Martha waved goodbye to Tiana and her mother as she stepped through her front door. Inside, her father sat exactly where she'd left him. Flickering baseball highlights blanched his face as the lights of their house remained off. He appeared unaware she was home.

No longer concerned about upsetting the balance, she walked to the lamp beside the couch and turned it on. Because I'm pretty sure the train for Illinois has already left the station.

The light grabbed her father's attention and his eyes broke from the television. Suddenly, they softened. "What's the matter? Did something happen?"

Martha didn't know what she'd expected from him – indifference... agitation... some bizarre third option... She certainly didn't expect fatherly concern. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Your face. Were... were you crying?"

Mrs Luong had given the same reaction. Apparently, Martha's ugly cry had left ugly red splotches and puffy eyes.

Her father's eyes weren't puffy. But there was something about them – they're... HIS.

In an instant, Martha and The Ghost coalesced in the singular need to be held by their father. Her face clenched as tears fell.

"Oh sweetie!" Steven said, spreading his arms. "Come here. Come here."

Martha stumbled the short distance to collapse on the couch and fall into her daddy's lap.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" he said as he gently rocked her from side to side.

Martha shook her head as it pressed into his chest. What was there to say? Could she tell him about Kurt? Or James? Could she tell him how frightening and awkward it was to be a twelve year old girl? Or a ninety year old masquerading as one? No, there was nothing.

But as the tears continued to drain from her, his t-shirt soaked them up. As he held her close, her convulsions tempered. Out of time and free from context, she finally felt safe.

"That's okay," he soothed, patting her shoulder. "I'm here."

And he was.

After a time, Martha's eyes dried, but she continued to hold her father, longing to hold the moment. Is that what this is? Only a moment? Or are you back? But though she was desperate to keep it, the thought of it ending made her anxious. The anxiety made her feel unsafe. Thus, the moment had passed.

Steven's grip loosened and they both sat up. Her tears had left a dark gray Rorschach stain on his light gray shirt. She offered him a smile and he strained to reciprocate. Then he dropped his eyes, swallowed hard, and said, "I have some bad news, Marty."

"Oh?" she said, bracing for whatever else this night wanted to throw at her.

He turned his head and stared blankly at the television as an ad for Miller's Crossing played. The silence turned awkward... then uncomfortable.

"Dad?"

Her voice made him flinch. Jaw clenched, he looked at her, but couldn't maintain eye contact. "I... I quit my job." He scrunched his mouth to the side then swallowed hard. "Three weeks ago, actually."

"Oh. Okay," Martha said. He wasn't set to lose his job for another three years, but considering the night's events, she assumed something like this was bound to happen eventually. Her graceless rejection of Kurt Lafleur appeared to be moot, however. The bridge to Illinois had long been torched. "Why did-"

"I've been seeing you off in the morning," he interrupted, glazed eyes staring off to the side. "Then I would leave before you got home and just... I'd just drive around until it was time for me to come home."

"Okay. So... what will-"

"It got to be..." He paused to clear his throat. "I'm really, really sorry, Marty. I just can't anymore, I..."

Martha waited. He continued to stare off silently. Evolved enough to recognize a pattern, she didn't want to be interrupted a third time. Instead, she searched his face. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his furrowed brow twitched. His eyes darted this way and that without ever coming in contact with hers. This poor man.

First his wife killed herself, leaving him to raise a daughter alone – a daughter who just so happens to be a metaphysical mutant. Then there was his job. As a chemical engineer, he'd been trusted to operate million dollar equipment and execute complex equations, the accuracy of which said millions, and eventually human lives, would depend on. Of course it would be too much to bear.

Now it was her turn to pat his shoulder. "It's okay. We'll figure something out. It's all going to be okay."

His eyes darted to hers then squinted slightly, as if scrutinizing her words. After a moment, he dropped them again before saying, "There's more. We're going to move in with Grandma and Grandpa until I can figure some things out."

"In New Mexico?" Martha blurted. The ghost was back as her heart pounded above her coiled stomach.

Steven closed his eyes and nodded his head.

"Have you..." There was no sense in asking the question, but making it to Illinois had been her singular goal this entire life and she couldn't help herself. "...ever thought of working in Chicago?"

"I know it's going to be very hard for you..." He stopped and his face scrunched in confusion. "Chicago? Why Chicago?"

"Oh, I uh... We... talked about Fermilab in science class the other week and it, uh... it sounded really cool. Like a place you'd like to-"

"And how would I even get a job there?"

"Your friend. From college. Ross something... Johnson? No, Jameson. Ross Jameson. Didn't he start working there?" Has he yet? Martha wasn't sure.

"How should I know?" he bellowed, his agitation clear and rising. "And... how do you even know who Ross Jameson is?!"

"I... heard you talk about, um..." Martha searched for a plausible explanation. "Didn't you say that he..." It became clear that the suggestion had been a bad decision made from a desperate impulse. She sighed in resignation. "I don't know. Never mind."

Steven stood and shook his head. "It's late. We'll talk about this tomorrow." He began to walk out of the room then stopped. Without turning back, he said, "I'm sorry about... But, why aren't you..." He huffed in frustration then left without finishing either thought.

Martha dropped her head and gravity curved her spine. She stared at her dress, a section of which she'd used to dry her tears earlier. The wilted fabric caused the parallel white lines of the dress to skew chaotically.

It's not going to happen.

I'm going to New Mexico, not Illinois.

All of her efforts to walk the line, stay on the path, or whatever metaphor her mind fancied were for naught.

But then again...

Suddenly, and for perhaps the first time in this life, she felt relief. Because she wouldn't have to pretend anymore. This wasn't the end. It was just going to take a little longer. She'd keep her head down in New Mexico, turn eighteen, travel to Illinois and find him or at least someone who knew where he was.

After everything she'd had to deal with this evening, ending with optimism was certainly a twist. Before getting up and heading for bed, she looked at her dress again. For no particular reason, she grabbed the wilted section and stretched it tightly. The lines straightened, but after she released, their chaotic jags returned.

Author's note:

So... Good news?  If memory serves me correctly, things aren't going to work out quite as Martha has envisioned. 

Thanks for reading!!