by PJ Sharon
I completed each element with flawless grace and ease, even landing my second jump combination. The blend of free style and dance moves gave the routine a unique flare. Celine Dion’s voice carried out rich notes that I capitalized on with deep, flowing edges, the soft elegant hand gestures speaking the words of the song to the hushed audience.
As the music built one last time, my heart hammered in my chest. I’d planned an axel when I choreographed the routine, but I usually pulled out at the last minute and did a waltz/double loop combo. My speed felt right, my edges sharp and crisp. Strength and determination infused me as I stepped onto the forward outside edge and kicked through with my right foot. My leg reached clear out in front of me and I jumped high into the air, tucking and wrapping my free leg exactly as my coaches had tried to teach me for years. I landed on a clean back outside edge, and the skaters watching went wild. As I completed my final spin, stepped out, and ended back at center ice with a lunge that brought me onto one knee, the crowd roared.
Gasping for breath, I dragged myself to my feet. I smiled up into the bleachers and waved at my sister and best friends. Then I took my bows, looked up to the heavens, and blew Mom a kiss.
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I skated around the ice for the last time, waving at the crowd and collecting the flowers and stuffed animals scattered at my feet. I took one final bow and left the ice, wading through the mob of skaters who hugged me and patted me on the back. Even Cassie and Portia grinned and congratulated me. I emptied my hands, piling my treasures onto the bench. And then, with my adrenalin and emotions as high as they’d ever been, I headed for the one person I most wanted to see. Bill stood waiting for me against the wall.
“You were amazing.” His voice cracked with emotion. “I’ve never been so proud in all my life.” He opened his arms and I fell into them, tears of happiness and grief pouring out of me in a silent flood. I hugged him back, thinking that those were the most precious words I had ever heard.
Chapter 32
The next few weeks passed so quickly, it made me wonder if pregnancy had sped up my internal clock. I still hadn’t told my family. Some part of me hoped they would all just figure it out so I didn’t have to face them with the truth. Most of my clothes had been hanging off of me a month ago and now fit fine, thanks to the hefty appetite of my growing sprout of a baby. It seemed he wouldn’t let me go without food for more than a few hours without reminding me with nausea and dizziness that made starving not an option. I decided only a boy could need a snack that desperately. Since my system wasn’t used to that much food all at once, I’d taken the grazing approach and carried bags of whole wheat crackers and granola bars with me everywhere, nibbling whenever the thought struck me that I had a baby to feed. It was no longer only about me. As long as I avoided mirrors that told me I was getting fat, I could see the tiny bulge of my belly as a kind of science project, like growing a bean in first grade.
I’d been to a couple of counseling sessions (it had taken three just to fill Dr. Eaton in on the facts of my life). I had a feeling I’d be in counseling for a long time. She thought the most important thing we should focus on right now was my “relationship with food.” She didn’t like the labels of anorexia and bulimia. She said it gave too much power to the disease. “Labels create a reality that undermines our ability to make changes in our thinking,” she’d said, which I didn’t get at first. But then, I started thinking about all of the labels I’d been given in my life and realized that I saw them as the truth—someone else’s version of the truth. Rachael had started calling me “Perfect Penny” when I brought home my first grade report card that had all A’s. Given her snippy tone, I hadn’t taken it as a compliment. The teasing continued until she left home five years later, but by then that name had been indelibly imprinted on me like a tattoo burned into my flesh. It occurred to me that I’d pretty much tried to live up to every label I’d been given. I had let everyone else decide who and what I was. In my warped and twisted thinking, I’d starved myself to become what was expected of me while at the same time thinking I was in control. How could I be so wrong?
As “new age-y” as Dr. Eaton sounded, she’d convinced me that my “stinking thinking” had gotten off track somewhere and that I needed to reboot the messages that had played on a continual loop in my head until I’d believed them. The war I’d waged to be thin turned out to be a battle that could have no victor. If I continued to fight against nature—namely, my need for a healthy diet—the casualties would include not only me, but the little one I had decided to keep. So, instead of hating the very thing that would help my baby grow and keep me healthy, whenever I got that sick feeling about putting food in my body, she had me say “Food is not the enemy, food is my friend.” It sounded ridiculous to me, but I have to admit, after doing it for a few weeks, it got easier to eat without feeling bad about it or counting every calorie and gram of fat.
