Momentum
two
It just didn’t make sense.
Days passed and then weeks went with them; we all settled into an uncomfortable, almost robotic routine of waking up, going to school, coming home and doing homework and going to sleep. The island was alive around us—surfers surfed, tourists bothered all of the locals, and Dad’s shop was busy, day in and day out—but it was as though we were in our own little world, tucked away from the hustle of the grandiose hotels and caring about how big the morning’s sets were going to be. Dad hardly spoke to us, keeping his head down when he passed us in the halls or dropped us off at school in the morning. It wouldn’t occur to me until several years later that he was ashamed.
I wondered whether or not Mom had taken our chance at happiness with her when she drove off, or if she thought about me before she went to bed, like I thought about her. A part of me wished that she did, that she would regret her decision and that it would hurt her heart every single day to think about us, but another part of me knew that she wouldn’t. If she had left like that, why would she care to think of us again and again?
The kids at school made fun of Robbie, Chris and me, saying things like at least our Moms love us enough to stay! Whenever we walked away from something, they cried wolf—run away, just like your Mom! It hurt. All of us. My oldest brother tried not to let it show, but I knew that her leaving had hurt all of us more than she would ever, ever understand. It wasn’t a simple, heart-throb kind of pain, either. No. It was an all over, how-the-hell-did-this-happen-to-me kind of ache that started at your feet and worked its way up to your heart and your head and all of your bones.
Weeks turned into months and those months soon turned into years. We grew up, Dad grew older. He started speaking with us again, randomly, almost six months after she left. He woke up one Saturday morning and pulled us out of bed, made breakfast, and asked us if we wanted to go surfing. We all gave him dubious looks, our mouths half full of peanut butter toast and our eyes half closed with sleep. It took us a minute to process what he had said.
He didn’t like it when we surfed early in the morning, when all of the “island rats” were out there, shredding and knocking other people off of their boards. We all jumped at the opportunity, changed into our suits and piled into the car, our boards stacked up on top. From that point on we were known as a surfing family, always heading out there every Saturday morning. Chris and I, eventually, began going before school some mornings, risking detentions or Dad’s wrath so that we could catch a few good waves. Dad was angry the first few times—actually, he was pissed the first few times, shouting how dangerous it was and how we shouldn’t forfeit a good education for a fiberglass board—but he got used to it. It took awhile.
Days passed and then weeks went with them; we all settled into an uncomfortable, almost robotic routine of waking up, going to school, coming home and doing homework and going to sleep. The island was alive around us—surfers surfed, tourists bothered all of the locals, and Dad’s shop was busy, day in and day out—but it was as though we were in our own little world, tucked away from the hustle of the grandiose hotels and caring about how big the morning’s sets were going to be. Dad hardly spoke to us, keeping his head down when he passed us in the halls or dropped us off at school in the morning. It wouldn’t occur to me until several years later that he was ashamed.
I wondered whether or not Mom had taken our chance at happiness with her when she drove off, or if she thought about me before she went to bed, like I thought about her. A part of me wished that she did, that she would regret her decision and that it would hurt her heart every single day to think about us, but another part of me knew that she wouldn’t. If she had left like that, why would she care to think of us again and again?
The kids at school made fun of Robbie, Chris and me, saying things like at least our Moms love us enough to stay! Whenever we walked away from something, they cried wolf—run away, just like your Mom! It hurt. All of us. My oldest brother tried not to let it show, but I knew that her leaving had hurt all of us more than she would ever, ever understand. It wasn’t a simple, heart-throb kind of pain, either. No. It was an all over, how-the-hell-did-this-happen-to-me kind of ache that started at your feet and worked its way up to your heart and your head and all of your bones.
Weeks turned into months and those months soon turned into years. We grew up, Dad grew older. He started speaking with us again, randomly, almost six months after she left. He woke up one Saturday morning and pulled us out of bed, made breakfast, and asked us if we wanted to go surfing. We all gave him dubious looks, our mouths half full of peanut butter toast and our eyes half closed with sleep. It took us a minute to process what he had said.
He didn’t like it when we surfed early in the morning, when all of the “island rats” were out there, shredding and knocking other people off of their boards. We all jumped at the opportunity, changed into our suits and piled into the car, our boards stacked up on top. From that point on we were known as a surfing family, always heading out there every Saturday morning. Chris and I, eventually, began going before school some mornings, risking detentions or Dad’s wrath so that we could catch a few good waves. Dad was angry the first few times—actually, he was pissed the first few times, shouting how dangerous it was and how we shouldn’t forfeit a good education for a fiberglass board—but he got used to it. It took awhile.
♠ ♠ ♠
comments/criticisms?