecting her tray of coffees, who recoiled in mock horror. Scarlett grinned before turning back to her steampunk coffee machine, ponytail flouncing behind her with a cheeky, flirtatious mind of its own.

Martin watched with a smile. Very much her father’s daughter.

His smile faded as he remembered his self-imposed mission. He still had no idea what he was going to say that might persuade her to reach out to her father after all these years. Attracting the attention of a passing waiter he ordered a pot of Earl Grey and continued watching the activity around the bar.

By the time his tea arrived, in a burnt orange pot from the 70’s accompanied by a matching pearlescent mug, he was sure the young man behind the bar and one of the waitresses had serious crushes on Scarlett. He could hardly blame them. The pretty, rambunctious girl he had seen in her father’s photos had grown into a heartbreakingly beautiful young woman.

Martin poured a mug of steaming tea, then pulled a novel and a pair of glasses from his battered canvas manbag and settled in to read, and wait…

------------------

“Excuse me, Scarlett, could I have a word?”

Scarlett paused in the act of pulling on her pink and purple beanie. It was midnight and she was tired beyond belief. The bar didn’t close for another 2 hours but she felt so spent the boss had let her go early. She loved the place, but socialising here, though exhilarating, was exhausting under normal circumstances. After the turmoil of the past week she felt utterly shattered. All she wanted was to get home (huh, what was “home” anymore?), bury herself in a nest of blankets and stuffed animals and not come out for a week.

The last thing she wanted was someone wanting another bloody hot chocolate made especially by her because “Only you can do it right…”

“Sorry, I’ve knocked off.” She said without turning, striding toward the door to complete her escape.

“Please!” Martin called after her retreating form “It’s about your father.”

Scarlett stopped short. For a moment Martin thought she would not turn around but rather stalk straight out into the dark. Then she turned on her heel to consider the stranger seated in one of the deep, velvet lounge chairs in front of the open fire. Lean and spare with his legs tucked under him like a teenage girl’s, his near-bald head and craggy face placed him well into his fifties.

Dad’s age.

She did not recognise him, but then she would barely have recognised her own father after, what, 9 years? Hell, almost half her lifetime.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“My name is Martin.” He answered. “I’m an old friend of your father.”

Scarlett stepped warily toward him. “What about him? Did he send you here?”

“Goodness no!” Martin replied. “He’d kill me if he knew! Please, sit for a minute?”

While Scarlett contemplated whether to stay or stride off into the bitter cold, Martin kept his outward expression as mild as he could, inwardly hoping she would at least hear him out. No longer hidden behind the bar, he could see her well-worn jeans were covered in exquisite fairy patches; slinky, dangerous looking creatures far removed from their usual childlike depictions. Much like their wearer. A heavy, cotton quilted coat, it’s pinks and purples matching her beanie, hung from her broad shoulders to the back of her knees. Its gold embroidery winked in the firelight as she rubbed her right thumb obsessively with her left. Her jaw moved rhythmically and the open, mischievous face he had seen behind the bar was slammed shut; blue eyes hard as marble.

He was only partially relieved when, coming to a decision, Scarlett removed her coat and took a seat opposite him.

Now he actually had to go through with it, and he still had no idea what to say or how this would go. He hoped he wasn’t ruining things.

“Nice tattoo.” He began.

Scarlett looked down at the delicately crafted dragon, captured in fierce mid-roar, which curled its way from her right shoulder all the way around a well-shaped bicep to her elbow.

“It’s not finished yet.” She spoke. It’s head and torso were coloured in shades of purple and gold. The serpentine tail was a scaly outline. “Dragons are my animal.”

Martin nodded “I can see that.” He observed sagely. “It looks amazing.”

“Yeah, well, Mum didn’t think so. She kicked me out over it. ‘Last straw!’ she said. ‘I give up! Get out!’ she said.” Scarlett spoke more to herself than to Martin. The deep bitterness in her voice suggested to him this had been a recent event.

“I’m sorry.” He replied. “Where are you staying?”

“Friends.”

Scarlett dug into a pocket of her jacket, produced a pair of nail-clippers and began to focus intently on trimming miniscule pieces of nail and skin from one of her fingers. Martin could see the nail was already almost down to the quick. For the first time he noticed most of her fingertips were covered in Band-Aids of varying ages.

“Um, do you really have to do that here?” he asked.

Scarlett hunched over protectively. “I’m autistic.” She said, without looking up. “It’s what I do. Deal with it.”

Martin smiled wryly. “Your Dad always said you were, ‘unapologetically blunt’ I think he put it, about that. He seemed very proud of you for it.”

“Hmph.”

“Why have you not at least spoken to him? The court orders all lapsed when you turned 18. You were very hard to find. He left messages here, you know.”

“I know. I got ‘em.” Scarlett flinched as the nail-clippers drew blood. Sighing, she reached back into her coat pocket, pulled out a battered looking Band Aid box and with well-practiced hands began applying one to her bleeding finger.

