Those Maudlin Days

It took the duration of the night to convince Harry that the invite had meant to be for not only him, but Liam as well. It was the most damage control I could do. I spent a good portion of time glaring at my phone screen and when I wasn't furiously attempting to defuse the smug boy on the other end, I was glaring at my flatmate who couldn't help but laugh every time my phone buzzed. It was probably the most I had used my cellular device in a week, let alone one day and I could tell Abigail was having the time of her life over it. When a commercial came on between episodes of House and she got up to use the restroom or grab a snack, as long as she was out of shot, she sang, 'Erin's going on a date with Harry Styles!'

Meanwhile, I was dealing Harry Styles himself, who continued to send things such as, 'I'm telling you, love, Liam will only bring us down. I say we kick him to the curb and have our own rendezvous.' I groaned with each message, reading it in his slow but deep voice and I could practically see the glimmer in his eye, the smirk he was no doubt wearing wherever he was.

Eventually, though, by the time a few minutes had ticked past midnight and I was getting ready to fall asleep in the comfort of my bed, he caved and invited Liam. He even gave me Liam’s number to prove he had done so, in case I wanted to check in, but not without a sad emoticon over my lack of trust. I saved the number just for keeps, but decided to take Harry's word; the worst thing that could have happened was that I ended up spending a night with a guy too prideful to take rejection.

I was close to falling unconscious when my phone lit up beside me, sending a vibration throughout my bed. Lazily, I opened the message, keeping my head rested against my pillow.

'I'm still considering it a date, Liam or no Liam. See you tomorrow, Erin Coyne. Sweet dreams. x'

Maybe I was delusional from being awake so late, my bones aching and tired from my long day, but I couldn't help but smile at his words and silly behavior as I drifted off into dreamland.

It seemed my over active phone was just not my side though. Normally when I awoke, my hair was being clawed at by an entertainment seeking Cat. But instead, my bothersome pet was no where to be found as my cell buzzed continuously beside me. I groaned as my hands searched for my glasses and as the incessant buzzing continued, I pushed them onto my face, not caring that they were crooked, barely hanging from my ears. My fingers fumbled to find the silver brick within my sheets, but when I felt the cool metal, I pushed the button and sneered, "What?"

"Erin?"

I knew who it was the moment I heard her voice. My father's longtime girlfriend, someone I saw as the mother figure in my life and would be my step-mom, if she hadn't rejected my father's proposal a total of three times, was calling me. She claimed she didn't want to get married because she was too old to look beautiful in wedding pictures and that the spark of being in a relationship would slowly burn out when rings were placed perpetually on her and my father's fingers. But they still lived together, had a joint bank account, argued like a married couple and had been doing so since I was fourteen, two years after moving to Wolverhampton with my dad. I thought the whole thing was silly, but I loved Laura and as long as her and dad were in love and well, I didn't mind what the situation was.

"Hi, sorry," I sighed, rubbing my eyes from behind my frames. I looked towards the clock and it took some time before I comprehended that it was just a mere fifteen minutes past eight in the morning. Saturdays were my one day to sleep in, my one day off, and it took everything in me not to throw a small tantrum in that moment. "I just woke up."

"Did I wake you? I know, I know. Saturday, right," Laura said. She sounded somewhat distracted and on the other end, I heard a voice, another woman's voice, politely say something to her. Laura responded, "So we can leave? Okay. Okay, great. Thank you." My brow furrowed as my eyes closed again. I was so close to sleep, but immediately, Laura pulled me out, asking into the phone, "Erin? Sorry about that. Where were we? Oh, right! Saturday. I'm sorry, but do you think you could come drop by the house later? Your dad and I want to talk to you."

Despite living in a home rather close by the University of Wolverhampton with Laura and my father, when I was eighteen, I still wanted to move out. The university was a good thirty minutes away. It was close enough to commute, but with the traffic and all, it seemed pointless. I desperately wanted the entire 'college experience' anyway and after months of arguing with my father who was too attached to 'his darling baby' to let go, Laura convinced him to let me move into a flat closer to the university, farther into the city with Abigail, just as long as I'd visit frequently. Truth be told, I hadn't been keeping up with my side of the bargain since the summer. It was hard to find time with classes now added into my schedule. I felt somewhat guilty over it and had been for a while now, but hearing Laura ask for me to come over reminded me of all that guilt I had been storing away.

I sighed, "Sure, of course."

