Vivid
One
I could hear it, my name.
It was being called, his voice sweet like nectar.
Was I dreaming? Or was this real?
Could it be?
"Sara! Emily!"
There it was again, louder this time.
I longed to hear that sound again, dreamed of the day it'd echo through the walls of our home, and there it was, clear as a bell. He could have said anything, talked about wild deer or the nightly news, it was the dialect I craved. To hear it was almost unreal, as if it were just a far off memory replaying in my head.
Footsteps boomed up the stairs, they were headed towards our room. My eyes peeked open instantly, the sound was foreign. He never came upstairs.
Most of his time was spent on the couch in the front room. Mother's favorite room of the house. He'd made a home in the creases of the cushion, his shape fossilized into the back rest. A permanent ring of old beer stained the coffee table, he put the bottle the same place every time. Spiders had made their webs in every crook and corner they could find, dust particles covered the furniture and window panes leaving a thick film of dirt you could only get off if you scrubbed with the rough side of the sponge. Everything was left the same, the couch, the coffee table, the chair she used to sit and knit in during the hot afternoons. That was the way he saw it, exactly as it had been before she passed. Part of me believed he could still feel her sitting in that chair next to him. There were moments when the house was completely silent that I thought I could feel her, too. She was here, I knew it.
"Rise and shine, girls." He bellowed, nearing the doorway.
It really was real, it was him. I'd thought of this day for months, what he'd say to us when he finally decided to speak more than two words at a time. Maybe an apology, or a reasoning, or a resolution to make it better. This would do just fine, for now. All that mattered was that he was here, he was coherent, and he was making an effort for the first time in six months to communicate.
"Daddy!" Emily's bright blue eyes peeled open, elated. She hopped out of her bed and scrambled across the room, running and hugging his leg so tightly like he'd been off to the war for years and finally returned home. It was so easy for her to forgive and forget, I couldn't blame her. She had just turned five. Though it was not so easy for me, as I recalled celebrating her fifth birthday with her while he sat in the front room not even wishing her well on her special day. I remember trying to explain to her that he loved her very much, and even wrote his name on the birthday card I made for her in hopes it would deter her from tears. It was her first birthday without Mom, or Dad.
"There's my little princess."
I watched, sitting up, frozen as he reached down to pick her up. A twinge of fear rose within me. What if he was drunk again? What if he tried to hurt her? What could I do? Nothing. There was nothing I could do. Jordan and Micheal were gone, and I was helpless. I swallowed my terror and stood.
His mouth placed a kiss on her forehead, a bead of sweat dripped down mine. He lifted her into the air and placed her on his hip.
Don't you hurt her.
Don't you dare.
"Come on, breakfast is getting cold."
A wink my way and a grin, I hadn't seen his lips curl in any other way but downward, it seemed... foreign. Without hesitation I rose from my bed, following the two down the staircase and into the kitchen.
My stomach did a flip. I wasn't sure if it was from sickness or from joy, but it caused me to take a seat so conveniently at the table that was covered with food. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, ham, orange juice, apple slices. It was like Mom had never gone. I held my ground and choked back tears. Why was he doing this?
"Come sit over here with me Emily, so I can cut your food." So nonchalant, like he'd cut her food many times before. That was my job. I cut her food. Hell, I made her food. What was his game? What changed? It rattled my brain, I was losing focus. So much that I almost didn't realize he had Emily in Mom's old spot at the table. A few days ago, had he caught one of us sitting in her chair, let alone touch it, a bottle whether empty or full would have flown our way. The scar above my left eyebrow taught me that lesson. Why was it that she got to sit there? Was I allowed to now?
What changed?
I kept repeating the question in my mind, watching him as he cut her pancakes, no expression on his face. There, there it was. He was still just as empty as I'd seen him before. There was nothing in his eyes, no soul to bear. When Mom left, his soul went with her.
"I trust you're old enough to cut your pancakes? Sara?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah." He startled me, I answered low but clear and started to cut my own. I wasn't hungry, if anything I was the opposite, but I feared what he'd do if I didn't eat so there I sat, scarfing down what he'd worked hard to make. The last thing I wanted to do was upset him, there was no telling what he was capable of.
There were nights I watched him break every bottle in the house, even the wine bottle in the china cabinet from their wedding day. When he threatened his own life, and even my own. When he laid hands on our brothers after having too much to drink. I saw the way he hurt them, the bruises he left, it was engraved into my mind. I didn't doubt there were nights he couldn't remember what he was doing, but I did.
I always would.
"All finished?" He cooed to her, wiping her chin with his napkin.
"Mhm!" She smiled a big toothy smile up to him, happy to have her Daddy back again, or so it seemed. I wasn't so easily convinced.
He paused before grabbing her plate, watching her while she wiped down her sticky hands as our mother once did.
"You look just like her, you know. I never really noticed how.." Stopping himself, I watched him turn away. My eyes never left the back of his head.
What was his next move? Was he going to snap? It was no doubt that Emily looked just like her mother. Their ocean blue eyes had always matched, they shared the same cheek bones, nose, and light blonde hair. Unlike me, who shared the same attributes as my father and two brothers. All three of us had brown eyes, thin lips, sharp jaw lines and thick brown hair. I think that's part of why my brothers resented my father, and why my father resented me. We resembled a person we all grew to hate - as he hated himself. I'd hate myself if I were him, too.
There was no hesitation, no pause, no break in the facade he'd put on for us. Just a small sound of humming escaping his lips as he started up the dishes. Would it stick this time? Had he really woken up? Realized what he'd been missing? Only time would tell.
