By Lael Telles
Fall 2009 Kaplan Award Winner
I watch my mom as she sits on the chair in front of me, her mouth moving, but the words have been lost in time. My father stands next to her; his hand sits on her shoulder in my memory, though I know he never would have touched her at this time. Everything in the room is dark brown, the fake wood paneling on the walls, the floor, the chair that my mom sits in, and a small lamp sits on the desk, filling the living room with an orange glow. To me, it’s all ugly, but that could be the feelings I associate with the day.
The words must be something like: “Your father and I are separating for a while,” and the nights of my mom crawling into my bed to sleep begin to make sense. I stand in front of them telling myself not to cry, unresolved anger toward my father boiling inside me.
“Don’t give him the satisfaction,” I think. “Don’t let him get to you.”
So many times in the past few years I’ve let my father upset me, so one day I just decided I wouldn’t cry anymore. His deep voice might scare me, but I won’t let him see me break down. I’ll just get angry; I won’t let this make me cry. If I only knew how misdirected my anger was.
Around the age of six or so I had a nightmare, I woke up sobbing and realized that in my dream my parents had divorced, but when I awoke, the possibility seemed so ridiculous I couldn’t understand where the thought had even originated. The pain felt real though. Just as it does as I look at my mom and my dad in front of me. But I don’t cry, not in my memory at least.
The living room fades away, without a sound being uttered. I know what they have told me, but I never heard it.
***
My mom cries as she gets in my bed to sleep that night. I tell myself to be mature and comfort her, even if I’m afraid my throat will close up when I try to speak.
“If this is what will make you happy, it’s ok,” I tell her, while I give her a hug as she cries.
My dad sleeps in the other room, and I shoot angry mind messages at his door across the hallway, still not understanding.
***
I’m at Nana and Deda’s house across the street, staring out of their front picture window. Dani and Kiki watch the Disney channel, as I sit backwards on the couch facing the street. A green F-150 drives past the window, my father in the driver’s seat. His pained face stares straight ahead, too hurt to look at me as he passes my gaze.
***
The rain pours down as I sit in the small cabin owned by the fish hatchery my dad works for. Everything is green: the trees, the walls, the carpet, even the sky seems to emit green light. I sit in the living room, which also serves as my bedroom for the weekend, copying down lyrics from the Lifehouse album to give to my dad. We listened to the songs in the car on the drive to the Olympic Peninsula, my dad crying as he hears the lyrics “Catch your breath/Hit the wall/Scream out loud/As you start to crawl.” I know he’s suffering, but I don’t know how to help him. It’s such a shock to be mad at my mother for once; I don’t know how to relate to my father.
We don’t talk about Traci. She comes to visit my mom a lot, but I don’t like her. I think she’s the reason my mom cut all of her wavy, dishwater-blond hair off, a physical statement of her desire to lose her femininity. The change makes me feel sick. Traci started spending the weekends at our house, and one night my mom tells me they’re going to have a sleepover, so she won’t be setting up the air mattress in the extra room. My stomach hurts, but I don’t know what to say.
***
The cats flee as the beer bottles crash together in the garbage. I call my best friend and her mother answers.
“Please, can I speak to Chantelle?” I say through tears, gasping for air.
Her mom rushes to find her, handing her the phone.
Through my hysteria, I try to explain that I opened the fridge looking for something to eat, but I only found three shelves full of beer. Instead of calling my mom and arguing yet again, I opened every bottle and poured it down the sink. Chantelle doesn’t know what to say, but offers to pick me up, so I can escape the house and everything that just makes me want to scream.
***
I fear that my mom is choosing her friends over me, her new lifestyle over me. But when I tell her this, she laughs and tells me that will never happen. I want to believe her, but when she stays out late going to bars with her friends, I just can’t seem to find the mom I remember. The only thing that seems to sooth my tears is the cold floor. My soft bed doesn’t match my emotions, so I crawl onto the tan linoleum in the kitchen, hoping my mom will find me and realize what she’s done.
***
I stand in the living room of my dad’s rented duplex, filled with furniture from family friends and kitchen supplies from coworkers. The tan shag carpeting doesn’t hide the pieces of gum that are stuck in it, especially in my room, which is furnished with a hand-me-down bed and Rubbermade containers.
Again, my dad’s mouth is moving, but the words are inaudible. I know this is the point where he confirmed my suspicions: my mother is a lesbian. It hurts that she is unable to tell me herself. I have never heard her declare her sexuality. I guess it makes sense though — telling your daughter you had an affair with your female assistant manager isn’t exactly easy.
***
It’s my high-school graduation dinner. My dad and his wife sit at one end of the table, and my mom and her partner at the other end. Tori, my mom’s partner, awkwardly tries to begin a conversation with my father, and my mom asks my step-mom about her work as a special education teacher. I know they’re all uncomfortable, but I also know that they all love me. So here we sit, a strange and sometimes forced family, silently bonding over Thai food and a milestone in my life.