Clara Eckerd

Staring at the ceiling, I count the stars. Eighteen . . . nineteen . . . twenty. The plastic glow-in-the-dark constellation stickers give me comfort just like in my old bedroom. Each one represents a year of my life, another year I survived.

I’m not sure how to feel about what’s to come next week. I took the day off from work just in case. It was safer that way. I don’t expect to feel different, but who knows how I’ll feel. The first one is always the hardest, so I’m told. People don’t understand what I feel. His death was so unexpected, but it’s marked the date forevermore. Just not for the reasons others think.

I close my eyes, squeezing them tight, hoping not to relive every tortured moment in my head. I need sleep, to erase the thoughts and drift away. It used to be more than my thoughts I would wish could drift away. I never did though. I lived through every last day from dawn until dark, present in the punishment served daily.

Rolling onto my side, the muscles around my eyes start to pinch. I give up trying to block it out. My eyes being closed won’t shut out the memories anyway.

A new sting runs through me—Cruise, and although I told him to go, it was on the heels of rejection. He was leaving anyway. Leaving me half undressed, half begging him to have sex with me, half of the person I wanted to be. I wish I were stronger. I would have taken back all the halves he refused to leave behind.

He’s a coward.

For not telling me why he had to go.

For pretending it was me he was worried about.

He’s selfish. He just wanted an easy way out.

I learned a long time ago that humanity doesn’t exist in a world of liars and monsters.

The humiliation of what I did, teasing him with my name in hopes of him wanting to know more, hoping he’d find me attractive. Coaxing him to my house, practically seducing him. That’s not me no matter how hard I want it to be. Sex is a tool and I’m not skilled enough to use it. I don’t even know how.

Why can’t I be normal? Why am I so fucked up?

My body clenches in fear as my father’s words come back to me. “The slip of the tongue is the devil’s doing. Watch your words, Clarissa.”

I flip the covers off and slide into a kneeling position beside the bed. “Dear Lord, please forgive me for my sin. I promise to be better and to obe—”

What am I doing? Squeezing my eyes closed, I say, “Stop.”

The habit is formed. Breaking it will be a challenge, but I’m determined to destroy it. There’s no one to hold me to those words anymore. No one to hold me down.

I’m free.

I stand, my knees aching from the hardwood floors. Climbing back under the covers, I reach for the little teddy bear with one eye and start counting stars again. The ritual calms me. It’s a habit I can live with. Perhaps the only one.

. . . Seventeen

. . . Eighteen

. . . Nineteen

. . . Twenty

. . . One

. . . Two . . .

One Week Later . . .

Standing over the grave, I don’t feel sadness. I don’t feel remorse. I don’t feel much of anything. Not even the joy I thought I’d feel.

Toby is running over the plaque and no one stops him. I’m jealous I can’t do the same.

Run over it.

Step on it.

Jump on it.

Dirty it.

Smash it.

Instead, I kneel down like the good little girl I always was and use my hand to dust the dirt away. Toby whacks me on the back of the head, and I snap, “No, Toby. No hit.” By his giggles I don’t think he got the message.

My mom bends down and picks him up, scolding him for his bad behavior at the cemetery. He’s lucky. A talking to from my mother is a walk in the park compared to what could have happened if my father was here.

Maybe he is—in spirit.

A chill runs up my spine and I turn to look behind me. Vaughn stands at a distance, refusing to come any closer. My brother just turned seventeen and has grown so tall, taller than my father. My mom won’t force him to pay respect, and can’t anyway. He’s stubborn. We all understand though, but as the oldest, I’m expected to keep up appearances.

I need to keep our secrets safe. I glance to Toby who’s wriggling in my mom’s arms and causing a scene because he wants down. She finally gives in to him while giving me a look that pleads for me to keep going.

All eyes are on us, so I don’t smile.

I don’t find happiness in this hell anyway. Though I should. I’m free, except for one day a year.

Today.

Today I’m back to being shackled by a monster that I pretend to love, to miss, to cry over. I sniffle, the sound so fake. I know I can do better, so I sniffle again and again until I perfect the sound. My mom hands me a tissue and I dab at my dry eyes, pretending they’re wet.

I won’t be able to produce real tears, so it’s probably best if we cut this act short and leave. Grabbing Toby’s hand in one of mine, I walk to Vaughn, standing toe-to-toe, and whisper, “Keep your eyes down when we go to the car.”

He usually listens well.

Just like me, he was trained to obey.

But at seventeen, and with my father gone, he’s starting to act out. “I know what to do.”

We hold each other’s hard gaze a few seconds before I reply, “Okay,” and walk away. I hear his footsteps fall in line behind me. He’s stubborn, but he doesn’t want to make a scene.

A few mourners—my dad’s family, friends, and colleagues—showed up to pay their respects, and move to the sides, allowing us access to the street. They didn’t know who my father really was or they wouldn’t be here. They wouldn’t have allowed him to do what he did. I’ve convinced myself this must be true or I’d lose all hope, and hope is the one thing I regained once he died.

I make an error in judgment. I look up only to be met with hate I used to see in my father’s eyes. I glance away not sure who the man is, but afraid to look his way.

When we’re inside the car, we close the doors, and wait for our mom. She made the mistake of making eye contact with someone and is now stuck listening to condolences for a man she hated.

