In our own weird way, we tend to create our own reality. We foolishly find ourselves expecting others to fit perfectly, seamlessly, into our self-made constructions. They are the false narratives that we continue to believe to be true, despite evidence that may suggest otherwise.
My December truth had almost finished me. For a while there, I had blissfully imagined a world that I was no longer a part of—a world that might have had but a few loved ones left to mourn for me, just briefly, before inevitably moving on to live lives of their own. And I, my whole self, even my memory, would eventually dissipate into nothing—no more than a distant whisper, forever lost in the unrelenting wind. As it had before me, all would continue thereafter.
But that was then. So, what had happened to me since? Not that I would ever actually admit it to anyone, but everything that had just transpired, well, it left me feeling very alone—and very scared.
I sleepily gazed out of the passenger side window. My eyelids would grow droopy, heavy, then suddenly shoot wide open again. My dad was livid, and it showed. He was speeding up the parkway at well over 80 mph, weaving in and out of traffic, undeterred by the road’s sharp and dangerous turns. It was causing everything around us—from the other cars in motion to the surrounding trees on either side of the highway—to become one mangled and senseless blur.
Between the medication the nurses had given me back at the ER and Dad’s erratic, reckless driving, I found myself becoming further unsettled. I felt like someone had managed to gather all I’d seen and heard on that parkway, throw all that stimuli into a blender, and then sadistically serve me the liquefied remains as soup. The more Mom shouted at Dad, the harder his foot pressed down on the gas. I prayed silently for their bickering to end.
Mesmerized by the blur forming outside my window, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, raised it steadily against the window, and captured it as we passed by.
When their battle finally came to what seemed like an abrupt stop, I heard Dad angrily mutter a few choice words under his breath. He glanced over at me and looked surprised to see I was awake.
“Sage, I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, “but from one artist to another, I usually do my best work when I’m alert and focused.” He motioned over toward my phone. “I didn’t even see you taking more pictures over there. Have you been doing that this whole time?”
“I pulled it out of my pocket when you weren’t looking. Don’t get too excited. It’s just something to go along with my photo essay. I’m entering a contest.”
“A contest?” he asked. “Is that so?”
“I mean, yeah. I know I’ve been playing around with this stuff for a while, but I thought that maybe I could see, you know, what I’m capable of. I mean, it’s highly unlikely that I’m going to win anything or whatever. Just trying to put all the pieces together before its ready to submit.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Sounds like you’re taking this hobby a bit more seriously. So, you are going to intern for us this summer?” Dad smiled over at me, almost proudly. “Something told me that you would.”
“Again, don’t get too excited,” I snapped. “If you’re not even going to be here, what’s the point?”
Dad drew in his breath sharply, but he wouldn’t respond. He began to fiddle around with the radio instead. “Looks like Sheila was messing with the channels again,” he said under his breath. I watched as Dad tapped a few more buttons, finally settling on some ’90s alternative station that he loved to blast, especially when he was in a bad mood. I turned back around and pressed my face against the window, just as this one song I liked began to play. It had this weird but still magnetic tune, with a dark, repetitive chorus—the type that gets stuck in your head for days.
As I slowly nodded my head along to the soothing sound of the music, I closed my eyes tightly, willing myself to a much happier place.
There was this one vision I would often imagine whenever I was sad, way back since I was a little girl. I would run to my room, burrow myself deep down under the bed covers, and sometimes even use a pillow to cover the top of my head. Muffling out the sounds and shielding myself from sorrow, I would become lost in this daydream completely. Squeezing my eyes even tighter, I willed the image to remain etched in my mind.
I saw a pure blue sky that promised blissful mornings to come. When I thought about it hard, I could almost feel the warm, spring air lightly graze my cheeks. I imagined holding my arms out as wide as they would go, and when I looked down, I dreamt that I saw my two feet firmly planted on the ground, bare. As I stood there on a road, its cool, bumpy gravel poked at, and almost tickled, my sensitive soles. Curious, I made small, circular motions over the pebbles with my toes, and for a second there, it felt like it was really happening.
Then I imagined craning my neck upwards, where two bountiful trees towered right before me. Their outstretched branches almost connected to one another and formed a sort of halo above. The trees were so thick, so heavily lush and weighed down by the greenest of leaves. They seemed to signify all the promises of life to come. Ahead of me, the road stretched beyond, for miles and miles, bound on both sides by seemingly endless rivers of grass. A single patch of wildflowers grew adjacent to where I stood.
All I needed to do was cross underneath the tree canopy and see what the world had in store. I was never sure of where it all led, but I knew deep within my heart that it was my mind’s way of trusting in hope. It was my vision, my image—the world as it was meant to be. One day I would become one with it. I’d venture out into its unknown and undoubtedly find my way. Dark clouds would not follow.
I smiled softly, contentedly, to myself. Eyes still closed, yet quite relaxed and allowing my mind to settle; I drifted off to sleep.
*
“Sage? Sage, honey, please don’t be scared. Wake up. It’s okay. I promise.”
