[Melvin Newton]

It wasn't the first time that Melvin had gotten a call about his daughter from the police.



“Mr. Newton? This Thomas Cavert of the NYPD... I'm calling on behalf of a Melody Newton.”



He grunted. It was no less than what he expected from Melody. Just another line in the list of the ways she disappointed him. “I'm her father. What did she do this time?”



“Well... Mr. Newton... you might have seen the attack on the ferry on the news by now? It seems your daughter was on board-”



For a moment his heart dropped. The world went black. He nearly dropped the phone. No. No. No.



“-and she's all right, Mr. Newton. I just want to be clear on that, she's all right. Actually, she was a bit of a hero-”



His heart came back to normal. He listened, in shocked silence. And bit by bit, he heard the story of the incident on the ferry, and his daughter's involvement in it, and what had come afterwards, and the possibility that Melody's actions had helped saved lives.



Melvin had said nothing for a moment. Then he had said, “Thank you for telling me this, Officer Cavert.” His voice had been monotone, as steady as the beat of waves on the beach. His left hand, the one that wasn't holding the phone, was resting on the arm of his chair, and it was trembling.



“Mr. Newton, we highly recommend psychological counseling after an event like this. It can be extremely trying, especially for someone young-”



“Thank you, Officer, but I will be making any decisions related to Melody's care. Please let me know if anything further develops.”



That had been three days ago. In that time he had picked up Melody from the airport, spoken to her school and agreed to give her some time off from it, and focused on giving Melody what he hoped was the correct balance between attention, affection, and time alone. He had read a few articles on helping children cope with the aftermath of dangerous situations and knew the importance of reminding them that they were safe and cared for. So far he had told Melody that he loved her three times a day, which seemed like a reasonable amount. He had not questioned how much time she chose to spend in her room or how much Netflix she chose to watch, both of which were unusual for him but seemed permissible given the situation. On the whole he felt that he had followed the advice of the articles well. He only hoped that she would not become insistent on leaving the house; he didn't trust her friends in this part of the country and suspected that illicit pharmaceuticals played a large part in their times together. If she sneaked out he would drug test her.



It was late morning, and Melvin was working on his laptop in the living room. He had been working from home since Melody had returned to assure that he would always be present if she needed anything. He reminded himself that he was letting Melody sleep in and tried to keep himself from glancing at the clock. He had certainly not kept such an erratic schedule when he was a teenager. One of Melody's pill bottles was on the table next to him. By his count, she had missed at least one day since coming him and he intended to make sure she did not miss another. The oven was on at a low temperature, keeping Melody's food warm. He had made her favorite breakfast for her every day since she had returned.



Melody Newton

[Melody Newton]