I think not having Mom to worry about anymore also made a difference—as terrible as that made me feel. It had only been a month, and I missed her every day, but I didn’t miss seeing her suffer, or having to be so responsible for her. So many things between us had become about control, about loss, about death and fear. I didn’t realize how starving myself and purging was the only way I felt in control. Or that I felt so guilty about being angry with her for getting sick that I didn’t believe I deserved to live. How messed up was that? Without all of that chaos and pressure, the relief alone made the grief easier to handle. I still cried when I thought about her, but sometimes I smiled, too.
School and working on the weekends kept me plenty busy, so I didn’t have much time to think about it, which was probably for the best. I still needed to figure out what to do next. I quit my lessons with George. I expected him to be relieved, but instead he patted my shoulder and said that I could come back any time if I changed my mind. When you least expect it, people surprise you. I hadn’t skated since the show and the break from it made me miss it, something I hadn’t felt in forever. It would be good to go back to it in the spring with no plan to compete in regionals or the Eastern States competitions.
Dad gaped at me for a few seconds when I told him, but he didn’t say anything. He just went in his room and shut the door. It was hard to tell what he was thinking or feeling. He went to work, moped around the house, got lost in the yard, or hung out with his buddies at the VFW most nights. I’d hardly seen him since the funeral, and rarely was he sober when I did.
I had read some Al-Anon literature that Dr. Eaton had given me that said, “I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it.” Between that and saying the serenity prayer every day, I was beginning to realize that whatever choices other people made, I had no control over them and I wasn’t responsible for their feelings. No matter how perfect I tried to be, it would never be enough to ‘fix’ what was wrong with someone else. “I’m not responsible for anyone else’s happiness.” Another useful affirmation, even if I had a hard time saying it, let alone believing it. I thought the more important revelation came when Dr. Eaton had me say the second part of that, “no one else is responsible for mine.”
I guess that let Carter off the hook for making me feel insignificant and small—invisible once again. I had no one to blame but myself, but I couldn’t understand how he could walk away and not look back after everything that had happened between us. It was hard not to take it personally.
Mr. Barstow had allowed me to transfer my seventh period Physics class to a Child Development Lab, figuring I could use the experience, and that I had enough Science credits to graduate. Since I’d decided against medical school, he said I really didn’t need it, and thought it might lighten my academic load. Dad questioned the transfer but signed off on it under the circumstances, thinking my stress level was due solely to Mom’s death. I dreaded telling him the truth.
Part of the new class was working a few hours a week at the local pre-school daycare center. At first, I wondered what I had gotten myself
into. It quickly became apparent to me that if you could harness the energy of a bunch of three and four year olds, you could probably light up the entire state of Connecticut.
In spite of their supercharged batteries, I liked being with the kids. They made me feel like I was one of them. They accepted me for exactly who I was and had no expectations of me. All they wanted was my attention. We played games, finger painted, read stories, and sometimes when they laid down for nap time, I would pat one of their little backs, waiting for them to drift off, knowing that I had helped them find that never-never land of sleep, where they could dream of what they wanted to be some day—a place where no one else could tell them who they were.
Things with Bill were kind of weird. He had called me a couple of times, but said he didn’t want to push me and that I should get in touch with him when I felt ready. When I tried to talk to Dad about it, he refused to discuss it, saying, “Hasn’t that man caused enough trouble?” I figured I had better give Dad some time to adjust to being without Mom before I made him feel like he was losing me, too.
It was a Friday night in October and I had come home to an empty house after the six to ten shift at the rink. My feet ached. I kicked my shoes off and got into my pajamas for bed, dying to crawl under the covers and disappear into exhausted, dreamless sleep. I heard Dad’s Jeep squeal into the driveway and knock over the trash cans.