It was being called, his voice sweet like nectar.
Was I dreaming? Or was this real?
Could it be?
"Sara! Emily!"
There it was again, louder this time.
I longed to hear that sound again, dreamed of the day it'd echo through the walls of our home, and there it was, clear as a bell. He could have said anything, talked about wild deer or the nightly news, it was the dialect I craved. To hear it was almost unreal, as if it were just a far off memory replaying in my head.
Footsteps boomed up the stairs, they were headed towards our room. My eyes peeked open instantly, the sound was foreign. He never came upstairs.
Most of his time was spent on the couch in the front room. Mother's favorite room of the house. He'd made a home in the creases of the cushion, his shape fossilized into the back rest. A permanent ring of old beer stained the coffee table, he put the bottle the same place every time. Spiders had made their webs in every crook and corner they could find, dust particles covered the furniture and window panes leaving a thick film of dirt you could only get off if you scrubbed with the rough side of the sponge. Everything was left the same, the couch, the coffee table, the chair she used to sit and knit in during the hot afternoons. That was the way he saw it, exactly as it had been before she passed. Part of me believed he could still feel her sitting in that chair next to him. There were moments when the house was completely silent that I thought I could feel her, too. She was here, I knew it.
"Rise and shine, girls." He bellowed, nearing the doorway.
It really was real, it was him. I'd thought of this day for months, what he'd say to us when he finally decided to speak more than two words at a time. Maybe an apology, or a reasoning, or a resolution to make it better. This would do just fine, for now. All that mattered was that he was here, he was coherent, and he was making an effort for the first time in six months to communicate.
"Daddy!" Emily's bright blue eyes peeled open, elated. She hopped out of her bed and scrambled across the room, running and hugging his leg so tightly like he'd been off to the war for years and finally returned home. It was so easy for her to forgive and forget, I couldn't blame her. She had just turned five. Though it was not so easy for me, as I recalled celebrating her fifth birthday with her while he sat in the front room not even wishing her well on her special day. I remember trying to explain to her that he loved her very much, and even wrote his name on the birthday card I made for her in hopes it would deter her from tears. It was her first birthday without Mom, or Dad.
"There's my little princess."
I watched, sitting up, frozen as he reached down to pick her up. A twinge of fear rose within me. What if he was drunk again? What if he tried to hurt her? What could I do? Nothing. There was nothing I could do. Jordan and Micheal were gone, and I was helpless. I swallowed my terror and stood.
His mouth placed a kiss on her forehead, a bead of sweat dripped down mine. He lifted her into the air and placed her on his hip.
Don't you hurt her.
Don't you dare.
"Come on, breakfast is getting cold."
A wink my way and a grin, I hadn't seen his lips curl in any other way but downward, it seemed... foreign. Without hesitation I rose from my bed, following the two down the staircase and into the kitchen.
My stomach did a flip. I wasn't sure if it was from sickness or from joy, but it caused me to take a seat so conveniently at the table that was covered with food. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, ham, orange juice, apple slices. It was like Mom had never gone. I held my ground and choked back tears. Why was he doing this?
"Come sit over here with me Emily, so I can cut your food." So nonchalant, like he'd cut her food many times before. That was my job. I cut her food. Hell, I made her food. What was his game? What changed? It rattled my brain, I was losing focus. So much that I almost didn't realize he had Emily in Mom's old spot at the table. A few days ago, had he caught one of us sitting in her chair, let alone touch it, a bottle whether empty or full would have flown our way. The scar above my left eyebrow taught me that lesson. Why was it that she got to sit there? Was I allowed to now?
What changed?
I kept repeating the question in my mind, watching him as he cut her pancakes, no expression on his face. There, there it was. He was still just as empty as I'd seen him before. There was nothing in his eyes, no soul to bear. When Mom left, his soul went with her.
"I trust you're old enough to cut your pancakes? Sara?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah." He startled me, I answered low but clear and started to cut my own. I wasn't hungry, if anything I was the opposite, but I feared what he'd do if I didn't eat so there I sat, scarfing down what he'd worked hard to make. The last thing I wanted to do was upset him, there was no telling what he was capable of.
There were nights I watched him break every bottle in the house, even the wine bottle in the china cabinet from their wedding day. When he threatened his own life, and even my own. When he laid hands on our brothers after having too much to drink. I saw the way he hurt them, the bruises he left, it was engraved into my mind. I didn't doubt there were nights he couldn't remember what he was doing, but I did.
I always would.
"All finished?" He cooed to her, wiping her chin with his napkin.
"Mhm!" She smiled a big toothy smile up to him, happy to have her Daddy back again, or so it seemed. I wasn't so easily convinced.
He paused before grabbing her plate, watching her while she wiped down her sticky hands as our mother once did.
"You look just like her, you know. I never really noticed how.." Stopping himself, I watched him turn away. My eyes never left the back of his head.
What was his next move? Was he going to snap? It was no doubt that Emily looked just like her mother. Their ocean blue eyes had always matched, they shared the same cheek bones, nose, and light blonde hair. Unlike me, who shared the same attributes as my father and two brothers. All three of us had brown eyes, thin lips, sharp jaw lines and thick brown hair. I think that's part of why my brothers resented my father, and why my father resented me. We resembled a person we all grew to hate - as he hated himself. I'd hate myself if I were him, too.
There was no hesitation, no pause, no break in the facade he'd put on for us. Just a small sound of humming escaping his lips as he started up the dishes. Would it stick this time? Had he really woken up? Realized what he'd been missing? Only time would tell.