My eyes fluttered open. Feeling incredibly disoriented, it took me a few moments to recognize where I was. I looked up at Dad, silent, watching as his eyes grew intense with genuine worry. Then I started to wonder: What had just happened?
“Dad?”
“You looked unsettled. And then you started screaming in your sleep.”
I just kept staring up at my dad, confused. The last thoughts I remembered had been happy. But I also knew I tended to experience night terrors from time to time. And when I did, Mom would usually be the one to wake me up from them. More often than not, I didn’t even remember what they were. Just a few beads of perspiration remained to tell the tale.
It wasn’t much longer before I noticed that the car wasn’t even moving, and we were parked on the shoulder of the parkway instead. “Where are we?” I asked as I rubbed my entire face with the back of my hand. “And why does my head hurt so much today?”
“We’re on the Hutch now. Flat tire,” Dad explained. “I pulled over at first when you started screaming. Must have run over something pretty sharp while stopping here in the shoulder. I need to get us off this exit and pull into that gas station down the way.” He pointed toward the exit. “Then we can head over to your mom’s.”
“Shouldn’t we call for help? Like a tow truck or a service guy?” I asked. Then instantly, as if answering my question, a sports car dangerously whizzed by. It was flying so fast that it drifted halfway over the line, skidded and screeched deafeningly, and nearly smacked right into the side of our car. Yeah, Dad could call a guy out here to come help us. But with the way these clowns were driving, it could be the last thing he ever did.
“This is nothing that your old man can’t handle.” Dad grinned proudly from ear to ear. “We’re not that far away, and although it will be a bit of a bumpy ride, once we get to the station I’ll be able to fix us up good as new.”
Then, with the seasoned expertise of a New York City driver (who had undoubtedly over the years dug himself out of many jams), Dad zipped off the parkway’s shoulder without further delay. We were back on the main road for a few brief seconds, before careening off the
next exit. The SUV bumped and rattled us both as it teetered and tottered down the road, and at one point, I held onto my tummy as I started to feel sick. But by some stroke of luck, the car had enough in her to get us safely to our destination.
Despite being throttled around, I could barely keep my eyes open as we pulled into the station. The medication was obviously still taking a tremendous toll, but I could also begin to feel the overwhelming sensations of hunger creeping in, and it was enough to keep me awake and wanting to do something about it.
“Dad, can I go inside and get a couple of donuts?” I asked. I had an instant craving for anything obnoxiously loaded up with sugar.
“Donuts? You’re still on those? You know they’re not good for you.” Putting the car in park, Dad stepped outside and headed towards the back hatch. I slid out from my seat and closely followed.
“I’m sorry, but do you see any rooftop community gardens here?” I said as I watched him fumble around in the back for something. “I mean, I know it’s junk food and all, but I’m hungry.”
“You should eat fruit.”
“I don’t want fruit.”
“Why not? It’s natural sugar,” Dad said, yet he pulled out his wallet anyway. “Here, take this.” He handed me a ten-dollar bill. “Get a few if you want, but I’m telling you, it’s pure garbage. I’ll be in there in a bit… Ah, here we go.” He pulled out the tire iron and strolled over toward the busted tire. “Just need to work some magic with this, and then we’re good to go.”
“Thanks.” I turned around and headed towards the storefront.
My legs wobbled awkwardly, and my head still felt kinda wonky, but I managed to find my way inside the filling station’s convenience store anyway. As I entered through its glass doors, the fluorescent overhead lighting instantly wreaked havoc on my already weak eyes. So, I instinctively pulled my sunglasses from my tote and slipped them on my face.
Wandering over to the center display case where all the sugary treats were located, I sluggishly peered through the glass. I was undecided as to which ones to pick. My sunglasses didn’t exactly help much, seeing as they blocked out too much of the indoor lighting and obstructed my sight. I was starting to wonder if I should have stayed overnight at that hospital for further observation. Why had it become so difficult to complete a task so mundane and simple? Was it that hard to pick out a few pastries and throw them in a box?
Still unable to focus (both literally and figuratively, I guess you could say), I looked away from the display case and over toward the convenience store window. There was my dad, in plain view for anyone to see, hunched over the front right wheel of his car. Dad was wrestling with an obstinate tire that didn’t want to budge, and I could tell that he was becoming very frustrated. At one point, he slammed the tire iron directly onto the pavement and screamed a few of those choice words again. But then he got right back to work and kept at it anyway, despite its apparent difficulty.
Turning back to the display glass, I counted off four random donuts, dumped them in one of those boxes they keep along with the baggies and napkins, and headed toward the register.
When I made it to the front of the checkout line, I bid a friendly hello to the teenage clerk who worked there, but he barely nodded in response, his attention glued to the pages of his magazine. Shrugging my shoulders, I glanced down at the title and saw it was one that I was surprised was still in print. After he absentmindedly rung up my purchase and flung the box of donuts into a plastic store bag, I placed Dad’s ten-dollar bill directly into his hand.
He finally looked up, and when he saw me, smiled. “Nice hair,” he said.