I bolted upright and heard him yell a muffled, “Damn it!”
As much concerned as annoyed, I got out of bed and peeked out my window which was above the garage.
Dad climbed out of the car, staggered up the back steps and fumbled for his house key. After a few minutes, he managed to get in. “Penny! You home?”
I went to the top of the stairs. “I’m in, Dad. You can lock up.” Not surprisingly, he was a stickler for security. You can’t be too safe. There are a lot of crazy people in the world.
“Can you come down here?” The refrigerator door opened and I heard the distinctive clink of a beer bottle followed by the twist and toss of the cap onto the table. Dad wasn’t the kind of drunk who got scary or violent. Instead he got sad. I let out a long sigh, threw on my pink robe, jammed my feet into my Tasmanian devil slippers, and muttered under my breath as I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen.
The only light on was the one over the kitchen sink. In the soft yellow glow, Dad looked small and frail. He wasn’t a big man to begin with, but he seemed to have shrunk over the last month. He plopped down into Mom’s chair and gestured across the table with his beer. “Have a seat. I need to talk to you.”
This could not be good. I sat in the hot seat, remembering all of the times Mom had sat across from me lecturing, yelling, or otherwise giving me an emotional beat down. My stomach clenched in response. “What is it, Dad?
He scratched his unshaven cheek and ran a finger under his nose. “You doing alright in school?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the job?”
“Okay.”
“Have you talked to your sister lately?”
I had to assume he meant Sarah. “She called the other day. She’s coming home next weekend to visit.” I eyed him suspiciously. “Is everything okay, Dad?
He took a long swig from his beer and smacked it down on the wooden table, splashing some onto his hand and ignoring it. “That is what I’d like to know. You’ve been going to work, to school, seeing your friends, acting like...like it doesn’t faze you a bit. It’s like you don’t even care that your mother is...gone.”
I swallowed, my throat going dry. “Of course I care, Dad. But moping around isn’t going to change anything.”
“It’s not natural. You don’t cry, you haven’t mentioned her once since the funeral. You quit skating. For God’s sake, you’re even eating again. It’s like you’re glad she’s gone.” His voice lost some of its venom, sounding more sad than angry.
“I’m not...” Oh, crap. I hadn’t intended to tell him while he was drunk, but at this rate, if I waited for him to sober up, my baby would be in college. My heart kicked into overdrive, a pounding pulse in my ears. I took a deep breath. “Dad, I’m...I’m pregnant.”
His eyes widened and the color drained from his face. “But, how...when...?” Then his eyes narrowed and the color came back, his face going from white to crimson in the flash of a second. The muscles of his jaw twitched. “How could you do this? I knew it! You’re just like your mother...sleeping around...do you even know who the father is?” he shouted, his voice pitching higher the way it used to during his fights with Mom.
Heat rose to my cheeks, my heart scrambling to find a hiding place. My stomach twisted into an ugly, painful knot. “Of course I do. Let me explain...”
But he cut me off. “Of all the stupid, shameful...you have disgraced this family!” He was on his feet, pacing back and forth across the small kitchen, swearing in French and sputtering incoherent insults. I thought I heard him threatening to have Carter thrown in jail. The stench of too many beers permeated the air and I knew a powder keg was about to blow. My stomach clenched tight when he pounded a fist on the counter and yelled, “I’ll kill that bastard!” Then came the ax. “This is why you quit skating? Your mother would be so... disappointed.” He wouldn’t even look at me. His hands remained fisted at his sides and he shook his head as if willing none of it to be true.
I choked on the tears that rose in my throat and filled my eyes. They overflowed and ran down my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Dad.” But nothing I could say would take that look off his face.
“Sorry! I’ll bet you are. Your whole future down the toilet...for what? You gave up everything for some punk who didn’t care about anything but getting in your pants.” His face contorted with rage, he shouted, beyond reason. “I can’t take any more of this! I want you out. When I get up tomorrow morning, I do not want to see your face, do you hear me?”
