“And some of the connections you made between her outward actions and her mental illness were astounding, especially for someone only in the tenth grade.”
“Guess that means I’m crazy like Esther, huh?” I retort, making sure to flash a razor-sharp smile.
Ha. You have been defeated, dear Ms. Bishop. Now please release me from your diagram sentence-lined walls.
“Look—I know you’re not the mentally vacant slug you like everyone to think you are, Maura. I know that you really care about things and you put your heart into everything you do.”
I feel my mouth drop open.
“So how about you cut the sarcastic crap and just give me an honest answer. Stop hiding.”
She’s staring now.
Waiting.
“But, I…”
I have nothing to give to you. Best that you just move on.
“No more excuses. Just ANSWER ME.”
Let this serve as a lesson to you, Maura. From now on, try your damndest to be completely UN-successful at everything you do. Keep everyone off your radar.
“I’m waiting. I have all day.”
Fuuuuuuuuuck.
“I though it was all really interesting. The way she was acting and the thoughts going on inside her head, I guess.” My voice sounds little more than a desperate, dying frog’s final croak.
“Finally, you give me something! My lessons are not totally lost on you, Maura Yermakova. Now tell me, do you have an interest in learning about mental illness?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, I’m not saying anything about you.
It just seems to me that you have an acute understanding of her depression.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“Are you interested in the field of Psychology, Maura?”
“Can’t say that I am.”
But that isn’t going to stop this exhausting interaction, is it?
“I studied it in college, and I absolutely loved it. Learning about the human mind and the behaviors that we all inherently exhibit because of our inner thoughts was truly fascinating to me.”
And she continues…
“I notice you always seem to have your nose in a novel. Maybe you’ll take a break from the fiction and read one of my own favorite books?”
She fumbles in her drawers for a moment, and I contemplate just darting out. She wouldn’t notice, I can almost guarantee it. I’m tightening my grip on my backpack and making sure my shoes are laced up tight enough for the run, but her head pops back up before I can execute my plan.
“Here, this is for you.”
A heavy book that smells of mothballs is dropped into my open hands before I can politely decline.
“An Introduction to Psychology?”
I’ve never had a teacher show an interest in me. I mean, of course most teachers probably adore me because I actually study and do my work without being a complete asshole to them—but none have ever pulled me aside like this. None have ever found something special about me. I take the book from her and turn it over in my hands.
“I think you will find it quite interesting.”
I run my eyes over some of the descriptions on the back cover.
Understand the motivation behind people’s actions.
Discover ways to communicate with others in a new and enlightening way.
Learn about different career paths in the helping fields and how you can make a different in the life of someone who truly needs it.
“Thanks Ms. Bishop,” I say. The sincerity and general lack of sarcasm in my voice surprises both of us.
“You have an obvious talent for understanding and questioning the actions of others, Maura. Think about what you can do with that.”
00:00:05.102
When I finally woke up to the truth
“Mom? What’s going on?”
She’s standing in the kitchen with the lights off. Rain pounds against the windows and the tin awning covering our porch, sounding like stray bullets. I flinch each time they strike.
“Why are you home?” she asks, keeping her focus on the stack of carrots she’s meticulously cutting in front of her. Her entire body shakes with the effort.
“Because I live here….”
Her hand is a blur as it slices another stack without hesitation. “You’re out of school early?”
Her wrists quiver as she picks up the cutting board and pushes all of the tiny carrot bits into a pot on the stove. She sniffles a few times and brings her hands up to wipe her eyes. I reach my hand out to grab her but she moves away too quickly. She won’t stop moving, bouncing around every corner like a vagrant bird who accidentally flew through an open window, desperate to find a way out.
“Mom…today is Thanksgiving. I don’t go to school on Thanksgiving. Ever.”
She doesn’t respond for what seems like forever. I walk up to the side of her but she spins on her heels and makes her way to the sink, hiding her face from my sight.
Her stiff brown curls are vibrating as she tries to catch her breath. A snivel escapes her lips and she brings an oven-mitted hand to her face. “Right. No school today. So what have you been doing with your day?”
I reach my hand out to her and finally make contact with her shoulder, letting it fall on her silky, polka dot dress Dad bought for her as a birthday gift last year. She loves to wear it as she assembles elaborate meals for us, channeling her inner glamorous 50’s housewife.
“I was at the library working on a few college applications.”
“Oh yeah? That’s good to hear,” she says, her voice almost too soft to be audible. She is the absolute worst at faking enthusiasm—an actress she is not.
Something’s wrong. And it seems to be that Maura, the family savior, is on the job yet again. I swear to God, if I don’t keep my full attention glued on these two, everything falls apart. It can be so fucking exhausting to be the only sane one sometimes.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Upstairs.”
I give up on questioning her and make my way up the stairs two at a time. Someone here needs to clue me in on to what the hell is going on. Today is Thanksgiving. This should be at least one day where we can put everything aside and just…be.
“I finished my application to Granger and Havon,” I say, feigning enthusiasm and hoping to impress him. My effort doesn’t seem to work.
