Chapter 5: Talking in Dreams
Frank's house was actually quite spacious. It was a two-story home with a fairly decent layout: a living room and an open kitchen on the ground floor, four bedrooms upstairs, and a bathroom on each floor—though only the one upstairs had a working shower.
Essentially, it was a two-story, four-bedroom, two-bath, one-kitchen, two-living-area house, complete with both a front and back yard. Together, the yards made up maybe a hundred to two hundred square meters, all fenced in.
If this were in China, not a single inch of that yard would be wasted—people would be growing vegetables, herbs, maybe even raising chickens. But here? Frank's garden was overgrown, abandoned, and unkempt—just a mess of weeds pretending to be lawn.
And while the house was big enough to qualify as a small villa by Chinese standards, it didn't stand a chance against the chaos of so many people living under one roof.
Of the four bedrooms:
Frank had one to himself.
Fiona had her own as well.
Lip and Ian shared a room.
Carl, Debbie, and baby Liam were all squeezed into the last room.
More people meant more clutter. Clothes, toys, shoes, socks—especially with so many kids—were everywhere. The hallways and stairs were littered with stuff. If you weren't careful, you could easily stub your toe on a toy truck or slip on a stray sock.
And the hygiene situation? Pretty bad. The sponge in the kitchen sink looked more like an old rag dragged across a muddy floor, covered in green mold-like fuzz that could probably stand up and walk away on its own.
"I look ancient," Frank muttered as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror holding Liam, inspecting his reflection.
Last night, he'd stayed up chatting with Debbie, who filled him in on all kinds of details about himself—including his age.
Apparently, Frank was just in his early fifties. Technically still middle-aged, with a good decade or more to go before retirement. If well-maintained, someone that age could easily look like they were in their thirties.
But the man in the mirror? He looked closer to sixty or seventy. Sagging skin, drooping cheeks—it was hard to say if it was genetics, stress, or just that Europeans tend to age faster. At least he didn't have white hair. His head was still full of thick blond strands, and he was in fairly decent shape—that was something, at least.
Although Frank had regained some memories from his past life, he had zero memory of this body's past. The city, the streets outside, even the neighborhood—it all felt foreign. He was a complete stranger in his own life. And with Liam in tow, he was reluctant to venture outside and risk getting lost or becoming a burden to the kids.
So instead, he stayed in and spent the day doing what he could: cleaning the house and trying to bring a bit of order to the chaos.
In his previous life, Frank had been something of a housekeeping expert. But this place was huge, and it was filled with stuff—messy, unorganized stuff. Half the day passed in a blur, and all he managed was to make the house look slightly more livable. And he was exhausted.
Fortunately, Liam was an incredibly well-behaved baby. He didn't scream or cry like some other kids might. He just quietly sat in his stroller, sucking on his fingers and playing with his toes—content to entertain himself, as if he instinctively knew not to cause trouble.
"There's so much that needs replacing in this house," Frank muttered as he opened the fridge and saw how little there was. He threw together a simple lunch for himself and Liam with what little they had.
One sip of the milk—which tasted more like water than anything remotely dairy-like—and Frank frowned in disgust.
That afternoon, Debbie came bursting through the door after school, tossed her backpack aside, and flung herself into Frank's arms.
"Daddy!"
"Hey there, my little sweetheart," Frank said, scooping her up and twirling her through the air.
Together, they took care of Liam, tidied up the house some more, and Debbie even helped Frank—who was still struggling with memory loss—look through photo albums of the kids growing up.
Exhausted from the day's work, Frank laid on the couch with Debbie curled up in his arms. Before he knew it, he drifted off to sleep.
In his dreams, memories began to surface again—not from his past life, but from the life of this body. Like a reel of film playing back at high speed, fragments of Frank's past flooded his mind in vivid detail.
Creak.
The front door opened. Fiona stepped in, her posture weary and her expression tired. She casually slipped off her coat and placed a large black plastic bag onto the kitchen table.
"Hey there, did you miss me?" she asked softly, bending down to pick up baby Liam from his stroller.
"Where's Frank?" she muttered, glancing around.
Then she spotted the two sleeping figures on the couch—Frank and Debbie, peacefully dozing off together. For a moment, a warm smile appeared on her face. But it didn't last long. The smile faded into a sigh, and her gaze grew complicated as she looked at Frank.
"Did you poop again?" she asked Liam gently, carrying him off to change his diaper.
Liam's little noises during the diaper change stirred Frank from his sleep.
He opened his eyes, dazed, his mind still muddled by the flood of memories he had just experienced. His thoughts were tangled and unclear.
"Hey, Fiona," he murmured—but instead of looking toward the kitchen, he looked down at the girl resting on his chest and called her that name.
"Hm?" Fiona heard him from the kitchen and walked over.
"I'm sorry, Fiona," Frank said quietly, still staring at Debbie, lost in the haze of memory. "Last night, we left you and Lip in Washington Park. The dealer gave us a free sample, and we totally forgot you were both still outside waiting for us…"
"How long did you wait? You could've frozen to death out there. Did you try asking anyone for help?"
"I'm sorry. I swear I'll never do that again. I promise I'll be a better dad."
Frank wasn't speaking to Fiona. His mind had wandered back to a moment over a decade ago. He had mistaken Debbie for a young Fiona. The way he spoke was like someone half-asleep, drifting through fragments of dreams and memories, his voice thick with guilt and regret.
"It's okay, Dad," Debbie replied gently. She didn't fully understand what was happening, but from his words, she guessed that some of Frank's memories were coming back. She didn't correct him—just went along with it.
"Are you mad at me?" Frank asked softly.
"No," Debbie shook her head.
"Heh… my sweet girl," Frank said, his tone softening. "How about tomorrow I take you to Claire's and we get your ears pierced? Didn't you always want that?"
"Mm-hmm," Debbie nodded.
As Frank continued mumbling, the front door opened again. Lip returned, backpack slung over his shoulder.
He was just about to speak when he caught sight of Fiona standing in the hallway, covering her mouth, tears brimming in her eyes. She waved at Lip to stay quiet.
"I'm glad you stayed with me, Fiona. You were amazing. I don't know what I would've done without you," Frank whispered.
"Heh… if you hadn't been there to look after Lip, he probably would've ended up sold for drug money by your mom."
"Ugh, I'm so tired now… my head feels all floaty. The drugs must still be wearing off. I'm gonna sleep a little more. When I wake up, we'll grab some burgers. Then we'll go to Claire's," he muttered, slowly drifting back into sleep.
Lip tiptoed over, casting a questioning look at Debbie.
Debbie simply raised a finger to her lips to signal silence, then gently pulled a blanket over Frank.
Fiona had already rushed upstairs.