A Fire in the Night
By Happillyeverafter18
Chapter 1:
I remember my childhood distantly, like a movie I haven't seen in ages, almost like they are someone else's memories instead of mine. The happiest ones? There is no question which those are, for those are the ones I remember best.
I was small during that period of my life. My father called me his "Little Peanut." I was probably four or five years old. My father Jesse Garrets, a tall laughing man with messy brown hair, creamy skin, and jolly emerald eyes, was an artist. He lived for the swirl of color and the brush of acrylics on paper, but he also lived for me.
Who else could he live for? My mother had died the night of my birth. I killed her before she could even see me. Daddy named me Jane. He told me many times about my name and reincarnation-which he believed in. He said maybe I'd grow up to help the monkeys like Jane Goodwin. Maybe I'd write classic romances like Jane Austen. Mostly he hoped that I would be like Jane Maria Candelaria. Who was she? My mother. . I look just like her, or so he told me. I have thick, black curly hair and dark Latin eyes. I have her Spanish skin, and her full lips, but I also have my dad in me. I am brave and laugh easily, like him. I look at his pictures, and I see myself in the subtle curve of his nose, the stretch of his smile. We were so alike, so we spent our days not as Father and Daughter but as best friends. We needed each other; how could we not? It was just the two of us in our quaint, modest cottage in the middle of the big, bad forest. Dad and I against the world.
When I think of my happiest memories, foremost comes into my mind the camping trips. Every weekend we'd explore the trail and pitch the tent wherever we ended up. My favorite part about those excursions into the unknown was the nights spent by firelight. We'd sing and laugh until I was falling asleep on my feet. My father's laughing face would become that of an indulgent parent. Thus would begin our battle of "I'm not tired!" and "Yes you are!"
He would smile and shake his head, trying to persuade me into my sleeping bag "Come on, Jay. No need to push yourself."
I would never listen, whining and carrying on. "But Da-addeeee!!! I'm not t-i-i-oid! Really!" I'd say through huge yawns. He'd just laugh and offer his shoulder for a head rest.
I'd eventually drift off to dreamland- a place of random pictures I could never make sense of when I'd wake up. I would fall asleep, my head on Daddy's shoulder with his arm and thick blanket draped over me.
When I would greet the day those weekends, I'd find myself in my sleeping bag, Daddy's comforter set lovingly on top.
Then it all went down hill. His paintings weren't selling, and money was tight. He took up residence with the couch and his new best friend- Guiness beer, Ireland's finest. So as Daddy drowned in the drink, I found myself abandoned on the weekends. No more camping trips for Jane. I knew they were done, but I found myself always asking Friday night if I needed to get out the tent and sleeping bags. "No," he's say. "I'm afraid I'm just too tired, Jane. Why don't you go down to the park? I did that a lot when I was a kid."
It was through the drink that I realized he still blamed me for mom. I was only eight years old when I came to school with evidence of his anger on my arms. Bruises covered my arms and back, some an ugly yellow, others fresh and purple. It took me six months of this abuse to finally break down to my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Jagreem.
I explained through my sobs Daddy's entanglement with his bottle. I asked her why he didn't love me anymore and why he couldn't stop. I showed her my bruises, and I explained that maybe he did love me, but he loved the drink better. I explained how I had killed my mother, and how he blamed me for it. Then I told her about his latest beating.
I came home from school, and I did homework. I made dinner just like every other night, but when I said grace, I mentioned my mother. Nothing much was different after that. He maybe grabbed an extra bottle or two, but that was all I noticed. It was after dinner that it happened.
I was playing jacks in the living room. I was up to foursies. He told me how my mother loved jacks, but then I must have made some degrading comment about my mother's ability to play jacks or something. I didn't know; I was just a little kid. He stood up off the couch in a drunken rage. "How DARE you say that about her! She was amazing, you little brat! Why'd you kill her, huh?" he screamed.
I stammered through the blows of his fists, "I, I, I didn't mean it, Daddy! Please, please stop! Please Daddy! Please stop! I'm sorry! I'm really, really sorry! I didn't mean to do it; I was just a little baby! Please Daddy! Oh, Daddy, please. Please stop…" I broke down to tears. It hurt. It hurt so much. Why couldn't he love me more than the beer? Why didn't he love me more than my dead mother? Why did he blame me?
