Fear Itself

When I was seven, my social isolation was becoming an issue. It was escalating, but I did my best to hide it. I was in a strange in-between stage; I wasn’t quite dependent on being social yet, but I was breaking the yolk of my childhood imagination full of fantastic mystical worlds and imaginary friends. Tea time with Simon and Garfunkel was growing lackluster as it became clearer and clearer that they were never actually going to answer me back nor was Wiggles. They weren’t real people, and they couldn’t substitute them. I found my escape in books and literature. I read constantly, and I was bored of picture books; I was bored of elementary novels. I was past stories about farm animals and the like. I wanted an escape. I wanted excitement, adventure, and something that was going to take me more than five minutes to read.

My father recognized this, and he started bringing home more advanced pieces for me to read. Literature was what he called it, and I rather liked that word. It was better than just a book. It was different, more complex, and more meaningful. Reading it for the first time was even better. I was reading everything I could get my hands on: Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli, Because of Winn-Dixie by Kate DiCamillo, Number the Stars by Lowis Lowry, and anything else my father would bring home for me. I sped through them, and eventually, I found myself progressing onto what my father truly considered literature: works by the greats. Short stories were first, just collections of assorted stories, mostly from old literature textbooks from high school and college introductory classes.

It was pure bliss. I never found anything better, and I looked forward to the new books father would bring me every week either on his lunch break or after he was home for the evening. One particular day, he brought home my first real pieces of literature.

“That one is Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway,” he explained, pointing to one of two books set in front of me on the island counter. “And this is A Separate Peace by John Knowles.”

I traced the covers with my fingers, absolutely thrilled to read them, but I would wait until my father left, I decided. I would need something to do after he left to finish work. I stacked the books on top of each other and moved them to the edge of the counter as I watched my father make my lunch, and my nose crinkled up at the sight of bread and cheese frying. “Daddy,” I whined. “Grilled cheese again?”

“Yes, dear,” my father replied with exasperation. “Grilled cheese again.”

“But I’m sick of grilled cheese,” I declared, eyes watching him sadly as he continued to cook.

“I’m very sorry, Pumpkin. I just don’t have time to make anything else. You know Daddy is very busy during the week,” he responded, flipping the sandwich with a spatula.

“I know,” I murmured, lowering my head. I looked at my feet and let them swinging around under the countertop.

My father turned his head as he flipped the grill off and sighed faintly. “Oh, Tali,” he mumbled. “You can pick lunch for Saturday, alright? Whatever you want.”

“Mac and cheese!” I exclaimed, shooting up immediately with excitement.

“You always pick mac and cheese,” he laughed as he slid my sandwich onto a plate.

I knew I always picked mac and cheese; it was my favorite food, so I found that a rather useless comment to make, but I didn’t dare say that to my father. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He slid the plate in front of me and quickly pulled his briefcase from the counter. He leaned across for a moment to kiss my forehead.

“I’ve got to leave now,” he told me. “I love you very much pumpkin.” He began to exit, but he paused to turn. “And don’t eat your food upstairs, Tali. We don’t want bugs,” he added before finally closing the door behind him. Gone again.

Naturally, the first thing I did after he vanished was take my new books and my grilled cheese upstairs into my room with me. I set the grilled cheese on the floor (exactly where my father hadn’t wanted it), and I sat down in front of my massive bookshelf, which was slowly filling up to the size of a personal library. I perused my books, and I greeted them with a quiet, “Hello, friends.”

“Which one of you wants to play with me today?” I inquired with a soft smile. My eyes ran over the options. “I could go sailing with Captain Ahab today, but I don’t think I want to be on the ocean today, and neither does Wiggles.” I sighed and continued looking. “I could… um…” my voice drifted off, and I glanced down to the new books my father had brought home; I smiled a little. “Well, new friends are always nice,” I announced before I opened The Old Man and the Sea.

I spent the afternoon sailing with Santiago in pursuit of a trophy fish, which was infinitely better than spending the afternoon alone in my room.