Thursday
It was getting dark in my room and I realized I'd been curled up in a corner crying on and off since I got home from school. It'd been three days since… since… Emma had defiled my mother's flute. I shook my head trying to clear the image of it, of all the things she'd done to it, smashed, covered in …, then… no, that's just what I was trying to stop.
I glanced at the clock, six, my father should be calling me to dinner any moment. I took a deep breath and scooched over to the edge of the bed and looked around my room, trying to recenter myself. My school bag was sitting next to my small desk, an old wooden chair painted bright yellow pushed up to it. The bag showed small stains I hadn't quite managed to clean off on a strap and on the side from the pranks of my tormenters. My eyes were drawn to a hairline crack in the leg of the chair, mmm, we'll have to glue that or something? I don't really know anything about repairing furniture. My eyes slipped down to my feet, in my favorite super fluffy house socks—dirty around the edges from our rarely vacuumed floors and frizzing and wear everywhere else.
I wiggled my toes and tried on a smile. Erhm, no. It didn't feel right, it felt plastic, numb, not a part of my face. Oh well. I hopped up, leaving my room and going to the bathroom. I wetted a wash cloth to maybe wash away the puffy redness a bit before going downstairs and caught myself staring at smudging along the left of the mirror. Right where we'd grab it to open medicine cabinet behind it. I rubbed at the smudge and then noticed where a tiny bit of chrome on the frame had chipped. And ugh, I shook my head. Somehow it seemed like ever since the fl… since Em… since… well, then, I'd been unable to stop focusing on how everything in my life was shit. It'd been that way for a while, sure, but now I couldn't help but see how everything was falling apart.
I sighed and rewetted the washcloth and scrubbed my face. Well, maybe my eyes weren't really any less red but now the rest of my face kind of matched. Looking at myself I winced, my eyes not quite symmetrical, my mouth too wide, and the abrasion on my cheeks from scrubbing had reddened them, my hair was frizzy with split ends and… I turned my head from the mirror, closed my eyes, and willed the intrusive thoughts away. This wasn't me. I was never thrilled with how I looked, but I was never one of those girls who obsessed over it… except clearly I was. Sigh. Great, now in addition to being depressed I was shallow too. Uh, am I depressed? I…
"Taylor, dinner's ready." I heard my father yell up from downstairs.
I swallowed my thoughts and prepared to put on a good face for Dad. Well, an adequate face anyway. Well, at least not face that would drag him down with me.
"I'll be right there." I yelled back.
I quickly washed my hands, trying very hard to not look at anything, though a glimpse at the hand towel and all I can think is that it's both threadbare and way overdue for a wash itself. Yuck.
⁂
I walked into the kitchen as Dad was draining spaghetti noodles. Spaghetti, one of his "easy meals" that are all we seem to have since Mom died. The kitchen is old, New England old, which means it was laid out before modern appliances, so nothing fits quite right. These older houses have a muted feel to them that comes from so many layers of paint that the details of the woodwork underneath have started to vanish and ours is no exception. We'll be eating at a small breakfast table with two chairs in the corner next to a window. We actually have a dining room, but I can't remember the last time we used it. When my parents had their friends over I guess. Mom always used to prefer the kitchen—she'd say it was more intimate.
I pulled out the only two of our plates that don't have tiny cracks spider webbing over them or chips or other flaws I can't bear to eat off of. They still have scratches, scuff marks from our utensils but nothing's perfect (nothing's ever perfect, everything's broken). I set them down next to the pot of cooling too watery sauce and dance around Dad as he moves the now drained noodles over to the plates. I glanced at him and he—he seemed tense—like maybe he wanted to talk. But we don't really talk any more, and I'm not going to start. I'd have to tell him about Emma. About school. About everything, and I don't think I can. It would destroy him. And the last thing I want is to obsess over them while I'm at home. If their bullying somehow destroyed my home life too, I… somehow that would be letting them win. As long as this was mine then I was ok. I could claim this space apart from them. I laid out the silverware and grabbed a plate full of noodles and ladled sauce on to them. They're over cooked. They're always overcooked.
My father got his plate and sits down across from me. He looked up at me and then back down at the table. Well, this is even more awkward than usual.
"Taylor, are you, uh, how are you doing?"
"Fine," I said between bites, without meeting his eyes. Ugh, am I being a stereotypical sulky teen? Oh well, there are extenuating circumstances. Not that I'm going to tell him that.
"That's… good". He didn't sound convinced but thankfully moved on. "Your aunt Elizabeth is going to be visiting this weekend."
I startled, my gaze went to him and I really look at him for the first time since I came downstairs. I can't help but notice is he's looking worn. There's almost no other word for it, it's not just one thing, but a bunch… his hair thinning ever so slightly, the darker spots under his eyes that you can tell are always there now, something about the cast of his skin. And over that, the ever present blanket of grief since Mom died that even in three years hasn't faded.
Trying to shake that train of thought I took a sip of water. Ugh, over fluoridated, some minor sediment, the taste of rust maybe from our pipes. Still, that's better. "Ooh," I said, trying to sound a bit more perky, "it'll be nice to see her again. She was mom's friend in college wasn't she?" Sometimes sounding happier brings my mood along for the ride. Or so I tell myself. I think it used to.
My father took another bite and swallowed. "That's right… well, we were both her friend."
She spent holidays with us till I was six. Well more than holidays, truth be told, she seemed ever present in my early childhood, present almost more often than she wasn't. She even joined us on vacations. I think the first time I saw my mom cry was when aunt Beth moved to California. I didn't quite understand what was going on at the time or I think I would have too. That Christmas I did cry when I found out she wasn't going to be there. Now that I've thought about it, it's obvious that she was closer than some friend from college. I guess I just filed her away as that since that was always how they introduced her to others. Somehow it didn't seem odd at the time, despite her being all but family.
Remembering her I found myself smiling a little and for the first time in a week it almost feels genuine. I glanced across at dad. He had the hint of a smile too—we'll both be happy to see aunt Beth again I guess, but there's something else in his expression… trepidation? Concern? I can't quite place it but it's worrying at me like the imperfections in the bathroom mirror were.
I picked up my plate and took it over to the sink and started filling it to start on the dishes. With that I lost myself to our evening routine.