“Dad, I’m sorry,” I force through my clenched teeth.
His nostrils flare and I watch the veins in his tightened fists bulge. The tiny, helpless glass in his hand struggles to stay together in one solid piece under the force of his fingers.
“Well I’m sorry too, but I can’t sugarcoat this for you anymore.” He sits up straight and inches closer to the table. I retract by pushing my chair away. “I can’t sit around and simply hope things will just work themselves out in your head and you’ll be fine. That tactic clearly hasn’t worked. So this is going to be the plan now.”
He throws open the folder sitting in front of me. I turn my face away from him and wipe the moisture from my eyes on the shoulder of my t-shirt. I don’t even feel the need to hide it because he doesn’t give two shits if I cry. My sleeve is soaked. There are far more tears than I expected. I can taste the saltiness on the tip of my tongue.
“In addition to learning about and visiting these five schools, you will also pick at least two social outlets to invest your free time in while you’re still in high school. You need to find SOMETHING to help pad your applications and make yourself stand out,” he states matter-of-factly. His voice is drained of all emotion now—each word stripped and separated from anything that might have been attached to them.
I let a sob slip out. He stops for a moment and lets his head fall, shaking it back and forth. I can sense the annoyance radiating from him. I cause nothing but problems for him and his life. I bet he wishes I didn’t even exist. It would make things a hell of a lot easier for him.
“Vadim,” Mom says as she sets a plate of meat fanned out into the shape of a flower in front of me. “Take it easy on her. And can we please finish this after dinner? I’ve been working on this meal all day.”
I push a piece of meat around with my fork while he remains silent for a moment, stuffing forkfuls of green been casserole into his mouth. I can’t fight anymore. I’m so tired. My white flag is waving high now.
“I’m so sorry…I…I don’t know what else to say,” I mumble into my plate.
He looks right into my eyes. I try to avoid them but he doesn’t let me.
“I don’t want to listen to your apologies anymore, Maura. All I’ve heard for years is apologies. It’s time for you to start acting.”
I nod. “Okay, Dad.”
“And you are beyond grounded. I hope you enjoyed your time out there in the fresh air. Because you won’t be outside of these four walls for quite some time.”
Without a word, I jump up and leave the room.
I can’t stand to be around him for a single second longer.
****
I sit in my room, pale yellow paint mocking me with its cheeriness. I must have unknowingly been on some sort of mood-altering drug when I let Mom talk me into this putrid color. She even bought sunflower-themed curtains and a daisy-scented candle to complete the whole motif. That wretched candle still smells like rotting dirt, even when I leave it unlit. I curl up on the floor and stare at the phone, imaging what it would be like to call someone who might care enough about me to listen.
‘Oh my god, my dad is such an asshole! Guess what he just did?’ I would say.
‘Tell me. Oh wait, I bet I can guess. Is he being an ass and trying to control your life again?’ she would say.
And I would giggle through my tears, because she knows me all too well.
But now, in the safety of my four flower-infused walls, I cry for real. Because no one understands me that well—and there’s a high probability that no one ever will.
I reach for my yearbook from last year and flip through the last few pages—the ones the publisher intentionally leaves blank so popular students can let their friends gush on endlessly about how ‘awesome’ so-and-so’s party was and how ‘epic’ high school will be. One girl in my math class was so annoyingly popular, she spent an entire class period reserving 5 inch by 5 inch squares of ‘space’ for each of her friends, assuring that everyone had a chance to share their earth-shattering words of wisdom with her. It was the first time I saw her use a ruler all year.
I didn’t need to reserve any space. I have three messages.
One from the boy who sat next to me in Geometry: ‘Hey Maura, thanks for letting me copy your notes every week. You rock.’ As do you, stoner boy. I only got a message from him because our teacher thought dedicating and entire class period to signing yearbooks would be a good idea. After I couldn’t pretend to be enthralled by reading through the yearbook staff’s expose on the problems with our overcrowded parking lot anymore, I handed mine to him. He didn’t reciprocate.
The second message is from my English Teacher: ‘Maura, one of the brightest students I’ve had the pleasure of working with. I truly believe you will on to do great things. Make sure to visit me next year and keep me up to date with your future educational plans!’
I haven’t seen him at all this year.
And one last message from Cara: ‘Maura, I’m sorry we haven’t seen much of each other all year. I understand you’ve been busy with all of your advanced, smart-person classes, but you should call me sometime. I worry about you. And it would be nice to catch up.’
I can’t call her now. It’s been almost six months since she made an effort to connect with me. She’s lost interest. She’s officially gone.
I throw the yearbook closed and fling it under my bed. I don’t understand why I torture myself with this shit. School is a world that I, unfortunately, will always been a foreigner to. I’ll never learn the language or the customs. I simply don’t belong.
I lie back on the floor and glance into the dollhouse. I love it from this angle. I can look up into every room, almost like I’m the same size as the dolls. I’m a part of their little world—a world in which I can actually belong. I pick up the mother and the father and sit them down at the dinner table.