Eclipse All my childhood heroes have fallen off or died + Melvin Newton

The world came slowly into focus as Melody rolled over and realised that the light beating insistently through her eyelids was in fact the sun streaming in between her open curtains. In defiance of mother nature, she rolled away from the window, burying her face in the duvet in a pathetic attempt to escape the sun. Her room was a mess, she hasn't properly unpacked and clothes are strewn across the floor. An open suitcase lies in a corner of the room, clothes piled haphazardly within it. Her laptop sat, half open, on her bed its screen was dark, but an unintentional nudge woke the device up, revealing Netflix asking if she was still there. It had asked the same question every morning for the last three days. Her phone was similarly buried in the nest of duvet that she has constructed for herself, though that is rather more effective at rousing her. It pinged loudly and she scrabbled groggily about in the bed clothes until her fingers met the cool glass surface of the device. She raised it to her face, eyes slitted against the insistent morning sun. Those same eyes roll as she realised that the notification had simply been the phone informing her that it's battery was running low, not a message from a friend. It took her another fifteen minutes to drag herself out of bed and plug her phone into the charger across the room. Stretching, she felt a familiar, but distinctly unwelcome, tingling at the tips of her fingers. The Staten Island ferry attack has done more than mess with her sleeping pattern, it's destroyed many of the other routines in her life, not least her school one. More importantly, she's not taken her pills in over a day. She dropped down beside her suitcase and began pulling out clothes, tossing them into an equally messy pile behind her. Eventually she managed to ferret out the small bottle of pills the school nurse had prepared for the trip and given to one of the teachers. As at school, she wasn't trusted to look after her own medication. They'd only handed them over when she was about to catch a flight home. She shook the bottle, which resolutely failed to rattle. She didn't bother searching elsewhere in her room, pushing the door open and rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she padded down. Dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, she looked exactly as if she has just woken up, which of course she had. She paused halfway down the stairs, still unable to see into the kitchen. Of course her father would be awake, but would he still be working from home? He had been since she'd gotten back, an unfamiliar gesture of concern that had wrong-footed her when she'd awoken the first day and realised he was still in the house. The faint scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafting up the stairs confirmed her suspicions. French toast. She'd loved french toast since she was a little girl, there was a picture buried somewhere deep in the house of her in a high chair, wearing most of her first breakfast of french toast and with the kind of innocent smile only a baby covered in maple syrup can give. Melvin hadn't made it for her in a long time, but now this was the fourth time in as many days. Her jaw tightened a little, and she felt her eyes moisten. After the attack. She closed her eyes, then opened them rapidly again. It was strange how suddenly warm cinnamon could smell like singed flesh when her eyes were closed. She was still hovering on the stairs, and she couldn't stay there forever. She could return to her room, but the spreading tingle in her fingers told her that would be a mistake. Besides, her father had probably already heard her on the stairs. He worked quietly, without music and without distraction. He would have recognised the creaks of her moving around in her bedroom and her attempts to descend the stairs silently. She was a little surprised that she wasn't being greeted by a lecture about the importance of rising early right about now. Melody descended the rest of the way and entered the kitchen slowly. There were no pills visible, not that her father had ever kept medication in here anyway. The oven is on low, a plate covered with foil dimly visible behind the thick glass. A glass bottle of expensive maple syrup is stood on the counter, and she fantasised briefly about crossing to the room and hurling it onto the floor. Instead she goes looking for her father. It didn't take her long to find him, he his a man of routine after all, even if she has disturbed it with her unplanned return from the Evergreen Metahuman Boarding Academy. She knocked gently on the open door as she entered, though she wasn't entirely sure why. Instead of contemplating this her eyes were drawn to the small plastic bottle on the table beside him. Her pills. She crossed the room, extending a hand to snatch up the bottle.

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[Melvin Newton]

He heard Melody moving around before she knocked on the door and came in. “Good morning, Melody,” he said, looking her up and down. His first thought was that she looked disheveled. He reminded himself that she had just gotten up and a certain amount of untidiness was expected. Still... it seemed to him she looked worse than usual. His lips tightened slightly. He hoped he was not making an error by being too permissive. The psychological literature seemed to suggest that a period of unscheduled rest was useful for getting over grief, but indicated that a normal schedule should resume after a time to reestablish a sense of normality. The papers were frustratingly vague on exactly when the switch should happen, however. A few days? A few weeks? He was especially worried given Melody's tendency towards apathy; he would certainly need to step in at some point before all this got too far.

He cleared his throat as she reached for the pill bottle. “Did you forget yesterday?” He did his best to keep his voice calm and even, despite how much her missing troubled him; he usually trusted her to handle her own medication. It would certainly be grounds for concern if it became a regular habit. A teen's failure to take care of themselves was associated with several different, potentially serious conditions.

But he tried to keep himself from worrying too much. He had a plan that would hopefully help Melody get through all of this.

“Your breakfast is in the oven,” he told Melody. “I have also placed on the table a stack of printouts from the websites of several highly reviewed therapists in our area, both male and female. Please take a look and let me know which one you would like to talk to.”

Melody Newton

[Melody Newton]

Eclipse All my childhood heroes have fallen off or died + Melvin Newton

Pausing for a moment as he clears his throat, Melody only hesitates for a moment before her fingers close on the small plastic cylinder. It rattles reassuringly as she picks it up. Popping open the lid, she tips two into her palm. There's a glass of water on the table where the pills had been, it looks untouched and she uses it to help her swallow the medication. It won't kick in immediately, she knows this, but even so she feels the tingle recede a little. To her surprise her father does not launch into a lecture about remembering to take them yesterday. It takes the wind out of her sails, she'd been ready for a row. Off balance, she drops her eyes awkwardly as they shift to silver. "Yeah... Sorry..." She takes a half step forwards, feeling an unusual urge to hug her father for a moment, before he speaks again and reality begins to reassert itself. His tone is throwing her, he's always been controlled, but normally her rebellion at least earns a disapproving lecture, though he never raises his voice. Sometimes she dearly wishes he would raise his voice. The scent of French toast is still heavy in the air and her stomach growls. There's no way she can pretend she's not hungry. "Thanks." Then of course, the pamphlets. There were always more pamphlets. Pamphlets from school about puberty, about managing her anger, about safe sex, about the dangers of drugs. Pamphlets from her father about much the same topics. Melody pushes the bottle of pills into the pocket of her sweats, finding the faint pressure against her legs oddly comforting and familiar. Scowling, she flicks her eyes back up to her fathers. "I don't need a therapist. I'm fine." But she doesn't want to go back to school. Or see her friends. Or really do anything much other than stay in bed and then hug her father. Melody doesn't move.

