FIFTEEN

Sam

The first time my father locked me in the basement, I was seven years old.

Looking back, I can’t even remember why. There was always a reason – tenuous or fragile – but I was always given a reason for my confinement.

I hadn’t cleaned my room.

I hadn’t respected my sister enough.

I hadn’t done well enough at school.

There are a lot of had nots and did nots in my punishments. I was rarely punished for something I did or something I was,…it was always over something I lack.

That room.

That room lives large in my mind even now.

The smell of its damp walls, its single lightbulb and the way it glows so softly. How it’s so completely cut off from the rest of the house that it almost feels like a different world. A dungeon where no one can hear me. I remember how often I tried opening that door, as if one extra hard push would set me free.

It never did.

And then… well, then the panic attacks started.

I could hold them off for a while at first. The door locks behind me, and the walls start to press up against me. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing… but the longer I stay in the room, the worse the feeling in my chest becomes. It’s like a heat that crawls up from my heart into my throat, making it difficult for the air to force its way out of my lungs.

Now… now any door closing feels like entrapment. Like being locked indefinitely into a closed space. I’m immediately placed back there – in a cold, dark room, cut off from family, from anyone who loves me, from anyone at all.

‘You are a hard man to reach, little brother.’

That voice…

It is as if a door slams shut in my mind upon hearing it.

Everything inside me turns to ice. My sister has never taken any interest in where I work before, and she seems so out of place standing in front of me now. Like me, her clothes are ironed into crisp points, her hair is perfectly styled, and her make-up precise.

She stands upright, and I can feel my posture matching hers. Her scowl mirroring my own.

‘You have been ignoring my calls,’ she says. It isn’t phrased as a question, and so I do not feel the need to follow up with any answer. Her lips turn down even further. ‘I know Victor has already spoken with you about Father’s offer. I’m here to elaborate further.’

I remain still. ‘There is no need to elaborate further. The answer is no.’

Vaguely, I’m aware that Dani and Malcolm and some other members of my team are making their way back toward the elevator, but I remain fixed in place, my stance unchanging.

‘You’re being foolish. You know what the company can give, you are turning down resources out of spite.’ Her voice is clipped and precise. So very much like our father that it makes me want to shrink back.

Footsteps stop behind me. I know my team is watching, and I wonder what this must look like from the outside. Two carefully cultivated and put together people, facing off like corporate lions in the wild.

‘It is not about the resources. It is about the freedom for Lonely Fox to make decisions without answering to a committee board full of people who know nothing about books.’

‘You should discuss this with Father, you are still a part of this family, after all.’

The way she looks at me… with a mixture of contempt and disgust, has me forcing my mouth into the vague approximation of a smile.

‘How convenient that I am family when my company does well, but a failure when I do not meet expectations,’ I say, but I speak the words softly, so that only my sister can hear them. Then I make to turn away, keeping my eyes fixed ahead so as not to make contact with any of my editors, though I have no doubt that they are still loitering nearby.

I have almost reached the stairs.

‘Father is dying.’

The words carry across the foyer and drop like a hammer. I hear another door slam shut. It’s as though the world has narrowed into a small dark room, and for a moment the only sound I can hear is my own ragged heartbeat. And then something else breaks through - Dani’s voice.

‘Guys, let’s go. We shouldn’t be listening to this.’

An elevator dings, and faintly I’m aware of bodies shuffling into that confined metal space.

My sister’s heels click-clack their way over to me, still I do not turn around.

‘He may not have long left. He wants to reconcile with you, the least you can do is consider it. He is your father too.’

At this, my mask of calm finally cracks, I let out the smallest of sniggers and turn to her.

We really do look alike, our colouring is different, I am lighter skinned with sharper cheekbones and bluer eyes – but the shape of our chin is the same and we have the same thick dark hair.

‘Really?’ I say, ‘That’s funny, all my life all I wanted was a father just like yours.’

My sister scowls but if she says anything more, I do not hear it.