"Oh, good. I mean, if you have plans, don't cancel them. But it'd be nice to see you and such," she said. There was something in her voice that was just so on edge and I could sense it even through the phone. But I decided not to linger on it.

"No plans until the evening. I'll drop by soon, so I can spend the day with you guys," I yawned. My mind was just too sluggish to think much of the situation, but as I kicked the covers from my legs, I felt the cold air overwhelm me all at once. My nose crinkled in displeasure and I retreated back under the covers. I'd join them soon, but not so soon.

"Wonderful. See you then, dear."

"Bye, Laura," I managed to mutter as my finger found the 'end call' button and I quickly fell back asleep.



My eyes didn't reopen until hours later, when the smell of toasted waffles and eggs came through and the off key humming of Abigail had Cat meowing in response every once in a while. If the animal could talk, she would, no doubt, be pleading for the girl in the kitchen to stop her noise. But Abigail continued on, probably dancing around to her own tune. For whatever reason, my head was pounding and all the commotion -- the sizzling of the frying pan, Abigail's humming, Cat -- were driving me up the wall. I grumbled nonsense to myself as I slipped out of the comfort of my bed, moving towards the door, stumbling over shirts and bags alike that had been thrown around carelessly. Opening my door, I yelled, "Stop! For the love of all that is good in this world, please, please, stop!"

Abigail came from behind the kitchen counter, smiling at me from the start of the hallway and pointed her wooden spoon at me, "You look like crap."

"It might be because my flatmate won't let me sleep," I bit back, following her back into the kitchen. Her plate of freshly made eggs taunted me on the counter and when her back was turned, my greedy fingers took a small bit, slipping them in my mouth.

"Well, we can't have you looking like crap today of all days!" Abigail insulted me cheerfully as she grabbed a few more eggs from the fridge. The girl had eyes on the back of her head; she probably noticed me stealing from her meal and was fully prepared to make me my own. "You know why? Because you have a date with --"

"If you say his name, I will take this frying pan and hit you over the head with it," I threatened as I rubbed my eyes. I hadn't had the time to grab my glasses, so everything was blurry. But as I let another yawn fall from my lips, I went on. "Anyway, it's not a date. Liam will be there."

"Doesn't mean you can't look decent," Abigail countered. "Which is why I propose a spa day! Masks to make your complexion look nice, I'll do your hair, the whole shebang!"

It didn't sound appealing in the least bit, but I had an alibi to excuse myself from it, so instead of shooting her down, I just shook my head. "Nope. I have to go visit my dad and Laura today. Speaking of which, what time is it?"

A pout was evident on Abigail's face. "Do you really have to? I think Stephen and Laura will understand, if you tell them you're going out with a famous pop star."

I crinkled my nose, "Don't call him that."

"But that's what he is. Erin's going out with a famous pop star!" Abigail sang again. I cringed but as she let out a laugh, obviously amused by her antics, she glanced over her shoulder. "By the way, it's nearing noon."

My body lurched forward, eyes going wide. I suddenly felt very awake. Noon? I looked at the clock, ticking away on our kitchen wall. "You've got to be shitting me."

But Abigail had been very right. A good four hours had passed since I had heard Laura's panicked voice, since I told her I'd be over 'soon.' There was no time to get dolled up, no 'spa day' in store for me. I rushed towards the bathroom as Abigail called out to me, "Wait, where are you going?"

"I have to get ready! I promised Laura and my dad I'd be over soon, but that was hours ago!" I was kind enough to answer with.

I had no time to shower, to find anything worth while. I'd be going for a visit, then straight to meet Harry and Liam at the pub further into town. So in hopes to find something decent to wear for both occasions, after washing my face to fully wake myself up, I struggled to get into a pair of black skinny jeans, a soft beige blouse and my only pair of wedges -- the only heels I'd ever agree to wear. I let my hair down and as Abigail nagged at me to wear some kind of jewelry, I put on a simple mask of make up, more than my usual for my own sake, but quickly. By the time I was at the door, Abigail had manged to put me in a long necklace, a few bangles and even convinced me to wear a few rings, even though the musician within me cringed at my fingers being nothing more than a place for accessories to dangle from.

"Don't be a prude tonight," I heard her call from the front door as I struggled to find my keys in my small bag. "I read in an interview that he always kisses on the first date!"

I didn't even turn to flip her off as I slipped into my used car and began the drive.



By the time I was stumbling up the porch steps to my old home in my wedges, I was cursing under my breath repeatedly. It was now close to one and Harry had texted me on the drive over.