“He gave up on me too. Years ago.”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t need to be told.” Scarlett snapped, her eyes flicking briefly to his before returning to her injured hand. “One minute he was there, fighting with Mum in the courts to be allowed to have me with him – at least some of the time – then, poof…” Scarlett gestured with her Band Aid covered hands “…he just stopped. Gave up.”

Martin’s hands tightened around the studded crimson velvet of his armchair as he leaned toward her.

“When your father stopped fighting your mother in court” he began in a tight voice, “he had spent his savings, sold his car and lost his job because of the stress. He had nothing left to fight with, Scarlett. Nothing. He lived on his brother’s couch. Did anyone tell you that?”

She flinched at the heat in his voice. He reached to touch her hand, but she jerked it away.

“Even then he wrote to you every birthday. Did you not get those at least?” he pressed.

Scarlett looked up in surprise. When her Mum told her that Dad wasn’t trying to share custody anymore she had waited and waited for something, anything to let her know he was still out there; still wanted to see her. Was still trying.

Still loved her.

Didn’t blame her.

The longing ache never really went away, but after two years of nothing she stopped asking her Mum if he’d sent her a text, or a letter, or a message or anything else. With a child’s logic, she concluded her Dad just didn’t want her anymore, considering her Mum had always answered ‘No’…

“We moved.” Was all she said out loud.

“Figures.” Martin said, releasing his grip on the armchair as he dropped back with a sigh.

“Can I tell you why he stopped?” he asked. Scarlett focused intently on clipping another fingernail – the only one remaining unbound – without answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes...” Martin settled himself in his seat and began speaking to the fire.

“You remember that day in the supermarket?” he began. His only answer was the steady snip, snip, snip of the clippers. “He and your mother were battling all that out in court. It got very bitter, as you could well imagine…”

Snip, snip, snip.

Martin was in too far to stop now. Taking a deep breath, he got on with it…

“At one point your mother and her lawyers threatened to put you on the stand. To cross examine you about that day. Make you choose. They thought if they questioned you the right way, they could convince the court their way. His team thought they could counter that with careful questioning of their own…” He stopped briefly – trying to determine what impact he was having. Scarlett’s face was studiously blank.

“Your father didn’t want that to happen. He knew how horrific that would be for you – especially the… way you are. He agreed to give all custody to your mother, pay all the maintenance she demanded and to make no attempts to contact you until you were 18 – so long as you never had to step into a courtroom. Then he left and tried to figure out how to piece his life back together without you in it.”

“He didn’t give up on you Scarlett. He made a sacrifice that damn near killed him. He loves you. He never stopped, I promise you. He looked for you for over a year before finding out you worked here…”

At some point Scarlett had stopped working the nail clippers and was now staring into the fire. Light flickered over her face, reflecting in her eyes and flashing wetly in the witch’s crystal hanging by a leather cord around her neck. Martin could see pain but resisted the urge fold her up in a big, protective hug. He had the feeling that would be distinctly unwelcome.

“You done?” she eventually said, without looking up.

Martin moved in his seat. “Almost.”

Reaching into his bag, he produced a small porcelain bowl. He sat it on the low, Turkish tiled table between them.

“I travel quite a bit.” He explained. “This is something I brought back from Japan. Have you ever heard the Japanese term ‘kintsugi’?”

“No.”

“If someone breaks a bowl like this that was precious to them, instead of throwing it out, they will painstakingly put it back together using a special lacquer and cover the repairs with gold dust.”

Scarlett picked up the bowl and examined it. Gold veins ran through the dark, translucent porcelain, pulsing like Troll’s blood in the dancing light. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes. Something that was broken, but then patiently and lovingly repaired becomes even more beautiful, and precious than before it was broken. That is the essence of kintsugi.”

“Supposed to teach me something, is it?”

“If you want.” Said Martin pleasantly. “Keep it. Please.”

“Thanks.” Scarlett said as Martin rose to leave. Almost as an afterthought he fished a folded page from his shirt pocket.

“I also want to leave you this.” He said.

Scarlett took the paper from his hand and Martin answered the question in her eyes.

“It is something your father wrote to you when you were five years old.” He said. “He swore he was going to read it to you one day when you were older – then never got the chance. I… er… borrowed it from his old notebooks. He’s going to be pissed when he finds out.” Martin shrugged slender shoulders into his voluminous overcoat and placed his hand gently on Scarlett’s dragon-laced shoulder. It was rigid and trembling but did not flinch.

“Goodbye Scarlett. I do hope we meet again soon.”

Scarlett watched as Martin pulled open the creaky old door and strode into the night’s icy grip.

She listened to his footsteps clanking on the stairs.

She read the letter her father had written to her, so many years ago. Twice.

…and then, with a painful rush, the walls of the Alchemist fell away and she was 10 and back in that lolly aisle, happily selecting chocolates while her Mum was elsewhere in the shop. It was not often she was trusted to wander off and she was enjoying the flush of independence.

She remembered bumping into her Dad. Her heart leapt as he’d said “Hello Sweetheart!” in unexpected surprise. He had a basket of his own, full of boring, non-chocolate stuff.