My dad is folding up his police officer’s uniform, making sure each seam is lined up perfectly. The blinds to my parent’s bedroom are closed tight and only a small desk lamp casts a glowing, orange light across the room. He can’t be bothered to even glance up at me.
“And I’m going to do the rest of them this weekend, since I didn’t get much homework from my teachers. They wanted us to enjoy the holidays and all.”
Still nothing.
I take a step in, but his coldness makes me freeze.
“That’s good Maura, stay on top of all of those applications,” he says, trying to smile—but it almost seems as if the effort causes him physical pain. He reaches under the bed and pulls out a suitcase. I feel my hands ball up into fists and my breath stick in my throat.
“Dad…” I say, trying to keep my tone steady.
“Maura, leave him alone please.”
My mom’s hands are gripping my shoulders and doing their very best to pull me out of the doorway. I pull back and gawk at her—straight into her mascara-stained eyes.
“Why? Tell me why I need to leave him alone, Mom.”
“Because he’s busy. Come downstairs and help me with the turkey.” She uses the edge of her pink apron to dry her face and wipe her nose.
“Will one of you please tell me what is going on?”
I tell myself to calm down and take a few deep breaths. You will not have a panic attack right now. You will relax.
“Dad?”
“I’m packing my shit and moving out. That’s what’s happening here, Maura.”
“Why?�
�� I ask, my voice shuddering.
You will just relax.
“Because he simply isn’t in love with me anymore, honey,” my mom snaps from over my shoulder.
You will RELAX. Deep, cleansing breaths are flowing through your body at this very moment. Your parents and their ridiculous, adolescent antics will not affect you.
“Just shut the fuck up, Alexis. Please. We don’t need to talk about this with our overly-emotional teen daughter.”
“DAD! Don’t talk to her like that! What the hell is wrong with you?”
A sudden surge of rage sweeps through my body, begging to be released out into the open like an undomesticated cat. I don’t think can contain this one. Everything inside of me is urging me to just explode all over my father, once and for all. He marches up to my face and stares me right in my eyes. His jaw tightens like a bear trap. “Stay out of this, Maura. I’m only going to ask you once.”
Mom grabs my hand and pulls me away from him. “Maura, please go to your room. I’m asking you as politely and calmly as I possibly can.”
“Mom, no…”
She tightens her grip around my wrist and turns me towards her, staring straight into my frantic eyes.
“This is not your fight. I realize that you always feel the need to step in and fix things, but…that clearly isn’t going to happen at this moment.”
“But…”
“Please Maura. Just leave. Right now.”
A subtle undercurrent of fear is laced through her voice, but I do as she says. She can fight her own battle this time. I pull out of her grip and march straight to my room without looking back. I smash the door with my fist when I get in but it doesn’t shut all the way. I can still watch their shadows dancing in the doorway of their bedroom. I let my legs collapse underneath me as I prepare to observe my family as it falls apart once and for all, right in front of my eyes.
“What the hell were you thinking, talking to her with that tone? I understand that you’re frustrated with me and the state of our horrendous relationship, but don’t take it out on her.”
Her voice is sharp. Intense. Menacing.
“Back off and stop trying to tell me what to do. Last time I checked you were NOT my mother.”
I listen to the closet doors shatter against each other and his suitcase smack the ground.
“We need to fix our family,” she says very matter-of-factly. Even though she quit her job as customer service representative for a local auto factory years ago to stay at home, she still manages to sound like one. Poised. Professional. No matter what kind of day she might be having.
“Are you even listening to me?” she growls. Her feet stomp across the carpet and she comes into my line of vision, hair whipping around and eyes narrowing. “You know, if you were around more, Vadim, this family wouldn’t be burdened with so many problems!”
I’ve never heard her use such a tone of voice with my father. Ever.
“Here it comes. Don’t you understand that I can’t physically stand to hear you talk about these same, mundane topics over and over again?” he shrieks back, bringing his pointy nose a mere two inches from hers. My heart stops as my mother brings her open hand up to his face, begging herself to finally be brave and smack his ass to the ground already.
“You fucking bastard,” she whispers, letting it fall. Rage envelops her voice now. “I’ve done everything for you. I’ve tried my hardest to be the wife you want, and this is how I get repaid?”
I don’t want to be a part of this conversation. I can’t. This can’t be happening.
5th grade—our family vacation to Nova Scotia. Dad surprised us with a whale-watching excursion on a luxurious cruise boat. We spent the afternoons with binoculars pressed to our faces, searching the rough waves for grey or white humps cutting through. My mom was the only person to find one. But I wasn’t too upset about it, because the cruise ship had a 24-hour candy and nacho bar. Dad was more than willing to bring me whenever I wanted, and we each filled up bowls of sugary, processed goodness while she dedicated herself to finding more of the elusive whales.
It was the best time I’ve ever had with my parents to this day.
“Things used to be different. They used to be great,” she whimpers as I’m forced back into my hellish reality. I somehow managed to block out a good four minutes, and I’m not sure if I want to witness the rest.
