II
Images
I don't know how long I waited for the feelings to calm, and for the silence to be interrupted, but the sun had lit the sky a bright orange red that pushed through the windows of the house by the time I clutched onto the wall and pulled myself up like my mother had done. One hand remained on the floor and I jerked it at the sudden light hitting my eyes. I fell by the wall and looked down at my hand. A thin piece of glass had bored itself into my palm. I blew on it and prodded it, ignoring the blood that was beginning to grow and thick and watchful. New tears formed over the dried paths of the old and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears as the glass startled my nerves. I drew my hand back and pressed my back against the wall.
I turned my head to the bird and crouched before standing up and walking into the kitchen. I cleaned the glass from my palm and washed the warm blood from my stained hand. I reached under the sink reaching for the dustpan and the small broom to sweep away the bird, but stopped myself. They would sweep their own ashes. I dabbed a little harder at the small point of blood left on my palm before grabbing my jacket and heading out the door. Two would leave tonight.
I didn't want to be there. I couldn't stay knowing he had hit her. I couldn't live with the thought of him hurting her. Leaving her with a face red with his doing. She had made it easy for me, though. She had turned me away first.
I pulled my coat closer to me, trying to shield of the cold that struck my face as I walked out the door and off the porch. The tears I had forgotten whipped across my face, blowing from it with ease.
I knew she loved him. I loved him. Why wasn't that enough? If I asked him not to go, would he stay? Did I matter? Could I do anything? I knew the answer to all those questions. We all did and it killed me.
Though they had never argued like this, though he had never hit her, they had argued and she would retreat to her room not speaking until he got home. That was my only place to go. That was my only shelter. I couldn't go back there.
Lizzie. Had to laugh at that thought of going to Lizzie's. She was quite content with the way things were. Ethan Craft had finally bowed down to her blonde greatness and she had subjected herself to him, which ultimately left our relationship in shambles. She didn't mind being known as "Ethan's girlfriend". The title earned her a friendship with Kate who had conversations with her about Ethan's charms and looks. Slowly Gordo and I were pushed out of her frame of mind. There were no more meetings at Digital Bean, or three-way conversations of the phone. Gordo and I were never as close as Lizzie and Gordo. She was the glue that held us together as friends and I more than regretted that now.
I could only stare at the door, standing on the bottom step with my hands dug deep into my pockets. I walked onto the porch and hovered a finger, threatening the doorbell.
I stood there, listening to the silence of the neighborhood: vacant streets, parked cars, forgotten friends. I turned from the door and stared long to the end of the block. The street was filled with the sound of the wind's whistle, but the thought of going back and seeing my mother fallen apart and clutching her bed sheets seemed worse than being bitten by the wind. I hurried down the steps and sped up my walking, images of my mother in my mind. He was yelling at her and suddenly I began shaking as my face etched in before my mother's. His eyes were burning with rage and I shriveled into a ball as he expressed his anger. He was yelling about money. He was yelling about my mother. He was yelling about me. His eyes were focused and he took no breath to stop, as I begged. I was dreaming again. It was the same scene at night, the one come to call when I closed my eyes. He turned from me, and I begged him not to leave and that thundering sound I had heard earlier vibrated from the walls as he closed the door. "Please don't go. Daddy don't leave-"
My eyes snapped open with a shudder. Something stood in front of me, feet away, staring: a blotch in the mist. I blinked, realizing I hadn't done it since my eyes had come open. He moved, but I stood still. Gordo.
I could feel cool tears wisp across my nose as I stared back, not daring to blink; not wanting to have him disappear before me as quickly as Lizzie had.
He stopped in front of me, but I expected him to walk right through me.
"Hey." I could barely move my lips to greet him. He stood there and for a moment and I could swear he was counting on me to meet at the Digital Bean. "What are you doing here?" I croaked out disbelieving. He shrugged. When he shrugged I noticed how much he had changed. We stood an eye-to-eye distance, just barely. He had grown taller than me. His eyes were pug as if worn out from looking down. His lips were tight and pursed. His hair looked uncut, but not growing, making it the only thing that appeared unchanged. "Walking."
I could smell the cold ash on him, like cigarettes.
"I haven't seen you in a long time."
"Yeah…."
"Have you seen Lizzie?" He hadn't moved, barely blinked since he approached me, but his brow twitched nervously now as he brought up her name.
