Never Did I Ever...
2
2
I immediately realize it’s all a joke. England? Leaving? We need to hurry? Psh, that was a good one, but it was quite a shock wave for a 17 year old boy. I grasp my backpack as I look to her and chuckle.
“Huh, and are we gonna meet the queen as well?” I reply through laughter.
It actually is really funny. I burst into a fit. It’s so funny because of how I felt when she said it. I felt happy and shocked and ecstatic, and I was so ready to go home and pack my belongings into boxes and jet off to some foreign country. But then I realized how absurd it was. How ridiculous of a prospect! And then the fright hit. Like a freight train, a fright train (hehe) punched into my gut. I couldn’t live in England! I could hardly live here! Here, in Meyville, it was hard enough. Meyville is miniscule, miniscule compared to London! After that rush of emotion, though, relief flooded over me. It was a joke. No need to be anxious, no need to be afraid, she wasn’t serious. Old mom was trying to brighten up my day with a laugh. And even though I was forced through a small tube thick with many emotions in one, it was hilarious enough that I had to endure it.
I laugh and laugh and laugh. I’m hysterical now. How funny was it, really though? Yet, still, it was. I glance through my tears of laughter at mom. She only stands there, rigid, her head cocked at a slight angle. She looks back at me, puzzled and, well, just waits for me to be done. I do stop. Everything washes out of me once again. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and then onto my jeans. I know what is happening. I know we’re actually leaving. But all I think to do or say is to break the silence.
“What?” I muster with a gravelly voice.
Oh, oh my god. My voice! It’s gravelly. It never gets gravelly. I know it. I know it because I always pay attention to my voice. It’s probably the only physical thing that actually gives me definition. Me, I’m all in my head. No one knows the actual me. So, my voice, I can make it my own. I can change it to my preference. Much unlike my feelings most of the time. I’ve just made it perfect about two months ago. Proud, but not too outspoken. I’ve made it mine, and now it’s gravelly. And now it’s ruined! Wait, wait. It’s only because I’ve just been laughing and crying and having waves of emotions and all that crap. It’s only temporary, and here I am worrying about it. See? See how I worry? I’m messed up. Really and honestly messed up.
“We’re--well, Cameron, we’re leaving. I can’t cushion the blow. I can’t change it. I--I wouldn’t change it. Not for you. Well, even for you. For--God! How can I explain!” she sits down on a bench across the hall and motions for me to do the same next to her. My mind was turning over and over like a pancake. Has she figured everything out? Can we afford this? Where will I go to school? Will I go to school right away? Is she going to drive in London? Are we going to take those dreadful subways? Those always look disgusting. Will we really do it? Can we do it? Is it possible for her to do it? Can I do it? Can. I. Do. It?
I sit down next to her. Even though I’m scared shitless, this feels right. I need a good explanation here. Maybe not even an explanation. She doesn’t need to explain why we’re leaving. That much is clear. My mother’s bleeding face flashes across my eyes and I shudder. Couldn’t we just move out of state, though? Was this really necessary? To go to England? We could move to California, or Washington, or, or somewhere! Just not a foreign country. Please not a foreign country. Even though I feel this is not needed, moving to Europe, I honestly do know that it is, actually, essential. My dad would track us. He’s the kind of man that if he came home one day to find his family gone, he would immediately try to put the pieces together and find us. And the thing is, we both know he would. He’d find us, and it would be hell. And not just for my mom anymore.
“Cameron, you may not understand this now,” she starts. She looks to me nervously and makes a small grin that vanishes instantly. Her face turns to stone and goes ashen.
“But I love you. And your father, he, he--” she struggles to gain control of her voice as it stutters.
She’s starting to cry now. How can she explain to my while she’s crying. I don’t know, but maybe this is good for her. Like those doctors say, to let it out. Right? She weeps for a few minutes and then continues.
“Your father. He’s no good, Cam. You know that. He’s not a good father, he’s a terrible husband, and all he does is provide. And I feel I do not need his help anymore.”
She stares down to the floor as her face twists with confusion. I follow her eyes to a huge crack in the floor. Long and wide, it’s so ugly that when official people come to visit the school, the principal purposely does not take them down this hall on the tour.
“He’s shattered our lives, Cameron. And now,” she pauses and I see determination burning in her eyes.
“Now I’m going to try, as hard as I can, to pick up the pieces.”
Her eyes flick from the floor to me now.
“I need your trust. I need you trust me wholly and completely. You need to believe that this is the best thing for us, otherwise I won’t be able to let us live again. Do I have it, Cameron? Do I have your trust?” she peers at me, obviously hoping for a certain answer.
Now, anyone in their right mind would immediately say, “Yes. You have my trust! Let’s go pack and leave!” and they would leap into their mother’s arms and depart. But me, no. Not me. I have to comb this over. It doesn’t matter that my dad’s abusive. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t do anything but provide. He’s my father. Half of me. Sperm and egg, put together as one, made me. I’m a part of him, and he’s a part of me. It’s not that easy to leave someone who is a part of you.