She’d gleefully hugged him and grabbed his hand, leading him toward the freezers to pick out the ice-cream he should buy for her next visit, chatting nonsense to him about her new pet rabbit, completely unaware the path to the freezers went by the exits...

She remembered her Mum screaming from 10 aisles down; the feel of her hand being torn from his as two men grabbed him. They were hurting him, thinking he was some child-stealing sicko.

She remembered the look on his face as her mother dragged her away; the way her throat clamped up so she couldn’t cry out “Leave him alone! He’s my Daddy! Stop! You’re hurting him!”

One thing she did not have to remember was the way her heart crushed itself into a tiny ball and sank like a black hole into her stomach. It was still there, in her quiet moments - which she avoided like the plague.

That, and the firm conviction that it was all her fault. She should have said something; done something, anything.

Slowly and deliberately, Scarlett rose from her chair and hefted its enormous bulk until its back was to the room. From a large inner pocket she’d sewn especially into her coat, she took out a nineteen-and-a-half year old, threadbare teddy and placed it on the seat. She draped her coat from the top of the chair over both arms, forming a tent. With meticulous care she smoothed and measured and tugged it until the placement was millimetre perfect.

Then she climbed in under it and folded herself around Teddy, like a child hiding from monsters under the bed.

Her workmates found her two hours later, after closing.

The barman prepared a special hot chocolate, with way too many marshmallows, in a huge mug (pink and purple, of course) he kept separate from all the others.

He gave it to a quiet, serious-looking waitress with long, dark hair who used it to lure Scarlett out of hiding with the infinite, careful patience of a love that hoped one day might be requited.

Then the two of them walked her home…

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Dear Scarlett,

When you were first born I was scared shitless. I sat with you in the hospital room, alone, for an hour or more while they stitched your Mum up. I wondered “What the hell have we done?”.

You were lying on my chest, very small, bundled in blankets. You looked up and regarded me with huge, calm blue eyes that said “Don’t worry Daddy. I know…”

It seems you did too, because over the next few months love for you grew inside me until it seemed to fill every available space. That was totally unexpected.

I remember a life before you came along. It had good bits in it for sure, but nothing can compare to the contented joy I have always felt just spending time with you, no matter what we happen to be doing.

You barrel through my days like a little sunshine cannonball, warming everything you touch.

At night your snuffly breathing and small (but growing!) body curled in mine for warmth soothes my fears and makes me smile as I sleep.

The things you give me may be intangible and hard to describe, but they are no less real for that.

But parenting seems to be a constant process of letting go – from the little things like dressing yourself or wiping your own bottom to big things like letting you fight your own battles and find your own friends – all so you can Become.

I am incredibly grateful this process takes place slowly, day by day. If it had to happen all at once I don’t think I would be strong enough to do it.

We are on separate roads, you and I. We must live our own lives. This is right and good. Our paths will meander along together – weaving toward and away from each other as we both find our way in the world.

But they will never be as close as they are now. It may be right and good, but that does not mean it is easy. The temptation to hold you close, protect you from everything and keep you with me forever is incredibly strong; but, like crushing a butterfly in your grip for fear it will fly away, would ultimately destroy the very thing I am seeking to preserve.

So, while we are here, in our quiet together space, let me tell you a secret…

Way down deep in my heart I have a room. It is warm, cosy and dim. It has a comfy old chair in it.

The walls are lined with shelves and they all hold boxes, full of special, heartfelt memories. I visit whenever I can to add new ones or just rummage through old ones, sitting happily in my comfy chair for hours sometimes.

One box looks like all the others (perhaps a little less dust), but I never visit without opening it at least once. It is uniquely special, this old container. Whenever I open the lid, what is inside spreads a magical, golden glow around the whole room. It lights up my face and reflects in my eyes. Why?

This is the place I store every memory I have of you.

The past is gone. The only place it exists now is here in this box, and that makes it precious indeed.

Everything is in here. Carrying you to the end of our street to watch the diggers before you could walk. Dropping stones in the grate in the gutter. Teaching you how to change batteries in your toys. Bouncing on the trampoline. Swinging you until we’re both dizzy. Just little gems, but so lovely and so many! I am a lucky man.

No matter how long our roads, and how far from each other they are at times, I will always, always have this small box of treasures tucked safely away – and that is a comfort as I go about the process of letting you live your life as the bouncy, gleeful, stubborn, kind, thoughtful, loving and fiercely independent young lady I know you to be.

One day (hopefully after a VERY long time) this old heart will cease to beat. It happens to everyone and it is inevitable. I don’t think it is fair but that is another story entirely.

Now, when those boxes fall away and the memories they contained float off into the ether – becoming no more than whispers to entertain spirits – your memories will burst forth with such a light my chest will glow, warm and gold.

Whoever is there – doctors, nurses, strangers – will wonder what is going on! They will have no idea.

…but if they ever ask you, or if I am lucky enough for you to be there holding my hand when it happens – just regard them with your huge, calm blue eyes and tell them

“Don’t worry, I know…”

All my love Sweetheart,

Daddy.