'This is my friendly reminder of our plans tonight. Yes, Liam included. Six o'clock sharp. I expect to see you looking absolutely ravishing under the sketchy pub lights. x'

I normally ignored my text messages while I was driving, not needing a distraction from my normally terrible hand-eye coordination anyway, but he was so smug, I had to respond.

'Serious question. Do you think your hair will look better or worse under those 'sketchy pub lights?'

I was just slipping my key into the lock when my phone buzzed in my hand.

'Better, definitely better. Smaller. Less curly. I think you'll like it.'

I couldn't stop myself; a laugh escaped from my lips, echoing through the corridor of the home. And that's when I realized how incredibly quiet it was within the two story house, how still everything had seemed outside. Normally when I came to visit, the TV was on, someone was cooking something, working on the yard. There was just something always going on with Laura and dad. But not this time.

I was placing my phone and keys into my bag when Laura came to meet me. A woman with short, dark brown hair, big, brown eyes and light skin, she usually had a big smile on her face -- it would explain her deep laugh lines. But as she walked towards me, I noticed that the wide smile I'd grown so accustomed to had fallen. If anything, it looked remorseful now. Her panicked voice echoed in my ears and suddenly, I was very aware of the gloominess. Something was wrong. Deeply, deeply wrong.

"Hi, sorry I'm late. I slept in," I said. My voice echoed off the walls again and I couldn't help but press my lips together, wishing I had let my excuse slip quietly. Laura didn't scold me though. She merely shook her head.

"You're fine. C'mon in, love," she whispered softly, putting an arm around me as we walked towards the living room.

I was dreading each step, but for what reason, I didn't know. We came into the living room with the big television, the brown leather couches, the glass coffee table and I saw my father lying down with a rag over his eyes. My eyebrows furrowed together, "Dad?"

Laura released me and moved to take the rag from my dad, who was sitting up and looking towards me. Nothing seemed different about him. He wore his own grin, his matching blue eyes wrinkling around the edges to show he was genuine with his happiness, and he took no time in teasing me, "Erin? Where has my daughter gone under all that hair and make up?"

I rolled my eyes, smiling. Why had I been so worried? Nothing seemed to have changed.

"She's right here, just a little more dolled up. I had a nagging Abigail at my feet," I explained as I sat down on the matching brown leather chair, my body sinking into it. Laura returned, the wave of gloominess following her and she sat beside my father, taking his hand in hers. My eyes looked over them as I shifted in my seat. "I had been meaning to visit. But with school, work and orchestra, I just haven't had the time."

"We understand," Laura said softly. The woman who normally laughed louder than anyone I had ever met seemed all too aware of the volume of her voice. My eyes bored into the two adults sitting across from them as they made eye contact. It was like they were having a conversation without me, no use of vocals or words involved. Finally, it was Laura who turned to me and let out a rather melodramatic sigh. "We actually need to tell you something."

I had caught onto that a while before, but kept the snappy comment to myself, waiting for them to go on.

It took Laura a moment, but when she saw that I wasn't going to say anything, she glanced to my father before meeting my steady gaze again. "Well, this isn't easy, Erin. But we went to the doctor's today after putting it off for -- oh, who knows how long. And your father took some tests. Quite a few, as a matter of fact. But it seems... Well, it seems your father has a brain tumor."

It's odd, how quickly one's life can change. One moment, everything seems to be going smoothly, like you wished it would all along. Then, before you can stop it, before you even see it coming, it changes all at once. Disregard all the positive things in your life. In a drop of a hat, darkness can consume you. You're now falling into a spiral that only goes down and it seems hard to find the words, the actions, the thoughts to take you away from it.

I had always been daddy's little girl. It might have been due to the fact that my mom wasn't around much. She went to work in the early mornings, came back to bicker with my dad late at night and then was gone again as daybreak came. To say that she was unhappy would have been an understatement. It wasn't the life she wanted, simply enough. She had wished to fall in love later, get married later, have a kid later, after she had seen the world and managed to snag the career she wanted all along. Living in a shabby, run down apartment in the middle of New York City, tied down to a man who worked for a contracting company with a daughter at twenty four had been unexpected. But it came. And with it, she went.

