“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”
“Out for a while,” my mother says after emerging from her room. She’s dressed in something other than pajamas, her hair is washed and pulled back away from her face, and she has makeup on. Makeup.
I’m stunned, and not in a good way. The woman who hasn’t left the house all summer is now primped and going out.
“When will you be back?”
“Don’t know.”
“Mom,” I snap, my voice teetering between annoyance and anger.
She grabs her purse, and her high heels tap-tap-tap as she walks over to me with ease in her step. It’s a relief that she’s not wasted, but that’s not to say she hasn’t been drinking. She offers me a hug, and even though it’s lifeless, I take it anyway.
“Seriously. Where are you going?”
“Since when did you become the mom?”
Since the day you decided to become a drunk.
Tucking her clutch underneath her arm, she sighs. “I’m meeting a girlfriend for a bite to eat.” Her answer reeks of dishonesty.
“Whatever,” I mumble beneath my breath, irked with her secrecy as she walks out the door and leaves me alone in a house with too many ghosts.
With nowhere to go, I wander out into the back yard. My bare feet lead me over to the pool’s edge. The water glows wildly against the night, throwing its reflection against me in wavy veins of brightness.
I’ve been so conflicted with missing my dad. I’ve spent the past three months hiding from that which reminds me of him, all the while longing to be close to him. It’s a contradictory labyrinth I’ve found myself in, and I know I must choose a path, because standing still is starting to hurt worse than what I predict moving would feel like.
I miss my dad.
I miss everything about him: his smell, his warmth, his infectious smile, his love. I was his girl, and he made sure everyone knew it with his constant boasting of me. His affections mammothed far beyond the other dads, and I long to be held in the safety only his arms provide. All others fall short to his.
Why am I fighting this? Fighting against the same thing I’m so desperate for?
Without effort or thought, something bigger than this universe takes hold of my ankle, lifts it up, and stretches it out in front of me. The first touch of water to my toes sends electric currents through my bones. I pull in a lungful of air as the water sucks me into its grasp. Submerged in paternal holiness, I absorb its embrace, as if it were a gift from above. It holds me tightly; a much needed assuagement.
When my body pleads for oxygen, I kick off the bottom of the pool and break through the surface. I suck a deep breath into my starved lungs, craning my head up to the heavens that house the man it stole from me. My muscles relax and I allow the water to lift me. I float on my back as beads of water roll down the sides of my face, and I smile. I smile a smile I never thought I’d find again.
I did it.
I’m in the water.
And in the moment, it cleanses and alleviates.
My clothes cling to my body the same way I cling to self-preservation. Whether I’m doing it the right way or the wrong way, I do what I can to protect myself from the beast of agony. I know my suffering could be worse, which is why I fight every day to temper it the best I can.
So, in this moment of temporary relief, I float on the lifeline that connects me to him until I’m nothing but pruned skin and sleepy eyes.
Somehow, I find my way up to my room and eventually into my bed, where I pick up the Post-it lying on my nightstand that Coach Andrews wrote his cell phone number on the other day at the pool. A thrum chords through me when I read his name. To see he wrote it instead of Coach Andrews or even Mr. Andrews makes him seem more like a person than an authority figure. More approachable, as if he gave me his first name as a way of telling me it was okay for me to lean on him.
David
Just his first name is all he wrote.
I punch his number into my phone and add him as a new contact before opening up a new text screen. He told me a couple weeks ago that he had been thinking about texting me but never did. And with the high of accomplishment running through me for finally getting back in the water, I push through the doubt and insecurity and message him.
Me: Hey, it’s Cam. I got back into the water tonight. I had to tell someone, and since I doubt anyone else would understand, I figured I’d tell you.
I hit send and hold my breath, wondering if I should even be texting him. Suddenly, all that doubt I shoved away comes crashing down on me. I’m nearly blue in the face when my phone vibrates in my hands and I finally take in a breath.
David: I’m glad it was me you told. Tell me how it felt.
Me: Amazing. But also sad. It was a strange feeling, wanting to smile and cry at the same time.
David: You say you wanted to, but did you? Did you smile and cry?
Me: No.
David: Why?
I roll onto my side, the glow on the phone is the only light in my darkened bedroom, and I finally open myself up to seek comfort.
Me: Because I’m scared to cry. I’m not strong enough to feel that type of pain.
David: You’re stronger than what you think, you know?
Me: We’ll see.
David: What does that mean?
Me: Tomorrow.
David: First days are always stressful, no matter who you are. Are you worried?
I pause before responding, wanting to lie and tell him no, but then I’d be misleading him the way I do with everyone else. I don’t want him to be like everyone else though, so I go against my instinct and give him more truths.
Me: Yes.
David: What is it that you’re afraid of?
Me: Everything.
I slink farther down into the bed and curl into a ball.
David: Everything except fourth period.
Me: What’s fourth period?
David: You have me.
My lips pull into a smile, reassured that I won’t be so alone tomorrow. That in the midst of friends that I feel so disconnected from, there is a connection to be had with him.
David: Good night, Cam. I’m proud of you for facing one of your fears tonight.
With my heart in tingles, I tuck my phone against my chest and fall deeply into dreams that are really memories of the past reminding me just how lucky I was to have my dad. But when I wake, I’m dumped back into melancholy and reminded just how sad I am not to have him around anymore.
