‘It’s going to be the greatest dollhouse ever created, Maura. Each room will be a color of the rainbow and all of your dolls will live there happily, forever.’
My eyes are heavy. I fight to keep them open. I want to finish this bedroom furniture tonight. If I do, I can work on the living room tomorrow, and then all I need to do is finish painting the exterior of the house and sand down the stairs. Afterwards, my house will be done. Just in time for Dad’s birthday next week. He will be utterly shocked to see that I finished it all by myself. He hasn’t seen this thing in years and I’m sure he assumes I stuffed it in the attic and forgot about its existence.
I dig through my purse to find some change. I need to make a quick caffeine run.
The vending machine is down the open corridor, which requires me to be exposed to the elements of summer. Horizontal rain punches me in the face as I speed walk down the passageway, and I pull my hoodie up as far as possible around my face to try and block out today’s third torrential downpour. But after two minutes of huffing it with this heavy cotton cloaking my body, I can already feel the sweat collecting underneath my clothes. I’m a firm believer that there is simply no other place in the world where you can sweat profusely in the middle of a rainstorm quite like you do in good old Florida.
I finally get to the machine, which was moved since the last time I was here. I find the rickety hunk of rusted orange metal pushed up against another room’s window, struggling to stay together as the rain-soaked wind attacks it from all sides.
My eyes focus on the buttons as I analyze my choices, but I can’t help noticing the three flickering candles gleaming in the window, illuminating the entire room. Their vanilla aroma seeps out from the crooked doorframe, mixing with the rain and creating cake-scented droplets. I pause for a moment, trying to contemplate my next move. Run away? Go forward with obtaining a drink? How is it that no one inside this room could be bothered enough to close the curtains? Maybe they’re voyeurs?
I notice the balled-up comforter on the bed as it starts moving ever so slightly.
Oh. Shit.
Focus. Do I want an iced cappuccino, an energy drink, or will a simple soda suffice?
A moan.
So many options…
A giggle.
I shove my quarters into the vending machine, but two of them drop because my fingers are quivering too damn much. I press a button without thinking and a dented can of grape soda tumbles out.
The comforter is thrown off now, and bare skin is everywhere. I’m trying so hard to just focus on steadying my fingers enough to pull my dimes out of the little change bin, but the fury of flesh and hair that I catch a glimpse of out of my peripheral vision is making this simple task ever so challenging.
I should look away.
Except I don’t.
My eyes are glued to the whole disturbingly fascinating event.
She’s lying on top of him, her legs wrapped around his torso like she’s afraid of falling. His right hand grabs at her messy blonde hair, bunching it up and ever so compassionately tugging. The other hand paws the strap of her not quite see-through black bra, begging for its removal. Her lips area all over his neck, his chest, his abdomen…
Oh.
Fuck.
My whole body shuts down. I have somehow lost the sensation in both my arms and my legs, turning me into a petrified statue.
“SHIT!” I yelp. It doesn’t even sound like my own voice. I’m stunned I can manage to make any sound at all. My lips are rubber and thick, and it hurts to pull them apart. My dropped can of soda explodes as it bounces off of my bare toes and hits the cement, spraying fizzy purple liquid straight up into the air like a wayward fountain.
She jumps off of him. They heard me.
He looks up.
And sees me.
His eyes stare straight into mine, transfixed with numbed horror.
And everything stops.
We’re in the backyard. He finally asked me to come out and play football with him. I’ve asked him a million times and he always said no—playing recreationally on his off days could put him at risk for injury. But today he was truly willing. He’s teaching me the proper way to hold the ball. I have to grip it with the tips of my fingers touching the white laces. I’ve been waiting so patiently for this moment.
“Maura?”
Holding it this way gives me the best spin.
“Holy fucking shit. What are you doing here?”
Once it’s secure in my fingers, I simply flick my wrist.
“Maura! Answer me!”
And the ball will be soaring.
His hand wraps around my forearm and squeezes. It’s like a million tiny spiders are crawling up it, begging to gnaw at a piece of my flesh. I push him off. Time is moving again.
And so am I.
“Maura come back!”
I’m running. I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually run before this moment. I can’t even breathe correctly—my lungs are struggling to survive and my calves are stinging with surges of fire. But I hear his bare feet thumping on the pavement, a few measly steps behind me. I can’t stop.
“MAURA!”
Fortunately I only propped my door open when I ventured out. Once I slip inside, I slam it closed without looking back. His breath is coming through the frame before I can even turn the lock.
“What the hell are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at marching band camp!” he says in a tone comparable to what I would expect from a famished lion about to close in on its prey—low and guttural.
But I refuse to be his wounded gazelle. A nauseating spurt of adrenaline courses through my veins. My pulse is roaring in my ears. Did I really just see that? The reality of my father’s years of endless lies smacks in the face and gives me all of the power I need to fight back.
“I guess I should be asking you the same thing! You told us you were going on an officer’s retreat!”