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[Melvin Newton]

He'd been prepared for resistance, and Melody's objection didn't phase him at all. He would explain calmly, as he always did, and if that persuaded her (which happened sometimes), all was will; if it didn't (which happened more often), well, he would see to it that she got the help she needed one way or another.

“Melody. You are certainly not fine. What happened to you was clearly traumatic. Your sleep patterns are disrupted, you are displaying apathetic, sullen behavior,” more than usual, anyway, he added in thought, “and you are neglecting items of self care.” He nodded at her pocket that now held the pills. “It is clear that you need to talk to someone about what happened. Of course, I am always willing to talk about whatever you need me to, but I think it would be beneficial if you spoke to someone other than me.” He had read that this was a good way to introduce the idea of a therapist to a child; assure them you would always be there, but also point out there were advantages to someone else. “I am requiring you to attend at least three sessions. After that, we can discuss whether or not you should continue, but you will attend at least that many.” This, too, was a strategy he had read for bringing a reluctant child to therapy. According to the articles he had found, many resistant teens warmed up to the idea over a few sessions, and were willing to continue afterwards.

In a lot of ways, he was proud of Melody. Her actions on the ferry had almost certainly saved lives. He only regretted that it left such a mark on her. Well, time would heal that, as it did most things. But he would do his best to see that it left as few scars as possible.

He wasn't proud of everything Melody had done in her life, not by a long shot. But he was proud of what she had done on the ferry. He assumed he had told her that at some point.

Melody Newton

[Melody Newton]

Eclipse All my childhood heroes have fallen off or died + Melvin Newton

Melody opens her mouth to object again, then closes it. Three sessions seems too much to her, she doesn't need a therapist, and she certainly doesn't want one. She wants to argue, to tell him that he can stuff his therapist, even though she knows it won't make anything better for her. She doesn't, and even if you asked her she'd struggle to tell you why. Some aspect of her father is different, something about the way he's speaking to her differs from his usual clinical indifference. It's left her off-balance. She used to look up to her father, seek out his approval, but in recent years things have changed. She doesn't seek out that approval anymore. Feeling like a small child again, her jaw works for a moment, before she manages to produce a response. Even so there's rebellion in that too, "I'm not doing more than three." Her jaw juts defiance, and she mutters under her breath, "They're just some stupid shrink anyway." She turns, the scent of French toast finally winning it's argument and calling her in the direction of the kitchen. She makes no effort to be quiet, slamming the door of the oven once she has removed the warmed plate and allowing said plate to clatter upon the breakfast island while she grabs the heavy bottle of maple syrup. It's the real stuff, from Canada, not some cheap corn syrup from Walmart, and she pours it liberally over the French Toast. Finally, she digs into the French toast, but, just like the last two days of it, finds herself unable to finish, her appetite dries up after only a few slices and she's left picking at it. In an effort to disguise her lack of appetite she starts to pull the remaining French toast apart and pushes it around the plate. Her father would only take this as a further sign of her needing a therapist.

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[Melvin Newton]

He remained in the living room, working from his laptop, but his thoughts kept drifting towards Melody. Honestly, he was starting to get a little frustrated with her behavior. She was so stubborn, and she seemed to reject things just because he thought of them. He was certain, for example, that she would have been open to the idea of going to therapy if she'd been the one to think of it first. He knew she was a smart girl, so he couldn't conceive of any reason for her to resist other than deliberate stubbornness. He was trying to help her- didn't she see that? Why was she making it so difficult for him? He wondered if he'd made a mistake and been too lenient in how he allowed her to grieve. He wasn't a trained therapist, after all. He would ask whatever therapist they settled on for advice.

I don't like how she mopes around the house all day, he thought. Surely it's healthier to be active rather than passive? To go outside at least? He was reasonably sure the research showed that. Well, he thought, he was her father. He could arrange for something. He thought for a moment, then got up and walked to the kitchen. Pausing in the doorway, he cleared his throat.

