Scout on Life and Death Part 3- "Shadows of the Past" is a poignant story that delves into the complex relationships between a daughter and her father, a psychologist facing her own inner struggles. The narrative weaves through past memories and present challenges, unveiling the profound impact of a father's mysterious double life.

 His absent eyes scanned the room, flinching at the soft lights of the lamps. The smell of expensive cologne draped a humorous blanket over the reek of alcohol and his disoriented demeanor. I watched him sit on the couch, familiar with the comfort of its sinking nature.

“Is it cozy? The couch?” I asked quietly, avoiding his gaze.

He nodded.

 

My father never drank or took drugs, but the weight of a 16-hour workday had a similar effect on his mental awareness. I would see his shadow on late nights when we both should have been asleep, and he would be waiting for my silhouette in the hallway. The outlandish stories that we both knew I didn’t believe were solace from the parallel lives we had in the day. We traveled in lines so similar but never overlapping, struggling on the same spectrum of different universes.

“I was at the mine today, Lyra,” he would say under his breath.

“Really?” I would whisper back with a slight giggle. I knew that collared shirts weren’t worn for such mundane work, but his day was filled with corrections and restrictions. The peeling walls of our home would not be as unforgiving; not to him.

“Yes, and the monster returned. He asked me if I had a daughter to sell him for all the coal in the mine.”

“Well, what did you say?”

“I told him to come back tomorrow.”

I would ask him why he would let him, and every night it would be a different answer.

            “Because, Lyra, if I said no, he would eat all the coal and the town would go cold.”

            “When he comes back tomorrow, I’ll replace you with a ghost that will eat him.”
            “I’ll bring my friends to the mine and just as he gets up, we’ll throw him down the cave.”

They never made any sense, but they made me happy. And he would start again, “Once upon a time,” but I would already be asleep. A few hours later I would be released from the grasp of the burgundy couch, only to find him gone. The rays of the dawn’s light bounced off the four walls that would no longer be the borders of a home, but a house. Even the sun knew to preserve the sincerity of our relationship, leaving it as a secret from the dark.

 I never knew what he worked as, only that his multiple jobs let our family scrape by. I loved my father, but he was less of a parent and more of a figurehead. Looking up to him gave me confidence in resilience but shame in the balance of life and work. What money and time can get does not compare to preparation and humility. When he was gone, the collage of the person I thought he was didn’t protect me from the reality of his mistakes. Yet again, I am never sure how much of him I know and how much I’m told to believe.

“Lyra. LYRA,” my mother yelled, just as she did every morning.

I would lift my head disgruntled and she would circle the kitchen, making breakfast and talking, but I would never listen. I was only thinking about the monster from the night before, and she knew it. We would circle each other with words and glances, always knowing that the other didn’t care for our stories or feelings. I learned for the first time that lack of focus is vulnerability. That was the last day her words traveled under the focus of my mind.

 

“This was a good session; I will have Chet send you your diagnosis after another meeting.”

            Michael George was not an easy client, and I knew he was unhappy as he trudged into the puddled street, leaving the door open. Chet’s eyes burned through my flesh and bone as I closed the heavy door.

            “I you have hard moments in your life and in your mind, but I have never seen a client walk out of your office so disappointed.” He stopped and sighed. “I know you don’t want me to help you, but you must lift yourself from the hole you’ve fallen into. At least enough to accomplish your job properly.”

            I looked at my feet as I crossed my arms. I couldn’t explain to him that I had been in a hole for hundreds of sessions. The only reason I was struggling now was because my client was there with me.

            “I’m sorry, Chet, it won’t happen again.”

            “Lyra, why don’t you take the rest of the week off?”

I laughed solemnly. I didn’t need to speak to answer him.

            “I’m serious, I’ll count them as sick days. You never come down with anything anyway.”

He spoke so earnestly that I wanted to agree, but I knew a break had no purpose.

            “Chet, it’s only Monday, I’m not going to take four days off. I’ll have a nice dinner and be fine tomorrow.”

            He signed again and turned back to his desk. I grabbed a red umbrella from the bin and walked out into the sun. I had a feeling it would rain again.