He struggles with the doorknob and bangs his fist, shaking the whole wall. My knees quake and give out, making me collapse to the ground. It’s going to happen again. I just know it. He’s going to push me to that place where I can’t keep control of my body and everything is going to detonate.
“Maura. Get out here. Now. We need to talk.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and pull my hoodie over my face, making myself recede into the fabric. I bring my fingers to my lips, just to grasp if I’m still entirely whole. The rain is pounding harder now, shattering over top of his voice as it collides with the metal awning.
“You said this wouldn’t happen again Dad,” I murmur through the soft purple mass in my face. I suck it in to my mouth to try and sop up the metallic taste forming in the back of my throat. I need to breathe. How did I forget to breathe?
“She did it first, Maura. Don’t you forget that!”
I crawl on all fours over to the cold, stone wall and tuck myself into the corner.
My arms wrap around my body and I try my damndest to normalize my breathing. “You promised Mom and I it was over,” I murmur, feeling myself grow small and hopeless. Wounded gazelles can never actually beat lions—it would go against every law of nature.
I can’t do this. I’m gasping for air now. Drowning.
“She was the first one to be unfaithful. Not me.”
Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.
I am hyper aware of this wave of sadness overtaking me. I want to cry. But just as immediately as it came, it transforms back into fury as I listen to his nauseating breath on the other side of the door. He is such a selfish, heartless asshole.
“You all but pushed her into that relationship, dear DAD! You encouraged her friendship with that asshole co-worker! You even funded her little weekend getaway to the beach with him when she told you she needed the money for a business meeting!” I howl, digging my fingertips into the green, pasture-like carpet underneath of me.
My heart is beating too fast. I’m somewhat certain it is about to explode. I listen to him drumming
his fingers on the door, steady and rhythmically. A terrifying rage sweeps through me. I can’t keep myself still. It’s going to happen again—there’s no doubt about that fact any longer.
Thanks a lot, Dad the fuckface. Thanks for ruining a year’s worth of steady breathing and concentrated efforts to talk myself down from losing it.
The dollhouse furniture is right next to the bed. I extend my foot and punt each piece across the room. The wet dresser sprays pink splotches of paint on the stick headboard as it cuts through the air and hits the lamp made of alligator skin.
“That never would have happened if you gave a fuck and truly loved your family!” I scream so loudly my throat burns. I feel strong again. Like I can defeat him if need be.
“Open this god damn door right now,” he sighs into the doorframe. I almost mistake his voice for an infuriated breeze. But I know the truth—he’s about to explode. He’s always pretending to be calm before he finally loses all control.
My teeth grind into my bottom lip. I can taste blood now.
“Go fuck yourself, DAD.”
****
“Sit.”
It’s the first thing he’s said to me in 37 hours. I think this is a new silence record for us.
I pull out my usual chair at the dinner table and notice that the fine china is out. Intricately patterned pale white dishes, swirling with images of etched, golden flowers are placed in front of me, forming a very deliberate pattern. There’s even a salad bowl, a dainty tea mug, and a saucer for said mug. The fine china only comes out on the most special of occasions.
I must be in for quite an extraordinary evening.
“We need to talk,” he says, emotionless.
I bet we do. What should we discuss first? Your infidelity? Your lying? Your total disrespect for both Mom and I?
“Since you have failed to take any control of your life and your future, you’ve given me no choice but to do it for you.”
So this is how everything is going down.
He pushes a yellow folder in front of me. My arms are pasted to the top of the lacey tablecloth and my eyes remain focused on the clock behind his head. He may have forced me to sit here and listen to him, but I will not engage.
“Here is a list of five colleges that you are going to start considering.”
I pinch my eyes closed. I’m back at camp—the summer before 7th grade. I’m swimming in the lake with the other girls from my cabin. They were my friends. And I always had fun with them.
“Incoming napkins!” Mom singsongs as she sashays her way into the kitchen. She’s balancing a tray of fanned papers that resemble damask-patterned peacock feathers. I can sense Dad’s eyes burning in to me as I sit and watch her place a peacock on each plate. I slouch down into my chair so mine blocks my direct line of vision.
“Maura, I’m talking to you.”
The silverware’s coming out now—first everyone gets a salad fork. She makes yet another loop around the table and distributes the dinner forks.
“Dad. I’m only in the 9th grade. Isn’t it a little early for college planning?”
And aren’t there more pertinent issues to discuss? Like, perhaps the fact that I caught you in a hotel banging some random woman—for the second time this year?
Mom bumps into him on her final loop—the meat knives. He huffs in her face and springs up from his chair. He grabs a bottle of liquor from the cabinet, analyzing the label and keeping his back to me—clearly formulating his next statement.
“Anyway, I’m not sure if I want to go to college.”
There we go. He’s officially pissed off now. His entire body tenses up, and I hear his breath get caught in his throat. I fold my arms across my chest and I experience a momentary surge of satisfaction.
For the moment, I’m the lion.
“And I’ve told you, skipping college it isn’t a choice,” he growls through clenched teeth.