“Melody,” he said. “Would you like to do something today? We could-”

He paused, trying to think of some activity to suggest. It struck him then that it had been a very long time since they had done something special together. What did she like to do? She used to hang out with her friends, and... his mind drew a blank, and he frowned. Surely it wasn't so hard a thing to figure out.

“We could go to the park,” he said, trying to cover up his pause. “Or to the mall.” Girls her age loved to go to the mall didn't they? “Or to the science center.” She had loved that when she was younger, he remembered.

Melody Newton

[Melody Newton]

Eclipse All my childhood heroes have fallen off or died + Melvin Newton

Too focused on concealing her lack of appetite, Melody doesn't notice her father's presence until he clears his throat. She manages not to jump, instead remaining focused on breakfast before her as she spears a fragment of the cinnamon and maple syrup soaked French toast into her mouth. It's good, her father is a surprisingly good cook, but she still can't bring herself to really enjoy it in the way she would normally. She turns around in surprise as he asks if she wants to do something. For a moment she is speechless, long enough for him to continue on. She hasn't done anything with her father since... Well... Since he dropped her off at the Evergreen Metahuman Boarding Academy, and that hardly counts. Her automatic response is to scoff at his suggestion, as if she'd want to actually spend time with her father. Except, she finds it hard to say those words. Eventually she manages to speak, only to find those words escaping anyway. "The park? What am I? Six?" Immediately she regrets her response, turning back to stare awkwardly down at the scraps of French toast now swimming in maple syrup. She tightens her hands into fists, she's missed her father, much as she might deny it, and the events in New York have only made those feelings more acute. She stands up and stands awkwardly, her fists held by her sides. "I... Uh..." She wants to say sorry, but can't quite force the word out, compromising instead with "I don't know why I said that..." She takes a step forward unconsciously, wanting to hug him, but holds back from his stiff, upright form. "The science centre would be nice I guess." It doesn't fill her with the excitement it once had when she'd been eight, but it would be time with him when he wasn't working. That thought sparks a long-forgotten thrill at the base of her mind. She smiles awkwardly. "I guess I should go shower and get dressed." The shower doesn't take long, despite Melody's typically teenage penchant for wasting hot water. Towelling herself dry swiftly, she pulls her hair up and back into a bun before pulling a pair of shorts and a top out of her suitcase. She still hasn't unpacked, and a glance at the rapidly diminishing pile of clothes informs her that she really should do some laundry soon. Usually her father would never have let things get to this stage, but he's been strangely forgiving for the last few days. Grabbing a rucksack and her phone, she clatters down the stairs in black Converse, the white laces flying like streamers behind her. She stops on the last few steps, aware that she has an image to maintain, and slouches down them with a moody look on her face. "Are we going then?"

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[Melvin Newton]

For better or worse, he didn't show any emotion when she lashed out about his offer to take her to the park. As it happened, the park had plenty of adult activities, mostly walking trails. He missed her hint about the hug, merely nodding an acknowledgment of her apology and replying with. “All right, get ready. I'll wait for you.”

He did his best to return her smile. Like hers, it was awkward.

Well, he thought as he watched her climb the stairs, that wasn't perfectly done, but it was something. Now he simply had to find a way to redeem the rest of the time his daughter gave him. And the truth was, except for a few generalities, he wasn't sure he knew how. He had to try to avoid crushing her, he thought. Avoiding too much criticism. That would be hard since he always found a great deal in her to criticize, but he would try. He had been rather lax these past several days; a few more hours surely couldn't hurt. Unless they would? He rubbed at his eyes. This was difficult.

He heard her before he saw her, and did his best to put on a pleasant expression. She came down, slouching a bit (Don't slouch, he wanted to tell her) and dressed it-

“You're wearing that?”

The words came out before he could stop them. Not particularly harsh, without a raised voice, but with a measured, even tone that struck with the bluntness of a ruler. He hadn't meant for it to sound like that. True, with her shorts and undone laces she looked like a slob, but... he had hoped for a way to get the message across without sounding quite that blunt.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, we can go, assuming...” He had meant to say something like, “Assuming you're okay with that outfit in this weather,” but that sounded silly even to him, so he said nothing.