I couldn’t tell if he was being facetious.
“Thanks, I guess.”
“No, really,” he said. “It is. Have a nice day.”
“Sure. You too.”
Self-consciously, I slid my purchase off the counter and shuffled over toward one of those little tables positioned right next to the storefront window. There I sat for several more minutes, quietly munching away as I watched my father. He was still struggling with that darn tire. He stood up again, this time wiping at his forehead. Then he took his jacket off and continued. A part of me considered joining him and perhaps even learning a thing or two about changing a flat. But I was so tired, so weak, and so hungry. After taking one last bite of my blueberry-flavored donut, I realized just how incredibly thirsty I was as well.
I saw that Dad had finally won the battle, and he turned and waved to me from outside. Soon he was in the store to join me, but by that point, I could barely keep my head held up and off the table.
“Need help getting up?” he asked.
I nodded.
“All right. Grab my hand.” He took my hand in one grip and my arm in the other, then hoisted me up onto the floor.
“Do we really need to do birthday stuff when I get back?” I asked.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He turned to the register, then back to me. “Do you think you can stand here for one second? I want to grab something over the counter real quick.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You want anything else before we go?”
“Just apple juice.”
“You got it.”
I watched as Dad strolled over toward the cooler, picked out my juice and one of those frozen coffee drinks for himself, and then headed over to the same register I had been at just minutes earlier. Only when Dad went over, he casually motioned toward the magazine in the kid’s hands and made some sort of passing comment that I couldn’t quite make out. Whatever it was, I could be sure that it was quite clever and knowledgeable, the type of comment only someone who lived and breathed media like Dad did could make. He had the guy’s full attention in just a matter of seconds and even managed to rouse a bit of laughter from his direction. It amazed me how Dad always knew just what to say (with whom and how to say it) wherever he went.
It wasn’t lost on me for one second, though, when I saw the clerk hand my father a pack of cigarettes, which Dad deftly slipped into the pocket of his leather jacket. I waited patiently for him to return to where I still stood, propped up against the glass, before making any mention of it at all.
“You’re smoking?” I asked as he held the door open for me.
“Not a lot,” he confided. “Don’t talk about it too loud.” He looked over both shoulders as we stepped outside onto the pavement. “I don’t think we’ll run into anyone from the office here, but you never know.”
“You don’t want people at work to know you’re a smoker?”
“I’m not a smoker.”
I pointed at the boxy protrusion jutting out from underneath his pocket. “Exhibit A: You just bought a pack of cigarettes, and I can see the outline of them—right there.”
“That doesn’t make me a smoker. I just do it occasionally,” Dad insisted. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
Just then my legs gave way and buckled underneath me. Dad quickly held his arms out and caught me before I could fall. “This was a mistake,” he said. “I better call your mom. This place isn’t too far away from a hosp—”
“No!” I protested. “I’ll be fine. I want to sleep at home.”
He looked at me skeptically for a bit. Then we continued our way towards the car. When we made our way back, Dad helped me onto the passenger side seat. He then got into the vehicle himself, and we were off.
I recognized where we were in just a few minutes and knew it wouldn’t be much longer before we’d be home. “Well, shouldn’t you never smoke?” I asked, returning to that conversation. “I mean, can’t it do some serious damage in the end?”
“Theoretically, yes.”
“Theoretically? You mean definitely. Like it is an indisputable, scientific fact,” I argued. “And must I even point out the irony surrounding your lecture about me eating a few donuts when you’re smoking—actually inhaling carbon monoxide and tar into your lu—”
“Sage, can you give me a b
reak for a minute? Like I said, on occasion, I smoke a bit to deal with stress. And, yes, I’d prefer you not mention it. The people where I work are health-conscious and socially aware. It wouldn’t look good if they saw me doing it.”
I rolled over to my side, facing him directly, my head propped up against the headrest of my seat. “What does Yoga Barbie think?”
“Yoga Bar—oh. Sheila. Cute one, Sage.”
“Well, it’s true. What does she think about your smoking? Or… have you not told her?”
Dad shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about Sheila so much if I were you.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
Dad shrugged and took a sip from his coffee drink. “Well, when I went to the office earlier today, while you were making a scene at group therapy—”
“How did you know about that?”
“Oh, believe me, Sage. Word travels. Doctors can make phone calls to parents, you know. Anyway, Sheila was already there—with a box.”
“A box?” I said. “I don’t get it. What does that mean?”
“It means she was gathering all her things at work to move out. Apparently, she was job-hunting and managed to snag a spot as a writer for The Wired Post Group without me knowing any better. She got Gavin to give her a reference and never told me.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“But what about Chicago?” I asked.
“I guess Maliek will be going after all.”
We were only two blocks away from home, but those last few minutes in the car seemed to last for hours. I’d be lying if I said that a large part of me wasn’t happy; it was no secret that I had been less than enthused by my father’s latest relationship choice. But, at the same time, watching him there in the car and noticing just how silent he had become, I couldn’t help but feel just a tad bit of empathy.
Painting Sage Page 21