by Shari Ryan
I shove my stool under the table and turn for the door, finding Mr. H waiting for me. He sighs. “Dan, baby, it will not happen tomorrow. It’s okay,” he says reaching out for me. I know he means well, but my obsession with organizing is driving him crazy because the habit is not one I’ve always had. Changing lifestyles and behaviors in a long-term relationship can be detrimental, but I have no choice. I’m forgetful and misplace things, forget important dates, including the day of the week sometimes. It’s out of my control and I prefer to have control.
He takes my hand and tugs me out of my studio, through the living room, and into the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” I ask, trying to match the garlic and rosemary aroma to the food. I’m not a kept wife ... we have a household where we take turns slaving over a stove. Mondays are Mr. H’s nights. I think he enjoys cooking more than I do though.
“Grilled chicken and sauteed mushroom risotto,” he exaggerates his answer with a bad, fake Italian accent.
“God, Dad! Stop, please, for the sake of my ears,” Aly groans, rolling her sea-blue eyes around in dramatic-princess fashion as she plops down in her seat at the table.
“Whine like that again, and I’ll call Joey to show him my Italian accent,” Mr. H replies.
“Dad! Seriously? Have you been reading my online journal? I have it locked.”
Mr. H sighs. “Oh sweetheart, it’s called a universal password, and I’ve got the magic number.”
“So what, you’re spying on me?” Aly snaps while flipping her long blond waves over her shoulder. “That’s not fair. You’re invading my privacy.”
“You’re invading my internet, though,” he replies.
“I need the internet to write my private thoughts down,” she grumbles.
“You’re thirteen. You’re my responsibility, and until you’re not, I have a right to spy on you. If you don’t want me to spy, don’t give me something to spy for.” She’s thirteen going on twenty. I’ve even had to have multiple talks with her this year about her wardrobe choices, which I wasn’t ready for yet. However, I did such an amazing job, she’s chosen to wear all black, every day now. If I hadn’t taken away the black eyeliner she had found in my makeup drawer, she’d be sporting the Marilyn Manson look too, but I drew the line with makeup until further notice, or until she turns eighteen, maybe. I’m not sure when I became that parent, but I guess it just happens.
“Guys,” I interrupt them as I sit down at the table across from Mr. H, my loving husband who seems to have steam pouring from his ears. “Mr. H ... let’s eat for now and continue this conversation later.”
“Dani, I asked you to stop it with ‘Mr. H.’ Plus, whose side are you on anyway?” he asks, throwing his dish towel at my head before taking his seat across from me. “Besides, I wasn’t spying through her journal, although, I kind of want to now. I overheard the giggles and Joey’s name forty times last night while she was talking on the phone.”
“I wasn’t talking to Joey. I was just talking to my friend … she’s the one who likes Joey. You are the most annoying person in the world,” Aly snarls. She’s lying. She’s the one who likes Joey. I’ve seen his name scribbled on her notepad, but I know she will not confess this out loud, not at thirteen.
“But, you love me anyway,” Mr. H sings.
“Whatever,” Aly mumbles.
“So, who’s Joey?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says, popping the p in her response.
“I have the universal password too,” I tell her. I don’t even know if there is such a thing as a universal password, but that reminds me, I should write it down if we have one.
“Awesome,” she says, slapping her hand onto her forehead, dramatically dragging it down the side of her cheek.
“What happened to my happy little girl?” I ask her, wondering why the teenager years are so cruel to a girl. This isn’t even the once-a-month-fun we put up with all the time. Aly turns into a gremlin for almost a week, then she returns to this version of a hormonal teenager. I’d say we’re getting close to gremlin season by the extra bit of hostility in her tone. Neither, Mr. H nor I, need proof of what time of month it is here. Aly proves it in every way possible.
“I’m not a little girl,” she replies, stabbing her chicken with the prods of her fork.
“You’re my little girl,” I remind her. I know I’m pissing her off more, but sometimes I think kindness breaks through unnecessary anger.
“Why can’t you two just stop. Do you hear how annoying you are?” Aly replies.
Her attitude hurt me when this mood swing thing began last year, but I’ve reminded myself every month that I was a terror to my mom at her age too. This must be payback.
“Your mom went to the doctor today,” Mr. H mumbles, directing his statement toward Aly. He keeps his focus locked on his food while pushing around chunks of chicken across his plate.
“So, what?” Aly says, trying to appear angry even though I spot a slight quiver in her bottom lip. “It’s not like they ever have anything new to say. They can’t make Mom better, so why do you keep going?”
I agree with Aly. I wouldn’t tell her I agree, but she’s a smart girl and thinks the same way I do.
However, she does not share the same thoughts as Layne. He is determined to fix something that can’t be fixed.
I close my eyes and wish away the next minute because I can assume what’s coming. There has never been tension between the two. Aly is a daddy’s girl through and through, but she has been pressing his buttons in the worst way ever since my diagnosis.
Mr. H drops his fork and runs his fingers through the sides of his dark overgrown hair. “Go to your room,” he mutters.
“I’m eating,” she snaps.