She’s wearing a blue and white stripped dress, and he’s wearing his favorite dark green suit. He always wears his ‘power’ suit when he makes a substantial commission. He’s a car salesmen, she’s a stay-at-home mom. They have a two-year-old son, but he’s staying at his grandmother’s house tonight (and every night until I can actually find him underneath of my endless pile of dirty laundry). I can’t help but smile when I pick up Samantha. She’s their daughter and the light of their lives—straight-A student, cheerleader, and a popular girl with a solid social life. She’s been blessed with more friends than she knows what to do with.
I take her out of the house and bend her legs into a sitting position. She takes her place on the pillow next to me as I reach under it and pull out the journal. There’s so much to tell her tonight.
Dear Samantha,
I caught my father cheating again. Different woman. I can’t figure out if this fact makes me relieved or even more hurt. Like, he can’t even be faithful to his mistresses. What kind of asshole does something so despicable?
God Samantha, I don’t know what the hell to do. I want, more than anything, to be able to tell my mother. She deserves to discover the truth—the man she loves is an unfaithful liar.
But part of me realizes that learning this might not affect her at all. For some ungodly reason, she always, ALWAYS forgives him. I’ll never understand why, no matter how hard I try. She sees something in him that I will never be able to see myself.
I wish I could understand why he’s doing this. Why he’s willing to throw away a family who has been nothing but supportive and by his side, even after everything he’s gone through. He’s put us through hell and back. Why doesn’t he realize how lucky he is we’re still here?
A soft knock brushes against my door—too soft to be from anyone else.
“What, Mom?”
She cracks the door without asking, her tightly curled brown hair peeking in before she does. “Have you had a chance to calm down?” she murmurs, slinking in through the door as if she’s escaping from a vicious predator.
I try to grin and show her I’m ok, but
I’m not. My lungs are swollen up like balloons, suffocating all of my other organs. My eyes hurt from crying. I’ve prevented them from expelling any tears for years now, and they’re exhausted from all of the effort. I clutch Samantha to my chest as my mom pulls me into hers. I breathe in a cloud of cookie dough that has clung to her apron as she pets my head and whispers for me to breathe deeply and take control of my emotions. All she cares about these days is preventing another panic attack. Because panic attacks are outward manifestations of just how fucked up our family is, thus destroying the magazine-cover smiling people she has morphed us into in her mind.
“I’m okay Mom,” I say, closing the notebook and hiding it under my pillow.
She stands up and moves all of the doll furniture I was working on earlier off of my chair, carefully positioning each one on the edge of my dresser.
“All of this is coming along nicely, Maura.”
“Thanks,” I whisper into my chest.
“Are you still writing letters to your doll?” she asks, motioning to my pillow.
“Yeah…sometimes. I realize it makes me seem infantile, but it helps.”
She smiles at me, running her fingers over the couch that I started sanding down earlier. Mom has never been one to push any type of conversation—and I’m learning to appreciate that.
“I need a moment alone with her, Alexis.”
Oh shit. I didn’t even hear him come up the stairs. I always hear his clunky boots.
“Oh…ok,” Mom says, swallowing her voice. She gives her trademark understanding housewife facial expression—eyes wide, mouth straight, head constantly nodding in agreement. “I’ll go clean up the table and get dessert ready. You’ll both come back down in a few?”
He nods. She scuffles back down the stairs. I keep my lips as tight as possible. If I relax them even a bit, I may cry out for her to stay and continue hugging and petting my head. I’m officially terrified now.
“Why are you doing this to me, Dad?” I squeak. My voice surprises me. It sounds like a meek child’s.
“What am I doing? Please tell me.”
I wipe the dampness from my eyes. When did I start crying again?
“Attacking me.”
“Maura…”
“It’s not my fault you’re a cheater. You shouldn’t take your frustrations out on me.”
He shoots me the kind of look that could leave a bruise. My upper lip starts to twitch as I realize that the only way I’m going to make it through this is lay low and keep all of my opinions to myself.
“Keep your damn voice down!” he growls.
I pull my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Now there’s a secure spot to bury my face—and my mouth.
“Look, I messed up Maura. I’m only human.”
“You said it wouldn’t happen again,” I say, biting on the jean fabric covering my knee. The taste of fabric softener gags me a little.
You promised me. You said it was a one-time mistake.
“I’m struggling so much to figure out what I need to do to make myself happy. I have been for years. Ever since I lost football I’ve just…I lost my identity too, Maura,” he says as he stands up and starts pacing in front of my window. The setting sun illuminates his graying eyes and sagging jowls. He looks so old—and tired.
I close my eyes and try to remember what he was like in his football uniform, jumping up and down, so full of anticipation and adrenaline for his game. The only way I ever saw him for so many years.
“And your mother…she truly doesn’t understand. She doesn’t like to open her eyes up to the truth.”
He tilts my window out without bothering to ask me, leaning out into the misty rain. The sounds of anxious mosquitoes fill the air as they surround my dad’s head, trying to find an open area of skin to latch on to.