The weight that was suspended last night is bearing down on me again.
With apprehension in the air, I roll out of bed, weary to face those I wish to avoid. After a long shower, I meet my reflection in the mirror. I know they’re all going to stare in disgust at the scar that reminds us all of the horror of that day. The evidence that it wasn’t just a nightmare, but that it really happened is etched across my face. It’s the gory truth no one can hide from—not even me.
I do what I can to paint an image of attractiveness by curling my long chestnut hair in loose waves and carefully applying my makeup, but without success of covering my scar. It screams its presence no matter what I do. After throwing on a pair of white shorts and a flowy blue top, I slip on a pair of strappy sandals and grab my backpack.
I walk down to my mother’s room and knock on her door, waiting for a response, and when none comes, I open it to find her room is empty.
“Mom?” I call out as I make my way into the bathroom, which is empty as well.
I turn back to her bedroom, worried that something’s happened to her. Aside from the mussed up sheets on the bed and a menagerie of bottles decorating the two nightstands, there’s no evidence that she came home last night.
I drop my bag onto the bed, retrieve my cell phone, and call her. Panic mounts when it goes directly to voice mail. Since we are both on the same account, I open the Find My Phone app, but she’s nowhere to be found. I don’t know if she turned her cell off or the battery has died or something really bad has happened.
With jittery hands, I make another call.
“You ready for the first day of school?” Kroy says with excitement.
“Something’s wrong,” I clip out in restlessness.
His tone shifts in an instant. “What’s going on?”
“My mom didn’t come home last night, and I can’t get ahold of her. I’m scared something happened.” The words tumble out of my mouth at a million miles per hour as I pace back and forth. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Stay there. I’m heading over.”
He hangs up, and because he lives in the same neighborhood, it only takes him a couple minutes to drive to my house. When I open the door, he pulls me into his arms and gives me the warmth I haven’t felt since we broke up two weeks ago.
“S-she went out last night. Said she was having dinner with a-a friend.” I stammer my words when I pull back from his hold.
“Do you know who she went with?”
“No. She wasn’t telling me much for some reason, and I’m terrified something’s happened to her.”
“I’m sure you’re just overreacting, Cam. Your mother is a pretty sensible woman.”
“No,” I say as anxiety blurs lines with mortification. “Since my dad . . . She’s . . .”
“What?”
“She’s been drinking.”
He dips his head down to my eye level. “Can you really blame her?” he says as if it’s nothing.
“You don’t understand. She drinks a lot. Like, a lot. This . . . this is the first time she’s left the house all summer.”
His eyes widen. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You know my mother’s reputation. I didn’t want to embarrass her . . . or me.”
“Baby, don’t ever feel embarrassed with me.”
“Everything is falling apart, Kroy.” The fractures in my façade are starting to deepen, and the tears that have remained absent since May threaten their arrival, but I push against them.
“Look at me,” he says, and I do. “Whether we’re together or not, I love you. I will always be here for you no matter what, okay?”
I nod.
“I don’t like that I’m clueless to what’s going on in this house when I used to know everything,” he adds.
“I’m sorry, I just . . .”
“It’s okay to ask for help.”
“I am asking,” I tell him. “That’s why I called you.”
“If something happened—something bad—someone would’ve called you. You’re number is in her phone.”
“But her phone isn’t turned on. What if the battery is dead and they have no way of calling me?”
Smoothing his voice in an attempt to coax me, he says, “I’m sure everything is fine. Your mother loves you; I don’t see her being reckless, not after everything the two of you have lost.”
But he’s wrong. He has no clue how bad of shape she is in.
“Do you want me to have my mom make some calls?”
“No,” I blurt out. “As if this isn’t humiliating enough. Please don’t tell your mom about this or about the drinking. Promise me, Kroy.”
“Okay. Take a breath, Cam. I won’t say anything to anyone.”
The longer we stand here, the more my worry starts to transition into frustration that I’m the one freaking out about my mother’s whereabouts. It should be the other way around. Here I am, concerned about her reputation and that of our family, while she’s falling apart worse than I am.
“Tell me what you want to do.”
“I don’t know.”
“Either you wait around for her to return or I can take you to school where you’ll hopefully be distracted. I’m sure when you get home this afternoon she’ll be here.”
“You make it sound like going to school is the easy choice.”
“Come here,” he says, taking my hand and leading me into the living room. We sit together on the couch, our fingers still intertwined. “Nothing about today is going to be easy, but it’s something you’re going to have to eventually face, whether it’s today, tomorrow, or next week.” He’s gentle in his delivery. “You’ve been able to hide out this summer, but this isn’t something you can avoid. And yeah, it’s going to suck, and it’s going to be hard on you. Just know you’re not alone. You have me in whatever capacity you need.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know you are.”
“What if they—”
“What if they what?”
I drop my head before admitting that my scar bothers me. “My face . . .”
He takes my chin and raises it up. “You mean this face? I lie in bed every night and dream about this face. You’re perfect.”
“I’m not.”
“You are to me.”
I look into eyes so sincere they fool me into believing that everything will be okay. They fool me into believing I’m strong enough to make it through today with my head held high. And when we arrive at school, hand in hand, his strength fools me into believing I’ll survive this unharmed.