“Well, now you’re done.” He takes Aly’s plate and moves it to the other side of the table. “Go. When you can figure out how to be a decent human being in this house, you can come back to the table and eat.”
My husband has changed. He changed for me. He changed a long time ago for me, giving up everything that was his in the world. I didn’t want him to change. I loved him the way he was. I still love him as much, but I feel like I’ve stolen a part of his life.
Aly doesn’t argue. She stands up from her chair and storms upstairs to her bedroom, slamming the door as an explanation mark to her grand exit.
“You don’t have to be so tough on her,” I tell him.
Mr. H places his fists beneath his chin and gazes at me with wonder. “I’m protecting her,” he tells me. “I’m protecting her like I try to protect you.”
“Protecting her from what?”
“Regret, Dani. I don’t want her to regret anything.”
“Please, stop doing this,” I beg him. “Please, Mr. H.”
I sigh, feeling my heart sink to the bottom of my stomach, confusing my brain into thinking I’m full when I haven’t taken a bite.
The risotto is still steaming, and I’m staring through the fog, considering the last five minutes of dinner is probably my fault. From here on out, everything will be my fault. People rarely feel regret at the same time they feel blame, so if teaching Aly right from wrong is only about the art of appreciation, I don’t see the point.
“Dani,” he says. “You don’t know my name, do you?”
I snap out of my daze and look up at him through the steam. “Yeah?”
“What’s going on? I called your name three times.”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking. Jeez.”
“You’re scaring me,” he says.
“Okay, you are being overbearing and worrying yourself into a mess. I’m fine.” I hold my arms out in front of me, twisting and turning them from side to side. “Do you see anything wrong with me? No, let’s eat.”
I place my left hand down beside my plate, reaching for my fork, but then realize I had placed my silverware on my plate.
* * *
I’m fine.
You’re not fine.
I’m just tired.
&nb
sp; You’re broken.
* * *
Great, now the little voices in my head are at it again.
“Like I said ... I’m fine,” I tell him.
“Okay, I get it,” he says.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said, I’m fine!”
“Dani, what are—?”
Mr. H has his elbows pressed into the table. He’s leaning forward and his mouth is moving, but I didn’t hear the words being spoken.
“I am fine, goddamnit,” I shout at him. It’s like he’s poking at me. Maybe he’s poking at me to push me away so he won’t have to deal with these “issues,” anymore. He’s staring at me like I’m a stranger. He knows I hate when he does that. Yet, there’s the look, right in front of me. “I’ll be right back.”
“Dani, I want her to be a little more understanding. That’s all.”
“She’s still a child. She shouldn’t have to understand any of this.” I stand from the table and make my way up to Aly’s bedroom, closing myself inside.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she says as soon as I sit down on her bed beside her.
“You don’t have to be sorry. We’re best friends. Best friends don’t need to say sorry, right?”
“Mom, I hate talking about your doctor’s appointments. I want to pretend like you aren’t going. I want to just convince myself you’re okay. I can’t lose you.”
Her words tear my heart in half. I’ve thought through what she’s saying and I feel the same way about her, but I have no choice, and neither does she. “I know, and I can’t lose you, but our hearts are connected, so technically, we can never lose each other.” I have nothing better to offer her as comfort, and it’s an awful feeling.
“I want Dad to stop acting like you are broken,” Aly says.
“It’s out of love,” I admit, even though I have been getting annoyed with his over protective behavior.
“Can’t our lives just go back to normal for now?”
Nothing will ever be normal for either of us again, and I don’t know if I should be giving her false hope or the cold hard truth.
Three
Twelve Years Ago
I WAS 18 YEARS OLD
“Dani, someone’s at the door for you,” Mom shouts from the kitchen.
“Tell whoever it is I’m not here,” I yell back from inside my bedroom.
“You can come on in,” I hear Mom say. I’m not surprised by this.
I close my bedroom door and lock it. I don’t feel like seeing anyone today. I don’t want the pity or an attempt of making things normal. There’s no sense in doing that. There hasn’t been a sense in doing that at all over the last two years, but I still deal with the same sympathy every day and it’s exhausting.
I lean over Aly’s crib and run my fingers through her soft blonde hair. “I’m not going anywhere tonight, baby. I’d rather be home with you.” Going out requires too much energy and Aly will be up at five o’clock sharp, waiting for breakfast.
She smiles at me when I stop stroking the top of her head. “Mama,” she says. The word warms my heart, since it’s the one she likes to say the most, but I’m glad that was her first word. It makes everything I’ve gone through feel worthier.
“Aly-girl,” I respond. “Hi.” My coos make her giggle, but the giggles stop on both ends when someone knocks on my door.
“Dani, open the door,” Mom says.
“No,” I tell her. “I want to be alone tonight.”
I hear her rustling around with something in the hall, and I know she’s about to unlock my door because privacy in this house does not exist. However, I can’t say anything since I live here rent free at eighteen with my daughter.
The lock pops and the door swings open. Mom and Lexi are standing in the hall, both with their arms crossed and heads cocked to the side. “Can’t either of you take a hint? What if I was naked?”