“And all of this crap you’re putting us through—the lying—it’s got to stop. It isn’t making our relationship any easier,” he mumbles out into the air.
I swallow a grapefruit-sized lump in my throat. I’m not even sure if his words were meant for my ears.
“I need you to work with me here, Maura. To make this family whole again.”
His voice ricochets through my brain as he closes the window and starts pacing again.
To make this family whole again.
“What…what do you mean?”
All I’ve wanted for years is for my family to be together again. He knows this.
“I mean I need you to be more involved—in school, in this family—with life in general. You need to come out of your room once in a while and engage with people.”
“Ok…”
“And I’m going to push you to do just that.”
Something about the word ‘push’ just doesn’t sit right with me.
“Why are you doing this…” I whimper, wrapping Samantha tightly in my fingers.
“Because I love you, Maura.”
He pauses, takes a deep breath, and sniffles.
My father has NEVER sniffled.
“And I want to keep this family together.”
I glimpse at him, and for the first time in a long time, I actually miss him. The dad he used to be. The dad who would bring me to the park and play football with me. The dad who snuck me out to get ice cream after dinner while Mom was preoccupied with washing the dishes. The dad who told me he would build me the greatest dollhouse the world has ever seen. I let myself forget for so many years. I remember now—the memories we once made as a happy father and daughter come flooding back to me.
“Which means your mother can’t know about what happened.”
I miss him so much.
“Can you do that for me? Make sure she doesn’t know?”
I nod robotically.
“I love you honey.”
He pulls me in for a hug. I can’t for the life of me remember the last time we’ve hugged. I fall into his chest and he smells like after shave and lilac laundry detergent.
He smells like home. Like family. Like love.
I’ve never cared about myself. But I care more about my parent’s relationship than anything else in the world. They must be okay.
“I love you too Dad.”
00:00:05.864
Will you even miss me, Dad?
Will you think about me?
Will you regret all of the shit you put me through?
Will you be there for Mom?
Guess what?
I don’t give a damn.
00:00:05.421
When someone cared
“Maura, can I see you a moment?”
I pull my eyes away from the throng of students walking to the lunch courtyard. I somehow let myself get entranced by their bouncy movements, excited screeches, and general enthusiasm for high school life. Class has ended and I’m the only one left in the room. Well, except for Ms. Bishop.
“For what?” I snap. But I don’t mean to. Ms. Bishop is actually the only teacher in this place that I actually like—maybe even respect. Probably because this is her first year as a teacher and she still has that zest and general interest in her students that the other, older teachers are obviously lacking. She really tries to get us to like her—and the wonders of English Literature. Unfortunately most of her mentally incompetent students despise both. Even though I don’t participate in class, I think she can sense that I’m different—that I’m one of the very few that cares. The woman is constantly trying to get me to talk.
“I just wanted to return your essay on The Bell Jar. Have a seat at my desk, would you?”
I make a point to stare at the clock hanging above her head, but she doesn’t seem to care. She’s already perched behind her desk, adjusting her glasses—which I’m pretty sure are a fake attempt at making her look older.
“Okay, but I have typing class next and I can’t be late again. Mr. Humphrey just loves to give out detentions.”
“I’ll write you a note if need be.”
Looks like I will be forced
into a conversation, whether I want to or not. I flop down into my designated chair and look past her face, counting the number of vowels used in today’s ‘inspiring quotes’ on the chalkboard behind her.
“You always seem so…distracted during class.”
There are 16.
“Maura, are you listening to me?”
“I always do the reading,” I snap, feeling attacked. Isn’t it enough to just shut your trap and do the work, no questions asked? Isn’t that every teacher’s dream?
“Yes I know that you do, but you never want to participate in class discussions. You never volunteer to share your opinions with your peers. And I know you have quite a few of them—it’s evident in your writing.”
“I just don’t like to talk in front of everyone,” I say, clamping me front teeth down on my dry lip. I feel my jaw tighten up and I’m pretty sure it’s about to lock, striking me mute forever—or at least for the time being.
“It’s okay to be shy,” she says, reaching out and trying to touch the top of my hand. I retract like a frightened snake and hide all of my limbs beneath my backpack.
“I’m not shy.”
“Okay.”
Silence. Is it my turn to initiate a conversation now? I look down at my bright pink shoelaces and focus, like they might tell me what to say next if I just stare long enough.
“Can I go now?”
“Your paper was excellent. I gave it an A plus,” she states, oblivious to my desperate plea for freedom. “I’m sure your father will be quite proud.”
She beams. God only knows how many conversations she has had with my lovely father. It’s been a personal hobby of his to maintain weekly contact with all of my teachers for as long as I’ve been in school.
“I’m sure you’re correct.”
“You seemed to really identify with Esther’s character and her personal struggles.”
Sweat beads up on my forehead and I clear my throat a little too loudly. “Uh, yeah… I guess.” Where the hell is this conversation going? Am I about to get committed? Her eyes are narrowing, searching me for some sort of truth.
6 Seconds of Life Page 3