Fear Itself

Far into the evening, I still felt the sting of regret knowing I had destroyed my father’s office. It had bothered me all night as I watched him trying to clean his office from the staircase, hoping he wouldn’t notice my presence, but since it was late in the evening, about near midnight, he tucked me into bed, telling me that he forgave me. It didn’t matter, though. I still felt awful about the whole thing. I had once again been misbehaving, doing things I wasn’t supposed to be doing, and even though my father hadn’t made a big fuss about it, the guilt was settling in the pit of my stomach as I tossed around in my bed.

I decided that the only way I could put my conscience at ease was to make it up to him. I didn’t have many options. Most of the skills I had acquired by the age of five weren’t exactly practical or useful to an adult, especially a man like my father. I didn’t think that a coloring book page or a stick figure drawing would be appropriate this time. Those were cute to give him for no reason, not so much for an apology, and I laid in bed for about an hour, staring at the ceiling to try and think of a way I could surprise my father with something nice for making such a mess earlier.

Then, it came to me: breakfast. He was always in a rush in the morning, and he often didn’t have time to make himself breakfast. That was perfect! I grinned a bit, hugging Wiggles (now smelling laundry fresh) close to my body, ecstatic with my brilliant plan. I would wake up early, hopefully before my father, and I was going to make him a bowl of cereal that he could eat before he went to work. Everything was perfect.

Except, when I was standing in front of the fridge early that morning, I realized that I was far too short to reach the cereal cabinet or the counter top on my own. Using my typically resourceful nature, I slid the jug of milk pulled from the fridge onto the countertop, and I slid one of the stools from the island counter over near the cabinets. I moved a clean bowl from the dishwasher to sit beside the milk, and I climbed up on the stool, now able to reach the cabinets. I perused my options: quite an assortment of things like Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, and Lucky Charms. Well, adults were too old for marshmallows, and Frosted Flakes were my favorite, so I wasn’t going to give those to my dad. Cheerios it was.

Pouring the cereal wasn’t the hard part. For the most part, I managed to pour a bowl of Cheerios and only about a handful managed to scatter across the counter top. Success. The cereal was quickly set back on the counter; all I had left to do was the milk. I could hear my father shuffling around above me in his bedroom, probably gathering his things. A smile crept onto my face as I tugged the cap off of the jug. I took the container in my hands, trying to be steady as I lifted it, starting to pour the white liquid in the bowl.

I watched as the cereal began to float, but my arms were starting to shake and shiver, too scrawny and small to bolster the weight of the milk jug, and just as quickly as I had picked it up, it had fallen, crashing against the floor and spilling everywhere just as my father was coming down the stairs. He saw everything.

Standing on the stool, I stared my father right in the face, and I was suddenly faced with the disappointment that I had once again made a mess of everything. My bottom lip poked out, quivering fiercely, and my chest heaved. My shoulders shook, and my eyes blinked rapidly, stinging with moisture moments before a loud wail erupted from my throat. My eyes were clenched tight, head tilted upward, and I was wailing at the top of my lungs: distraught by my second failure in a short 24-hour period. My father groaned and dropped his briefcase at the foot of the stairs.

“Tali,” he tried to address me, but I was inconsolable. I continued to sob even as he grabbed the jug and set it back on the island counter. “Tali,” he repeated, laughing quietly now as I opened my eyes and attempted to calm down, but I was still visibly shaken. “It’s okay,” my father reaffirmed as he wrapped his arms around me and picked me up. “Just a little spilled milk,” he added. “We’ll grab a towel and clean it up, okay?”

I buried my face into the shoulder of my father’s suit jacket. “I was trying to make you breakfast!” I wailed, clearly still stuck on the spilled milk, even though my father seemed to move past the issue.

“I know, Tali,” he said soothingly as he rubbed my back. “It looked delicious. Did you know that Cheerios are my favorite?” I lifted myself up to look at him, my cheeks stained red with tears. I shook my head. My father laughed. “What a lucky guess!” he exclaimed. “You’re a very smart little girl, Thalia,” my father mused as he reached his free hand to tickle my stomach. I laughed and hunched over again, laying against him, burying my face in his neck. “Very silly too,” he commented with a soft chuckle.

“Do you still want it?” I asked meekly as my father reached into the bathroom for one of the towels that were stacked on our sink.

He merely laughed as we headed back downstairs. “Of course, I do.” I smiled and wrapped my arms around him. “Thank you very much for making me breakfast, you sweet girl,” he told me before kissing my forehead. Grinning, I lifted my head and kissed his cheek. “And thank you for that,” my father added, a smile widening across his features.

“You’re welcome,” I told him, drawing invisible lines of the lapels of his suit jacket now. He set me down on the hardwood floors of our living room before he passed under the archway into the kitchen and began soaking up the milk with the towel. He left the towel curled up on the floor, but he stood up quickly and grabbed the bowl I’d left for him. Before rushing for his briefcase, he crouched down to my level and brushed my hair out of my face. “I’ve got to leave now, pumpkin,” he told me. I was used to the morning goodbye, so I just gave him a nod. “I’ll be back again to make you lunch. Can you do me a huge favor and put that towel in the laundry for me?” he asked.

I smiled and nodded. My father grinned and kissed my forehead. “Good girl,” he commented just as he rose back to his feet, grabbed his briefcase, shouted a goodbye, and rushed out the door.

Suddenly finding myself alone, I looked around for a moment with a sigh. I strode over a few feet and lifted up the soaking wet towel in my arms, carrying it up the steps and to the laundry room just like Daddy had shown me last week. I opened the glass door, tossed the towel in, followed by detergent and fabric softener, and I turned the machine on.

With nothing better to do, I sat in front of the machine, watching the laundry tumble round and round. It seemed monotonous, but it was certainly a change of pace from playing pretend tea time with Wiggles and an old Simon and Garfunkel record sleeve propped up against the wall. I sat there for the whole forty minutes, watching the suds and the bubbles, watching it spin. I watched it until the machine beeped, telling me to change it. I switched the towel into the dryer and turned it on.

There I sat for the next hour, just watching. Round… and around… and around.