I was always aware of the consistent gloom and doom that came when my mother stepped through the door and while I loved her, there was something I didn't enjoy just as much. I handled her. I dealt with her. I tolerated her, even at a young age. She dressed me every morning, did all that she was supposed to do. That was, until I turned twelve and she just couldn't take it anymore. She walked out. But my father was someone who didn't just do the things he was supposed to do -- he actually spent time with me and seemed to like to spend time with me as much as I liked to spend time with him.

For whatever reason, as my jaw slacked and my blue eyes filled with tears behind my glasses, one memory stuck with me, reeling in my head.

"Saturday morning, Saturday morning! Wakey, wakey, daddy!" A six year old me called as I ran into my parents' bedroom. My mom instantly pulled the pillow over her head, but it was something we all were accustomed to on Saturdays, so she didn't take the time to fight with me for being loud.

My small body fought to get onto the rather high, large bed, but when I did, I crawled right up to his chest and poked his cheek repeatedly. "Come on, come on! We'll miss the cartoons!"

He didn't budge.

The fact that he was so still triggered something in me. I was six, naive and obviously not intelligent enough to feel his soft breathing against my cheek, the air coming from his nostrils against my face. But as his eyes kept closed and I poked him one last time, I felt my lip quiver as I let my small voice come once more. "Daddy?"

Nothing.

And all at once, I was crying. Bawling. Screaming. My small hands were pushing against him, gripping at his white shirt, my tears flowing down my face that grew more red with each wail. My vision was blurry with tears, so I didn't see him open his eyes. All I could focus on were my thoughts -- I thought he was gone. I couldn't even hear myself as I yelled a series of things. "Daddy, daddy, don't! No! You can't! No, come back to me! Daddy! Saturday! Daddy!"

It didn't take even a second for him to react, though it felt like eternity. I was being pulled into his arms as he sat up and a small laugh came from his chest, his hand petting my soft, bleach blonde hair at the time. "Erin, Erin, baby, I was playing around. I'm fine. I'm awake. See? Daddy's fine."

It took me a good five minutes to stop my hysteria of tears and screams. But when I finally came down from my worried high and the tears had stopped long enough for me to see my dad's blue eyes meeting mine, I poked his cheek again. "You're fine."

He smiled. "Yup. See? Daddy's fine."

I smiled, too.

And before I knew it, I was being picked up like an airplane as he held me high above all danger, into the clouds of my imagination, saying something about cartoons and pancakes and all that good nonsense that had been my initial intent when I had stumbled into the bedroom.

But there was only one thing on my mind at that point as I sailed through our small apartment.

My daddy was fine.

"Erin?"

That familiar voice pulled me from my thoughts and suddenly, I wasn't a little girl bawling for her father to be okay anymore. I was an eighteen year old who could feel the tears stinging her eyes as she looked at her father's aged face.

"What did you say?" I choked out, barely able recognize my own voice. Everything sounded, looked, seemed so foreign. This wasn't my home. I wasn't this girl in this beige top with her wavy locks flowing around her. And that man, with the soft smile but the thing growing in his head, was not my father. My home was loud and rambunctious, not silent and sullen. I was the girl who kept her hair in a ponytail for convenience, not down and about to impress some stupid boy in a boy band. And my father was a man with bouts of happiness, who certainly was healthy as a horse.

Nothing was right.

"Oh, honey, I know it's hard," Laura sighed, her own eyes filling with tears. I watched as my dad squeezed her hand gently, causing her to look down at her lap for strength, but I still couldn't quite comprehend it.

"No. No, this can't be. You've been healthy. Everything's been fine. How can this be?"

I could feel myself slipping back into that memory, becoming my eight year old self again, where everything felt so off, so wrong and I tried to think of life without my dad and I couldn't and that scared me. In my own ears, I sounded so small, like barely a scratch on the surface of anything that was happening or going to happen. I made no difference; I couldn’t change this course. "No, no, no."

My sight was going blurry, even behind my glasses and I knew the tears were threatening to fall. My dad was nothing more than the color of his graying hair and his gray shirt blended together.

"It's a journey," he sighed.

"A journey? This isn't some seventies band with a hit single that you can hear in nearly every pub around the United Kingdom at three in the goddamn morning! It's a brain tumor and it's going to take you away from me."

And so everything broke. The tears fell, my voice cracked and I was back to that eight year old girl. But it wasn't so much the embarrassment of falling victim to the tears that had me crying even harder. It was the fact that I knew this wasn't a joke. My dad wasn't going to scoop me in his arms and tell me that he was fine. He wasn't fine. And there was a chance he wouldn’t get better.