Free Water Born by Rachel Ward

garden, ready for my reaction, but he’s not there.
    We go inside. Misty, flopped out in her basket in the kitchen, doesn’t get up to fuss round our legs like usual. I put the flowers down, crouch next to the dog and gently twiddle her ears.
    â€˜What’s up, Misty? Too hot for you?’
    She raises her head and attempts a crafty lick of my wrist before resting her head down again.
    It seems too harsh to just bin the flowers, so I start filling a glass vase with water to stick them in. The water running into the vase is cloudy and brown.
    â€˜Look at this,’ I say to Dad. ‘The water’s a bit funny.’
    I hold the half-full vase out towards him. It looks like it came out of a pond.
    â€˜What the—?’
    As quick as a flash, he’s grabbing the vase from me.
    â€˜Is this a wind-up?’ he says, and there’s a hard edge to his voice that I don’t like.
    â€˜No,’ I say, ‘it’s coming out of the tap like that.’
    He lifts the vase up level with his face and peers at the water, turning it round, looking at all angles. It’s pretty disgusting.
    I pick up a drinking glass and hold it under the tap.
    â€˜It’s okay, Dad, it’s running clearer now.’
    He snatches the glass out of my hand, too, and screams, ‘Get away from the sink. Dry your hands. Do it! Do it now!’
    His face is red and sweaty. His eyes are bulging in their sockets. The guy who went nuts over a water pistol is back, and he seems ten times scarier in a small space like this.
    I back off and pick up a tea towel. He puts the vase and the glass down at the side of the sink and turns the tap off. Then he grabs another towel and starts to dry his hands. I watch in horror as he scrubs his skin so hard and so long that it starts to look raw.
    Gently, I edge forward. I take his towel and tease it out of his grasp.
    â€˜It’s okay, Dad. I think you’re dry now. Shall I tip the water away?’ I say, looking at the vase and the glass on the worktop.
    â€˜No,’ he says, ‘leave them. I want to show your mum.’
    He’s deadly serious.
    â€˜It’s just water, Dad.’
    â€˜Look at all the stuff in it. All the stuff that came from our tap. In our kitchen. Here, in our house. I don’t want you drinking this shit, okay? Bottled water from now on. Promise?’
    â€˜God, Dad, chill out. I’m sure there’s a really simple explanation.’
    He shakes his head. His breathing is very fast. The wet patches on his shirt have spread down both sides.
    â€˜Dad, are you okay?’
    â€˜Yes, yes. I’m okay. It’s . . . it’s . . .’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜It’s you I’m worried about. Keeping you safe. But you’re not safe. Not at the pool. Not here, even.’
    â€˜But I’m fine. I’m absolutely fine. Look at me. There’s nothing wrong.’
    He won’t look at me. Instead he’s staring at the tap.
    â€˜Stay away from us,’ he says, under his breath.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    He does look at me now, and it’s like he’s just woken up.
    â€˜Nicola,’ he says. ‘Come here . . .’
    He opens his arms. He needs me, and right now I need him to be my dad again, to be normal. I want that more than anything.
    I put my arms round his waist and he wraps me up in a sour-smelling bear hug.
    â€˜I love you, Nic,’ he says.
    â€˜I know,’ I say. ‘I love you too.’
    And I do. I love him, but he’s scaring the hell out of me right now.

NINE
    â€˜ L ook at it.’
    Dad’s brandishing the glass in front of Mum’s face. The water looks clear now, but a thin layer of brown silt has settled at the bottom of the glass.
    â€˜Was the water off during the day?’ Mum says. Then she looks past him to the kitchen bench. ‘Where did those flowers come from?’
    â€˜Um, they’re from Milton,’ I say.