I tiptoe to the corner of my room and gaze at the unfinished dollhouse peeking out from behind my bed. I pinch my eyes shut and picture my father, lively and full of love, as he helps me pick out the furniture to decorate the living room—a teeny-tiny couch for the family to gather on and a teeny-tiny television for them to watch movies on together. I can almost taste the root beer floats he bought for me in secret after leaving the hobby shop, the handle of my plastic bag full of new doll furniture wrapped tightly in between my fingers. If your mom finds out she’ll gush on and on about how it will ruin your appetite. So pretend to be hungry and gobble down all of the hideous meatloaf she loves to make. Deal?
But I can’t for the life of me remember if I agreed to his stipulation.
“I don’t want to talk about this again. Everything you’re bringing up should be left in the past. No matter how much shit you give me, it can’t be changed,” he says from the other room, his voice dark and tedious. My senses are instantly awakened.
I scoot across the carpet and pull the dollhouse out of hiding. A layer of dust covers the roof like a grey snow. Samantha sits at the dinner table with her mom and dad. It’s been a while since I’ve worked on it.
I pick up the teeny-tiny couch and continue where I left off several weeks ago—‘upholstering’ it by gluing a small swatch of floral fabric around the puffy cotton. I actually cut the swatch out from the bottom of a cushion on our own couch.
“But you were so much happier in those days. Don’t you remember?” Mom begs as I hear Dad moving across the carpet.
“Of course I remember! Do you not realize the fact that every fucking day of my life, I remember how happy and how satisfied I was when I was playing football? I left my heart on the field. And I still haven’t figured out how I can get it back.”
I clutch my fingers around the couch. I try my very best to conjure up another positive image of one of my parents, but my mind is void.
“Is all of this the reason why you started sleeping with another woman?” Mom whispers. She sounds a bit calmer, like she’s sitting down and taking deep breaths now. “Does she bring the happiness and excitement back into your life that I apparently fail to provide?”
Please don’t answer, Dad.
“I’m not even going to entertain that one.”
Thank you.
“Of course you won’t. It would require you to actually be honest with me.”
I listen as her voice raises an octave and the chair to her desk falls back and hits the floor. She’s up again. I grab my notebook.
Dear Samantha,
I think it’s over—for good this time. I realize that I have repeated this phrase a thousand times over to you over the past few years, but there is simply no denying the fact anymore. My dad’s packing as I write this. He’s never actually left before. I don’t know how to even react to it all. I hate myself for saying this, but I’m almost…happy—happy that I don’t have to live with the guilt of his secrets anymore. Happy that I don’t have to pretend to be okay with the person he is anymore.
I’ve spent most of my adolescence trying to understand both of my parents. Trying to figure out a way to keep them together. I did everything in my power to be the daughter they wanted, and none of it worked.
I think it’s finally time for me to give up on them.
“I’m sorry I’m not enough for you Vadim. I’m sorry my best just wasn’t enough. I wish I had some sort of inkling as to what I could do to fix it, to make you love me again,” Mom mutters. Her voice is controlled and even, contrasting her outward turbulence. A horrible silence fills the house for a mere momen
t—until she sobs. A deep, throaty sob that makes my skin crawl. I try to write more in my notebook, but my hand is shaking. A sob leaps up from my own throat, begging to be set free. I grit my teeth and fight to swallow it whole.
“How can we work this out?” she begs.
My dad’s taking too long to answer. I should get back to work on my makeshift living room, but my hands have become comatose. I stare at them and try to remember what I need to do to make them function again.
“I just…I need some time Alexis. Some space.”
Everything freezes now.
Space.
“Please, tell me who you want me to be! I’ll do anything to fix this. Please Vadim, I’m begging you…”
I drop the glue and the doll furniture and squash my open hands over my ears.
“I want you to stay away right now,” he says, his voice sharp and fast, almost like calling a disobedient dog out of a room.
Silence.
A bony fist striking a hollow wall.
Something made of glass shattering against the door.
A pathetic whimper.
Silence again.
I let my hands drop. The eerie stillness that has blanketed this house of doom should make me relieved. But over the years, I have figured out that only bad things come from the hushed movements of my parents. I curl up on the floor with Samantha against my chest, willing my body to go to sleep. A few moments later, booted footsteps plod through the hallway and down the stairs. The front door slams, making everything in the house quiver.
Close your eyes. Make everything in this hideous world disappear.
A horrifying scream—a scream filled with agony and sorrow and indescribable pain—bellows out of the bedroom. I peer out of my cracked door and catch a glimpse of my mother curled into a ball on the ground, her sobs filling the house and taking up all the air. I feel myself struggling to breathe. I need to get away from this right now.
I heave my door open and take off down the hallway, following the same path of escape my father used moments earlier. I hear my mother mutter my name through the darkness but I don’t look back. I go into the garage, black and damp and void of my father’s car, and lean against the door behind me. I hold the handle, ready and willing to battle her if she tries to come out and talk to me.
6 Seconds of Life Page 4