"No. A question better directed to Ethan or Kate."
"That is her new crowd," he agreed, sounding bitterer than I would've imagined.
"You smoke." I don't know where it came from, but at the same time it made me feel stupid for stating something he more than new, but did.
"It passes the time." I cast my eyes to my feet. The silence was awkward, filled with tension and I knew whatever comfort there was had gone.
"How are things with you?" He asked making me look up at him.
"Pretty good."
"You've changed," he said matter-of-factly.
"So have you."
"No more than Lizzie." He sighed. "Goodbye, Miranda."
He turned from me and walked slowly down the sidewalk. I turned to and looked back down the block I had looked on at on Lizzie's porch and turned sharply back around to see Gordo still retreating into the mist at the end of the walk. I sighed and turned home.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I closed the door behind me and stepped over the crystal bird still lain across the floor. I passed the family portrait by the door and smiled to myself. My parents stood by one another, smiling loyally with one another and I stood in between. We were a family. There were friends. There was no silence.
I continued to my room and passed the locked door of my mother's room. I walked into my bedroom and closed the door behind me. I threw my jacket on the empty chair in front of the computer and sat down on my bed staring down at my palm. I eased my head back on the pillow and waited for him to come home.
Later that night he finally came in and I heard my mother's door open. I reached for mine and followed distantly to the top of the staircase. She went down alone and I stood there unnoticed. She walked over to him and he turned away from her. He hung his coat on the rack by the door and shrugged off her hand. "Henry…" She prodded.
"Don't touch me, Mary Anne." He said this dryly, harshly and peering into her.
"Henry, please." She reached for him and he slapped her hand away. "Don't touch me, Mary Anne."
"Why are you doing this?" She asked meekly.
"You want to know why I'm doing this, Mary Anne, because I don't want your filthy hands on me! That's why!" They both looked ready to burst: from rage and sadness. Her lips quivered and his entire body trembled. She shook her head. "Henry, I didn't mean to." He continued yelling and she began to sob, still reaching for him.
"Stop it." I whispered, to myself. It went on and I rushed down the steps until a stood in front of both of them. "Stop it!" I screamed it, ready to cry. He was holding her wrist and she stopped trying to reach for him. He threw her wrist down and she pursed her lips.
"Go back up stairs, Sweetie," she told me. I shook my head. "What good will that do? I hear you. I know you fight about me!"
"This has nothing to do with you-"
"It has to do with everything. Always money- always me! I'll try harder. I will." My eyes were pleading with my father. "She loves you."
His eyes were still cold and unyielding and he turned to my mother. "Tell her what you did, Mary Anne. Go ahead, tell her," he said bitterly. I looked at her and she shook her head. "Henry, please…"
"Stop it! Stop pleading with me!" He faced me. "Your whore of a mother cheated on me. Did you know that?" She what? "He's practically your age!" His bitter laughter filled the house.
"Please don't be angry at me…."
All I could say was, "How could you?"
"Miranda, I'm so sorry." I turned to find him pulling on his coat. "Don't go. I know she hurt you, but please don't go!" He headed for the door, but stopped and turned to look back at us.
"She took him to our house, Miranda," he told me in his familiar tone of voice. "She took him into our house and screwed him!" He walked across the living room. "Was it over here? Or was it on the couch? Or right here, Mary Anne?" He yelled so loudly, so powerfully, I began to cry like my mother.
He calmed and returned to us. "Why, Mary Anne? Can you please just answer that." I've never seen him cry but he cried now freely, and with desperation.
"You were always working, Henry, and when you did come home, I got nothing from you. I was you wife. For god sakes, you loved Miranda more than me!"
"Jesus Christ, Mary Anne! She's our daughter!"
"I was you wife!"
I just stood there as they stared hard at one another, feeling as I did in the cold, standing there with Gordo in the uncomfortable silence.
I watched as my father ran a hand through his hair and sighed at his wife before finally opening the door and closing it with a click that was barely heard at all.
She turned to me and walked into the kitchen, coming back with a dustpan and the small broom.
I hastened towards the door and headed out ignoring the cold thrashing my body. Quick steps turned into sprints. Sprints changed to running and I raced down the sidewalk running away from the crying that followed me out the door.
I stopped, winded and troubled with my stomach lurching inside of me and slouched down on the step behind me, sobbing like my mother had done.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It sucks. I know this, but for some weird reason, I can't stop writing it.