“But...where will I go? You can’t do this. Dad, listen to me, please...”
“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.” His eyes blazed with fury. But beyond the rage, I saw the pain I’d caused him. His disappointment and shame lashed out at me from across the room. My heart ached—for him, for me, but mostly for the simple fact that when I left, we would both be all alone. My mother’s words came back to me. Take care of your father, Penny. Promise me. I’d promised and now I’d failed. There was nothing left to say.
I stood on wobbly limbs as I gained control of my voice. The bitter taste in my mouth spilled over into my words. “Fine—I’ll leave, but I hope you realize you are giving up a grandchild.” My shoulders slumped as I steadied myself on the back of the chair.
His face was hard as he swiped away tears that had fallen without permission, “That isn’t my grandchild.” He flinched as he lowered his eyes and looked away. “You aren’t my daughter. You never were.”
Chapter 33
I stuffed clothes into a suitcase, not paying attention to what exactly I’d packed. I threw on a pair of sweats and a tee shirt and slipped on my sneakers, jamming my slippers into the suitcase along with a pair of dressy flats. Choosing two pairs of shoes out of twenty to take with me was one more decision that seemed beyond me. The pounding in my head wasn’t enough to quiet the voice inside me that screamed my dad’s painful words. “You’re not my daughter. You never were.”
How could he be so cruel? It was like he always found the thing to say that would most tear my heart out. It was getting easier to see why Mom had reached out to someone else. Tears stung my cheeks as I grabbed my stuffed penguin and dragged my bag, bumping down the stairs. I waited at the kitchen door, listening to the silence of the darkened house, hoping he would come to his senses and stop me before I left.
Nothing. Not a sound. Just the clock ticking on the wall. It was after midnight. Where was I going to go? I thought of Bill. He’d said that if I needed anything...but the thought of telling him why Dad had thrown me out made my chest ache. I couldn’t bear the thought of him rejecting m
e, too. I felt so ashamed. Dad was right. Mom would have been incredibly disappointed in me. I’d thrown away my skating career. All of the hard work and her sacrifice—wasted.
I shuddered, choking back a sob as I closed the door behind me. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I whispered.
I threw my suitcase into the back seat of the Honda and climbed into the driver’s side, setting my penguin onto the bucket seat next to me. I stared, sightless for a long time until finally, I started the car, backed out of the driveway and headed for Sami’s house. I parked out front, breathing a sigh of relief when I saw her bedroom light on. I texted her a quick “im out front can I stay with u?”
While I waited for a reply, I noticed the cars at number twenty-seven. The usual Friday night party was in full swing, but Carter’s blue Nova was conspicuously absent. He’d already left for Michigan, then. I felt more alone than ever. I swiped at the tears that kept coming, an endless flow of hot, salty water, like a leaky faucet on an open sea.
The porch light snapped on and Sami was standing in the front door, waving me in. I grabbed my penguin and my suitcase and followed her down the hall. The small ranch style house was neat and orderly, but not overly cheerful. The tans and browns gave it a kind of sterile look, as if a bright color might disturb the solemn mood of its inhabitants.
“Samantha, what are you doing? Oh, hi Penny. Isn’t it a little late...” Mrs. Owens took one look at my puffy, red eyes and stopped mid-sentence. She glanced down at my suitcase. “What’s going on?”
I hesitated in the narrow hallway, swallowing the urge to burst into hysterics. “My dad...kicked me out.”
“Oh, Penny, I’m so sorry. What on earth could you have done to warrant your father throwing you out of your house?” She took me in her arms and I fell apart, crying and spilling out incoherent words of explanation. Sami took my suitcase into her room and her mom led me to the kitchen, sat me in a chair, and poured me a glass of water. “You look terrible,” she said, handing me a box of tissues. I could see why Sami got irritated by her mother’s habit of stating the obvious as if I didn’t know how pathetic I must look. I mopped my face and blew my nose, sniffling as I caught my breath. She put on water for tea. “Start at the beginning and tell me what happened.”