I immediately realize it’s all a joke. England? Leaving? We need to hurry? Psh, that was a good one, but it was quite a shock wave for a 17 year old boy. I grasp my backpack as I look to her and chuckle.
“Huh, and are we gonna meet the queen as well?” I reply through laughter.
It actually is really funny. I burst into a fit. It’s so funny because of how I felt when she said it. I felt happy and shocked and ecstatic, and I was so ready to go home and pack my belongings into boxes and jet off to some foreign country. But then I realized how absurd it was. How ridiculous of a prospect! And then the fright hit. Like a freight train, a fright train (hehe) punched into my gut. I couldn’t live in England! I could hardly live here! Here, in Meyville, it was hard enough. Meyville is miniscule, miniscule compared to London! After that rush of emotion, though, relief flooded over me. It was a joke. No need to be anxious, no need to be afraid, she wasn’t serious. Old mom was trying to brighten up my day with a laugh. And even though I was forced through a small tube thick with many emotions in one, it was hilarious enough that I had to endure it.
I laugh and laugh and laugh. I’m hysterical now. How funny was it, really though? Yet, still, it was. I glance through my tears of laughter at mom. She only stands there, rigid, her head cocked at a slight angle. She looks back at me, puzzled and, well, just waits for me to be done. I do stop. Everything washes out of me once again. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and then onto my jeans. I know what is happening. I know we’re actually leaving. But all I think to do or say is to break the silence.
“What?” I muster with a gravelly voice.
Oh, oh my god. My voice! It’s gravelly. It never gets gravelly. I know it. I know it because I always pay attention to my voice. It’s probably the only physical thing that actually gives me definition. Me, I’m all in my head. No one knows the actual me. So, my voice, I can make it my own. I can change it to my preference. Much unlike my feelings most of the time. I’ve just made it perfect about two months ago. Proud, but not too outspoken. I’ve made it mine, and now it’s gravelly. And now it’s ruined! Wait, wait. It’s only because I’ve just been laughing and crying and having waves of emotions and all that crap. It’s only temporary, and here I am worrying about it. See? See how I worry? I’m messed up. Really and honestly messed up.
“We’re--well, Cameron, we’re leaving. I can’t cushion the blow. I can’t change it. I--I wouldn’t change it. Not for you. Well, even for you. For--God! How can I explain!” she sits down on a bench across the hall and motions for me to do the same next to her. My mind was turning over and over like a pancake. Has she figured everything out? Can we afford this? Where will I go to school? Will I go to school right away? Is she going to drive in London? Are we going to take those dreadful subways? Those always look disgusting. Will we really do it? Can we do it? Is it possible for her to do it? Can I do it? Can. I. Do. It?
I sit down next to her. Even though I’m scared shitless, this feels right. I need a good explanation here. Maybe not even an explanation. She doesn’t need to explain why we’re leaving. That much is clear. My mother’s bleeding face flashes across my eyes and I shudder. Couldn’t we just move out of state, though? Was this really necessary? To go to England? We could move to California, or Washington, or, or somewhere! Just not a foreign country. Please not a foreign country. Even though I feel this is not needed, moving to Europe, I honestly do know that it is, actually, essential. My dad would track us. He’s the kind of man that if he came home one day to find his family gone, he would immediately try to put the pieces together and find us. And the thing is, we both know he would. He’d find us, and it would be hell. And not just for my mom anymore.
“Cameron, you may not understand this now,” she starts. She looks to me nervously and makes a small grin that vanishes instantly. Her face turns to stone and goes ashen.
“But I love you. And your father, he, he--” she struggles to gain control of her voice as it stutters.
She’s starting to cry now. How can she explain to my while she’s crying. I don’t know, but maybe this is good for her. Like those doctors say, to let it out. Right? She weeps for a few minutes and then continues.
“Your father. He’s no good, Cam. You know that. He’s not a good father, he’s a terrible husband, and all he does is provide. And I feel I do not need his help anymore.”
She stares down to the floor as her face twists with confusion. I follow her eyes to a huge crack in the floor. Long and wide, it’s so ugly that when official people come to visit the school, the principal purposely does not take them down this hall on the tour.
“He’s shattered our lives, Cameron. And now,” she pauses and I see determination burning in her eyes.
“Now I’m going to try, as hard as I can, to pick up the pieces.”
Her eyes flick from the floor to me now.
“I need your trust. I need you trust me wholly and completely. You need to believe that this is the best thing for us, otherwise I won’t be able to let us live again. Do I have it, Cameron? Do I have your trust?” she peers at me, obviously hoping for a certain answer.
Now, anyone in their right mind would immediately say, “Yes. You have my trust! Let’s go pack and leave!” and they would leap into their mother’s arms and depart. But me, no. Not me. I have to comb this over. It doesn’t matter that my dad’s abusive. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t do anything but provide. He’s my father. Half of me. Sperm and egg, put together as one, made me. I’m a part of him, and he’s a part of me. It’s not that easy to leave someone who is a part of you.