“You’d need to change your clothes for us to be worried about that,” Lexi says.
“What? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? I got dressed today.”
“Those gray sweatpants and extra-large men’s sweatshirt should not be considered clothing,” Lexi says. “We’re going out tonight and we’re celebrating your eighteenth birthday. I paid money for what we’re doing, so if you say no, you’ll be throwing my money away.”
“That’s not fair,” I tell her, throwing one of Aly’s baby blankets across the room.
“You’re spending too much time with this adorable baby ... you’re acting like one,” Mom adds. “I’m more than capable of taking care of Aly tonight while you celebrate your birthday like every other eighteen-year-old girl.” She still calls me a girl even though I’m considered an adult now, one with a child. I wish she would refer to me as a grown woman because it would lessen the pain of bearing the thoughts of being a teen mom which is something I never considered being.
“I’m not just an ordinary eighteen-year-old,” I remind her. “I have a baby.”
They can’t argue with my statement. “Go,” Mom says. “Put actual clothes on and go.”
Lexi walks past me and lifts Aly out of her crib, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “Give mama a kiss, Aly. I’m just taking her out for a bit and then I’ll bring her right back,” Lexi tells Aly as if she understands what she’s saying at eighteen months old.
Regardless of what she understands or doesn’t, she laughs. She always laughs when Lexi talks to her.
Lexi hands Aly over to Mom and they disappear from the hall faster than I can spit out another argument. “I even brought you a new outfit.”
“It better not be form fitting,” I tell her, running my hands over the loose skin on my stomach.
“Trust me, okay?” Lexi says.
“No, but hand it over to me. I’ll pay you back for whatever you spent. You didn’t have to do that.”
Lexi pulls a bag out from the hallway and tosses it at me. “Happy birthday, bestie.”
I pull the outfit out of the bag, and it is not what I was expecting. Torn jeans and a navy-blue Dividing Oblivion t-shirt. “Dividing Oblivion? They have t-shirts now?”
“Remember, I told you, they will make it big,” Lexi says.
“Yeah, I remember you said that last year when they were playing in that burnt up, abandoned old theatre,” I remind her. It’s not that I don’t think they’ll get big someday, but they’re just a band made up of a few local guys who purchased the rotting property and played nightly shows. The couple of times we heard them perform before Aly came along, I thought they were amazing. Though, In Hull, Massachusetts, an artist has to be more than amazing to be discovered by anyone who can make things happen. We’re kind of secluded out here, being this far south of Boston. In any case, I forgot about them over the last year. I forgot about music, art, and anything else I used to love to do.
“Okay, so you know I don’t watch TV much, especially reality TV, but I heard from a friend of a friend, we missed out on some massive news a couple weeks ago,” Lexi says, staring into the mirror and tussling her reddish-brown, stick straight hair. I love her hair and coloring. She has red freckles and light green eyes. It’s like she’s this Irish goddess, and I feel less than stellar in her presence. On the contrary, I feel like a washed up, pale zombie. I haven’t been out in the sun in so long that my skin is probably turning green too.
“What massive news could we have missed?” I ask her while holding the shirt up to my chest in front of my mirrored closet door.
“The band tried out for some show, Battling Bands of Boston, and Dividing Oblivion won out of like two thousand bands that were competing against each other. Some music station is hosting a hometown tribute tonight at The Sun Shack Theatre for them.”
“Holy shoestrings,” I shout.
“I know. That’s why I wasn’t giving up on you tonight. We’re going.”
“We’re going,” I agree.
I step out of my spit-up ridden clothes and toss them onto the ground, then slip on the new outfit Lexi gave me. �
��Dani, you don’t even look like you had a baby. What are you hiding? You’re smaller than me ... jerk.”
I turn to face her. “You don’t have big white stretch marks lining the front of your stomach. I’m damaged goods, Lex.”
She won’t respond, but it’s because I am damaged goods. We both know no sane guy our age will be interested in a teenage mom. I’ve come to terms with the truth, but Lexi hasn’t.
“Hurry up, come on, Dani. I want to get there early so we can get a spot up front.” We never had to beat a crowd before when going to The Sun Shack Theatre, but I can assume things might be different this time. “They sold out of tickets in thirty minutes. I camped out at the ticket booth, and it was an experience I don’t wish to relive,” she says with wide-eyes.
“You did that yourself?” I ask her.
“I went with a few people from school. We were all waiting, so it was fine. It’s just us tonight, though, don’t worry.” She knows I’m not big on crowds anymore and has respected that like no one else in my life. Other than Mom, Lexi has been the only one who hasn’t tried and push me out of my comfort zone … well, until today, but I need to put my discomfort aside and see this freaking band play.
“Fits like a glove,” Lexi says as I tug my shirt into place.
“It does. I love it. You’re amazing,” I tell her.
She gives me a gentle hug and kisses my cheek. “Okay, now ... if you don’t want to go ... for other reasons, we’ll stay here and watch a movie. The reason can’t be because of Aly, though.”
I turn to look at myself in the mirror and run my fingers through my unruly auburn hair, feeling the puckered scar on the back of my head.
I can do this.