Vivid

I wasn't angry at my father for abandoning us after what happened. Well okay, maybe I was just a little, but I'd grown into quite an understanding young girl since I started talking to my school therapist Ms. Perth over the past few months. When the district finds out about a death in the family they make it their 'number one priority' to make sure any children effected received the proper grievance counseling. She was a nice lady, round - like a basketball. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and she somehow always had a reference to the book To Kill A Mockingbird whenever we talked. Part of me felt like that was the only connection she had to give when it my specific case.

  For an hour out of the day, twice a week, I sat in her office and played games, drew pictures, and talked with her about what happens at home. I'd learned to become a very good liar. I didn't tell her about the nights that never seemed to end. I didn't tell her about the times I'd stay up with Emily while she cried. I didn't dare speak negatively about my father. I knew what would happen if I did.

  There was a girl in our third grade class, her name was Stephanie. She was always showing up with bruises on her legs and underneath her arms. She'd told a couple of us girls that her father and her mother fought a lot, and the bruises were there because she'd gotten in the way. Then one day she just never showed up to school again. When we asked our teacher where she went, he told us that very nice people took her to live somewhere that she wouldn't be hurt again with parents who would take care of her. I didn't want to be taken away from my family. Emily needed me, what would happen to her? What would happen to Dad? Despite the resentment I held in my heart for him, he was still my father. I still cared about him. He wouldn't have survived those six months had it not been for me.

  Part of the reason why I harbor so much hatred was purely because he would be nowhere without my help, and I never got so much as a thank you from him for it. I went twice a week, every week, lying for him so that we could keep what was left of our family together. I couldn't help but feel like I was doing it for a reason, whatever that reason may be.

  "So, anything new happen this weekend?" Her voice was light, calming like the sound of the ocean.

  Do I tell her?
I should tell her.
Well it's new for me, but would it be significant news for her?
  
  Will she ask questions?
She's probably going to ask questions.

  "Mm.." I paused, pulling my fingers from the drawing table and lacing them together. I could feel her eyes on me. "Well, kinda." My eyes were kept averted to my fingers, I watched them perspire, filling my palms with sweat.

  Should I tell her?
I don't see why not.

  "Oh? What happened?" Her chair dragged across the carpet, scooting closer to the table as if getting closer to me would help her hear my news faster.

  "Mm. My dad made us breakfast on Sunday. Like a big breakfast. "

  "What kind of big breakfast? What did you have?" Her tone changed, not as intrigued as she was before.

  As far as Ms. Perth was concerned, my father took care of us regularly. Helped me with homework, played games with us, cooked our meals and packed our lunches. Just your every day, average stay at home dad. There was no way I'd tell her what it was really like. The truth was, we'd been living off of hungry mans and tv dinners for the past two months. There was no milk, no cereal, no snacks, not even eggs up until Sunday. He must have went to the store early that morning before we woke up. Or maybe in the middle of the night when we were both sound asleep.

  "Pancakes.. and eggs and ham... and bacon and apples... and toast with orange juice. It was a lot."

  "That sounds like a lot. Does your dad not usually cook that much?"

  "No. He cooks, just.. not that much. That's the first time I seen-"

  "Saw him."

  "Saw him that happy to cook. It was like.."

  Nope.

  I was getting carried away. It was like it was back to normal. What was normal? What had normal become? I couldn't tell her that that was the first time he'd made a meal for us in six months, let alone wake us up or have a conversation or even look at us.

  "It was like what?"

  "Like.. mom was never gone." Cold, blank answers. I'd gotten so used to playing that card I'd become numb to saying the words mom and gone in the same sentence. Maybe that was a good thing.

  "Ah. Well I'm glad to hear your father's getting back into the groove of things. Maybe we'll see you guys again at church one of these Sunday's? You know that Pastor Evans says a little something for your family before final prayer, I think it'll do you father some good."

  Ms. Perth's heart was in the right place, don't get me wrong, but there was just something about talking about God that set me off. It was probably due to the fact that my father popped off like a loose cannon every time the subject was brought up - whether it be on TV, on the radio, or even in the grocery store. Living in a small town like Washington it was hard to get away from the thing that bound most of the people here together. Lately he'd successfully avoided it all together. In fact, I hadn't heard the Lord's name spoken except for in school. Kids at school kind of knew to avoid the subject with me. It was common sense to not talk about God around someone who'd stopped going to church for one reason or another. But not Ms Perth, no nothing got excused around her - at least in her eyes.

  I took a deep, slow breath in. Exhale.

  "Maybe. I'll ask my dad if we can go this weekend."

  No I wouldn't. Not unless I wanted a smack in the head or a punch between the eyes. That's what happened to Micheal after he told our dad he needed to "get right in the eyes of the Lord." I watched his nose bleed for hours it seemed.

  "That sounds like a good idea. How's your science project looking?"

  I'd been done for three days now, the project wasn't due until Friday. It was supposed to be a model of a volcano. My teacher suggested play dough or paper mache, I made mine with mud from the backyard. It was all we had.

  "I finished. It looks really good. My dad said using mud would make it more authentic."

  "Oh good. That's good. Well." She paused to look up at the clock, "I think that's it. Unless there's something you'd like to talk about?"

  I shook my head no, and with that I was sent off back to class.
That was easier than I thought it was going to be.