The Interview - 12. I stuff my clothes into the half-full box

Chapter twelve: I stuff my clothes into the half-full box

I stuff my clothes into the half-full box on the floor beside me. There are a couple of other boxes over by the bed, full and lids taped down. While there is pitiful little to pack, I see it as a blessing as it will make the move easier. I am alone in the apartment, and it is mid-morning. At dinner last night, Mum tried to insist on coming around to help pack and clean the apartment. I politely but firmly declined her, explaining that it is my mess to clean, and I need to do it. I did accept help from her and Dad in bringing round the car and trailer to move my stuff back home, once all the packing is done, and she reluctantly agreed to the compromise.

            Catching up with them was surprisingly nice. Dad was a little stand-offish and I think he'll need to see more proof from me on my true intentions before he can fully accept that I am not moving home just to mooch off them. It was hard, but I accepted it, understanding that I have broken his trust and it will take time to rebuild it. Mum was great, waving away any feelings of guilt for my behaviour and genuinely happy to be spending time with me. She can nag, but I will need to remember that she does everything from a place of love, and like with the offer to help pack, I have to be firm and honest with her rather than just try and avoid as I have done in the past.

            I grab out the last of my clothes from the wardrobe, push them into the box and close it. The whir of the exercise bike from the apartment above forms a soundtrack to my packing and with a wry grin I know that's one sound I won't miss. One by one I move each of the full boxes out to the living room and by the door. The TV is already there, as is another box with the little food I had left in the kitchen, and two unopened boxes filled with copies of my book. I have already given the kitchen and bathroom a thorough clean, and they have come up looking good. I think Mrs Linton will be happy.

            In cleaning the apartment and packing up my stuff, I realise that I will miss the place. I had lots of good times here; lots of amazing time spent with Mel before things turned sour. I pause and think about the meeting with her yesterday. A sadness remains inside me at how it went, as the whole time I was there I wanted to try and wrap her in a hug, to seek her forgiveness and beg her to take me back. My heart aches at the thought that I might not see her again, but I am proud of myself for doing what I know was right.

            I grab another empty box and move over to the coffee table. Pulling off the makeshift tabletop and placing it over by the door, I look down at the copies of The Gates of Eden, which have served as table legs ever since Mel moved out and took with her the bulk of the furniture, which was all hers. I sigh, then kneel and start packing them into the box. I get to the last pile, and something causes me to pause. I pick up the top copy and realise it is the one that the angel Gabriel started to read in my dream. I gaze at the cover, running my hands over the title, and my name at the bottom, printed in bold gold letters.

            I flip open the book to the first page and notice that someone has written a message on the page. It is in an incredibly small, but impeccable handwriting, so neat and consistent it almost looks printed. The message reads:

Dan, I enjoyed reading the book and I believe it has the potential to get published. I hope you will not mind that I have left some notes and thoughts to use or discard as you feel. Best of luck, Gabriel.

             In disbelief, I flip to page one of the book and see the same tiny, neat handwriting in the margins, occasionally squeezed in between the lines of text, making notes on various passages that I have written. The next page is the same, and I thumb through the book and see there are notes the whole way through.

            My typical reaction would be to become indignant that someone has presumed to read and criticize my work without asking permission, but I am too amazed at the implications of the notes. I sit back, and stare at the words, before rummaging in my pocket and pulling out my phone.

            Hands shaking, I thumb through to the memo voice app and open it. There is a saved document there, with a time of about five and a half hours on it. Apprehensively I press play, and immediately hear my voice.

            “So, what were you thinking when you created Bieber?”

            I cringe at the absurdity of the question but wait in anticipation until I hear the answer.

            “I guess I should have seen that question coming. Not my finest...”

            I laugh out loud as the interview continues. The recording has done little to dull the tone and music of God's voice, and hearing it causes my skin to tingle and the hair on my body to stand on end, but in an amazing, electric way. I can scarcely believe it. Somehow, the dream that did not feel like a dream, but had to be one, turns out to have actually happened. The notes on the book, the recording in my phone are proof they happened, even though I had checked the phone previously and couldn't find any sign of it.

            As the voice of God on the phone continues, I wonder briefly at what I could do with the recording. I could take it to the media or try and sell it to the church and make millions! I had the words of God here in my hand! But I check myself before my mind gets carried away. Few would believe that the recording is real. I certainly have no proof that it is. And I am near certain it was not in my phone yesterday; I guess that what has been gifted could just as easily be taken away.

            I abandon my plans of wealth and power and instead I scramble to my feet, run over to one of the boxes I have already packed and rip it open. Inside I take out a pad of paper and a pen and, sitting back down beside the phone I begin to scribble notes. John Holmes from the Herald tasked me with writing an interview and he was going to get it.

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The Interview - 13. The office looks different

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The Interview - 11. Back in the apartment I am too agitated to sit