He continued shrieking, "What did you do with her?! Why'd you take her away from me?! Why wasn't it you?!" He then collapsed into tears mumbling for his "Sweet, sweet Jay-May."
I took refuge in my room after that. I nursed my wounds; I fought back more tears until I fell asleep. I woke up the next day very sore, covered in bruises, with the stickiness of tears shed in the night upon my face.
The next Saturday after my tearful confession, these people came to visit us. Their names were Miss Kiang, Mr. Carmel, and Mr. Welch. I was overjoyed that we had company. I finally had someone new with whom I could play. I was so naïve.
The people "visited" for about an hour. Daddy just stood there, in a drunken stupor. Once in a while he'd get this resigned, pent-up annoyance sort of look on his face, but it would pass to be filled with sorrow. They packed a pink duffel bag full of my clothes, telling me how I was going to a sleepover. Again, I was deliriously happy; I mean, it was my first sleepover at eight years old. Then they grabbed me by the arm, leading me towards our front door.
Suddenly Daddy started to talk to them. He was very sad and angry, and I knew that when I came back from the sleepover, he wouldn't be happy. He got up into Miss Kiang's face. He yelled, "Who do you think you are taking my little girl from me?! Where you taking her you-" he then used a VERY bad word. I was stunned. He'd only ever said those when he'd been up all night drinking. He'd been doing pretty well since hurting me. He told he was sorry when I came home from school the day of my nervous breakdown.
He then turned to me, all anger and grief smoothed over. In its place was a face of a kind, understanding man. He said, "Jay, Sweetheart, don't go away. I was going to take you camping tonight just like you wanted. Won't it be fun?"
I looked at his face, surprise warring with joy. He'd called me Jay; he hadn't called me Jay since I was six, but I still wasn't going to miss my first sleepover. We could go camping tomorrow. "But Daddy, I WANT to go we can always camp when I come back."
He got down on his knees, and he clasped my arms, looking me fully in the face. "But, Jay, don't you understand? If you go with them, you will never come back. I'll never see you again. Where will I be without you? Where would I go? What would I do? With whom would I go camping? I, I, I love you, Sweetheart. Please don't go away." And he was crying. I didn't want to go if it made Daddy sad. Daddy finally loved me more then his bottle; I couldn't leave him. I reached out to him, only to have Mr. Carmel pull me back.
I looked up into Mr. Carmel's face, eyes wide and innocent, "Let GO. I don't want to go anymore. Please?" But he pulled me back, ignoring wails to my father. I screamed and sobbed as I was hauled out to the truck. Daddy followed his eyes shiny with unshed tears. I'd wanted my Daddy to come back to be, not to have him taken away from me. It was wrong. It was all wrong.
They put me in the back seat and buckled me up. I sat there screaming like a caged animal as I pulled at the restraint of the seat belt. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. It was useless. Why wouldn't they let me go? Why couldn't I stay with Daddy? Then Daddy was at my window. He laid his palm against the glass, and my shrieks quieted. I pulled my hand up to his; the only thing separating us was the wall of glass. Suddenly an idea came to me. I pushed the button to roll down the window, and it rolled down lazily. Finally SOMETHING worked.
Daddy cupped my chin lovingly, "Remember, Jay. I love you- always have, always will Don't forget me and where you came from because sometimes it will be your only comfort. Be brave for me. I'm sorry I did all this to you. I love you, Baby. Goodbye, Jay." Then he kissed my cheek and stepped back from the truck.
I lurched forward, and my bottom lip trembled with suppressed sobs. The truck made its escape, and I watched my father's receding figure until it was gone from sight. The smell of his beer still hung in my hair. "I love you too, Daddy. I won't forget."
That is the last memory I have of my father- him standing in the driveway, waving good-bye in his plaid blue boxers and white t-shirt, unshaven and smelling of Guiness. The rest of my childhood I try to forget, but the pain bears through my shaky defenses, like a fire in the night.