Melody Newton

[Melody Newton]

Eclipse All my childhood heroes have fallen off or died + Melvin Newton

"You're wearing that?" It hurts. Melody feels her chest ache. He didn't raise his voice, Melvin never raised his voice. It takes everything she has not to flinch despite that. Some of her energy ebbs away, and she looks down at her feet, seeing the undone laces of her converse that she'd been in too much of a rush to tie on her way down the stairs. "I need to..." She clears her throat to speak more confidently. "I need to do some laundry. So I haven't really got much else to wear." What she's wearing isn't anything special, just something she'd pulled out of the suitcase. She hadn't thought about it, just thrown something on for a trip out with her dad. It's not as if the science centre would be cold. As far as she knows the whole building is climate controlled in fact. "It's not like I need to dress up to go out somewhere with my Dad is it?" There's a challenge in her tone, and she raises her gaze to meet his. She's not quite as tall as he is, but he's not a tall guy, and she's almost at eye level with him, lending her some force. "They're just clothes."

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[Melvin Newton]

He could feel the lecture rising over him, the way a buzz from alcohol slowly rises from the stomach to cover the head and engulf the mind. The need to correct, to prove he was her father and deserved to be listened to, to press down something out of place and smooth it back over so that everything was fine- this he felt, looking at her. Seeing the imperfections, the marks of her not caring, the need to fix them a deep burning in his chest and stomach. The words came almost without conscious thought.

“The way you present yourself tells people what to think of you,” he said. He said it in a neutral tone, a tone intended not to condemn or arose anger. Simply a tone to communicate the way things were. “Certain kinds of dress show a person who does respect herself, and the world sees a person who does not need to be resp...”

He trailed off. There was something in her look: an angry intensity, of the sort he was used to seeing from her. His first reaction was to be glad to see it. Here, at last, was some sign she was not completely submerged by the aftermath of her unfortunate accident. And yet something about her seemed to plead for... something. He couldn't say quite what. Only a kind of unspoken asking for- relief.

He didn't look away from her gaze, but he did clear his throat. “I suppose it will be fine,” he said, and deliberately turned towards the garage. “Let's get in the car.”

--------

“Two adults, please,” Melvin told the desk. The attendant gave them each an orange sticker, and gave Melody hers before carefully sticking his on his left shoulder, ensuring that it was not crooked or out of place. He offered Melody his hand. He did it out of habit; it was what he had always done when he had taken her before. Keeping her close so as not to lose her.

He cleared his throat and glanced at his daughter. “Well,” he said. “What first?”

Melody Newton

[Melody Newton]

Eclipse All my childhood heroes have fallen off or died + Melvin Newton

There is a moment that could go either way, resolution, or yet another blazing row. She does not want the latter, yet cannot bring herself to apologise and go and change. Their eyes remain locked for a moment longer, before, to her surprise, Melvin backs down. Not physically, he doesn't even look away, but he leaves the argument where it is. Melody is not sure how she feels about this acquiescence, a year ago she might have rejoiced at this small victory. Right now part of her feels like her father is still treating her as if she is made of glass. The car journey passes in silence, Melody spending most of it on her phone. Occasionally, when she thinks he is not looking, she glances up at her father behind the wheel. Still not quite sure what to make of his current behaviour, she studies him for only a fraction of a second before going back to her phone. She is messaging back and forth with a few friends from school, Ed and Keke mostly, though she is thrilled to see that Maia Morales is also responding to her messages. Not that she'd ever admit to it. The science centre is much as she remembers it, albeit faded and smaller than she recalls. They haven't visited in years, and like many memories of those times, not much has changed, but everything seems subtly different in a way she can't quite put her finger on. She's about to simply haphazardly slap the orange sticker onto the front of her top, but pauses. Then, like her father she carefully places it on the left, carefully straightened. It's not quite as militarily straight as Melvin's own badge, but it's only off by a few degrees. For a moment she is taken back in time to when visits here were an eagerly awaited treat. She'd always tried to put the sticker on as straight as her father then too. She looks over to the interactive displays which show the options available to them. She is surprised to see an advert flash across the screen for the 'Brand New Metahuman science Exhibition!' She looks away, she's not sure she's ready for that kind of a science exhibition, and regrets making this choice for a moment, before another exhibit catches her eye. "Do you think any of your work might be in there?" She nods towards a sign indicating the way to the Chemical Engineering Exhibition, 'How Chemistry makes our world and we remake it.' Without waiting for a response she starts heading towards the entrance of the exhibition, only slowing a little so her father can catch up.

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