I don’t respond. But I want to—so badly. I want to jump up and scream in his face and call him an asshole and remind him of the fact that he hasn’t wanted to be a relevant part of my life for the past eight years—why does he want to start now?
Instead I keep my focus on the clock. You, dear clock on the wall, are the only thing that matters in my world right now. I will continue to stare at you forever. The rooster-shaped oven timer starts to crow, signaling the completion of tonight’s roast and forcing my father out of his self-induced anger coma.
“Do you think you’ve spent the past few years making wise decisions, Maura?” he asks as he slams the bottle of liquor on the table and grabs an empty glass from the cabinet.
“Vadim…we’re trying to engage in a pleasant family dinner…” Mom says as she starts slicing the roast into paper-thin pieces. Rosemary and garlic fill my nose and make this moment seem a little bit calmer. I watch as Mom hums as she slices, making herself oblivious to what’s happening outside of her lusciously scented corner of the room.
“Well considering the fact I’m not addicted to drugs and/or pregnant, then yeah…I think I’ve made some wise decisions,” I say, making sure my voice is richly marinated in sarcasm.
He shakes his head and fills up his glass with ice. “You’re a real smart-ass, aren’t you? And that is precisely the reason why you’re in this predicament.”
“And what predicament would that be, Dad?” I snap back without thinking.
He turns to face me and analyzes me for a moment—his eyes burning into my skin, making the tiny hairs that line my arms sizzle and dissipate as they become ash. He’s trying to figure out where he went wrong, I’m assuming. I wish he would just ask me—I have a whole list stored up in the caverns of my brain. But I don’t dare look now. Focus on the clock. Focus on the clock.
“Friendless. Ambitionless. And on the verge of being useless to society.”
The rooster yells again. So do I.
But only inside of my head.
“Potatoes are ready! They’re going to be wonderful!”
She’s so good at keeping herself trapped in her own bubble. I could learn a thing or two from her.
Be in a bubble. Do not let him affect you.
“I’m…I’m not…”
I choke on the next word. It is, by far, the bitterest word in the English language. No one ever wants to use such a demoralizing word to identify themselves.
“Friendless,” I say, gripping the rough peacock napkin in my hand. My fingers shake ever so slightly as I annihilate it.
“Ok guys, the appetizer tray is done!” Mom interrupts. She places a three-tiered silver tray in the middle of the table. Grapes, melons, and dingy colored cheeses are overflowing off the top tier. Lavender and pale white flowers are on the second. Freshly baked cranberry scones create a sugary layer on the bottom. This thing is, quite possibly, the most ridiculous thing my over-exuberant mother has ever created. “Vadim, sit down and munch on a few things while I finish getting the main course ready.”
“What would you like me to start with? The fucking flowers?” he barks.
She doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge him. He sits back down, but not before moving his chair to the right in order to avoid the giant flowered fruit structure. Evidently he needs to resume staring at me.
“When’s the last time you spoke to anyone besides your mother, myself, or a teacher? You don’t engage with your peers at all.”
Like I’d never let him hear that harsh truth come from my mouth.
“I…I do. With Cara. We have four classes together. And we study together sometimes.”
He raises an eyebrow and swirls an ice cube in his empty whiskey glass. I bring my gaze to him and watch his eyes as they analyze and instantaneously doubt me.
“Bullshit, Maura. Everything you say these days is complete bullshit.”
Something in his tone overwhelms me and makes everything ache right away. A piercing pain radiates throughout my brain. The chandelier light above makes it hurt even worse as my skin bakes. It’s going to happen
tonight. I just know it.
“Why are you doing this…” I whisper into my balled-up fist.
I feel the burning tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I do my best to hold them in, but they sting.
“Why? Why? I’ll tell you why—because you were lying to your mother and I for weeks. You made us believe that you were going to marching band camp. But what did you really do?”
Squeeze them tight. Don’t let the tears fall out. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction.
“You were skipping it and racking up OUR credit card bill—on a fucking dump of a hotel down the street. What if there was an emergency, Maura? How the hell were we supposed to find you? Did you even take the time to analyze that thought in your selfish little brain?”
I push my hands under the table and start pulling at my cuticles. The pain surges through my arms and electrifies my brain, temporarily numbing the throbs.
“What were you hoping to accomplish with this whole escapade, huh?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, even though I realize he doesn’t hear me.
Please just stop. I give up. I return to gazelle status willingly.
“Did you enjoy spending time with the prostitutes and drug dealers? Is that your aspiration in life now? Do you realize what could have happened if my partner didn’t happen to be on a cocaine bust just down the hall from you? Do you comprehend how lucky you are?”
My mouth drops open. Did he honestly just…
“No, Dad. NO!” I screech. Fury surges through my throbbing fingertips now. I push them underneath my quaking legs. I don’t think my body will let me stay in this chair for much longer. I look up and try to connect with Mom, but our gazes miss each other by about five inches.
“Well that is the path you are on. The path of being completely and utterly useless to society.”
Don’t yell. Don’t explode.
6 Seconds of Life Page 2