Vaughn says, “I’m not a kid anymore. Don’t treat me like one.”

“You’re seventeen, not thirty.”

“And you’re twenty, not my mom.” He glances to Toby.

I fasten Toby into his car seat and sit back, ready to leave. “We’re not enemies, Vaughn.”

“Don’t talk to me.” His tone is so full of hate, something I’m not used to hearing from him. We’ve always been in this together, but now I feel the distance growing and the cold seeping between us. Why? Why does he seem to hate me now?

Toby’s a good distraction. He insists on playing with my hand. He drags his little finger along my palm, specifically my lifeline.

It’s impossible for it to have lengthened since my father’s death, but I’m surprised when his finger still traces the line as if it has. A smile comes without my permission. Toby catches it and smiles in return. He’s only one and a half but he’s been so much happier in the last year compared to the first six months of his life. Maybe babies sense distress and despair.

That’s all gone though.

Like us, he’s become brighter, full of energy, gained the weight he needed. He’s so smart. I rub my fingers through the curls at the back of his head because he really is adorable. “Hi,” I say with a smile.

“Hi. A. C. B.”

“You’re so smart.”

“Bah. Bah. Boo!”

“You want to play peek-a-boo?”

“Bah. Bah. Boo!”

I cover my eyes, but the car door opens and my mother gets in. The game ends before it begins. She immediately reaches across her body and presses the lock down.

Habit.

Habits are pesky like that.

Vaughn asks, “Want me to drive?”

“No,” she replies. “Now that this foolishness is over, how about some ice cream?”

Toby claps in excitement. “I keem.” So smart.

“I should go home,” I say. “I have a lesson plan to prepare for tomorrow.”

She nods, catching my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I was hoping we could all have dinner together. We can eat out or I can make something. I’d like you to join us, Claris—Clara.”

Habit.

I never get mad when she slips. We’re in this together, so I won’t hold little things against her like he used to do. “Okay. That would be nice.”

While driving from the cemetery, she rubs Vaughn’s shoulder. “Where would you like to eat, honey?”

“I don’t care,” he grumbles, staring out the window.

My brother hasn’t found the same joy as my mother and me since my father’s death. He was beaten regularly, told to “take it like a man,” and fight back. Training for the real world is how my father always put it. He trained Vaughn all right, but not the way he wanted. Vaughn could never be bad like our father. He has too much good inside that remained long after that day one year ago. But he’s a teenager and he’s moody, sometimes bad manages to sneak in when we’re not paying attention. We try to give him space, but I worry that too much room to grow will leave him no choice but to let things fester inside instead. I want my sweet little brother back. I hope we haven’t lost him for good.

To lighten things up, I suggest, “How about Luca’s Italian? We haven’t been there in forever. It was always your favorite, Vaughn.”

He shrugs, never looking our way. “Whatever.”

Knowing that’s the best we’re going to get, I sit back. My mom tries her hardest to sound perky, though I know it hurts her to see him distance himself. “Luca’s it is.”

I’m glad the drive isn’t long. Toby is getting restless and his mood is turning. “I think he’s hungry,” I say just as we pull into the parking lot. “I’m starved.”

Inside the restaurant, we’re seated in the far corner. Toby is stationed in a highchair at the head of our booth. We’ve ordered our food, but now he’s making a mess crumbling breadsticks. His eyes aren’t like ours, and I often think it’s because he didn’t have to suffer through years with the man whose death we celebrated today.

His sweet baby blues temper my irritation and I start to clean the mess while Mom makes small talk like we don’t feel my father’s reach even from beyond the grave. “. . . and then she told me to reorganize the kindergarteners supplies. I was happy to do it, but I’m still not used to . . .”

My mom has a job after years of being a stay-at-home wife. My father wouldn’t have it any other way. She wasn’t home for our needs, but his. I let my gaze slide outside through the large window that overlooks a row of houses converted into small businesses. This is a cute area of town. When she finishes her story, I ask, “Maybe we can go to the gift store and the bookstore after this for a little shopping?”

“Sure,” my mom replies with an easy smile.

Vaughn says, “I don’t want to shop. I’ll be down by the water.”

He didn’t tell us to take him home. Maybe this is progress.

Our food is delivered. For the most part, we eat in silence. We’re used to the quiet. It’s not that big a deal. Nobody’s feelings get hurt if we don’t talk. Toby finds noise comforting, and has become a chatterbox more recently. The sound of a child’s laughter should never be silenced. He still reverts to quiet play sometimes. A habit formed from how things used to be.

But today, I feel the heat of a stare. When I look up, I catch a man’s hard glare on us, focused on Toby. Instinctually, I reach out and hold his wrist, and correct him. He still needs to learn manners and use them in public. “Inside voice, Tobs.”

When I look back, the man is busy looking at his phone, holding it up at a suspicious angle. Is he taking photos of us? Is he going to report us to the manager for being disruptive?

Toby’s sweet spaghetti sauce smile brings me back to the table. Out of the corner of my eye, the man stands and an image from the funeral comes back. Was he there? Was he a friend of my father? His glare hits me like an iceberg and I look down as quick as I can. I hear the bell of the door ring and look up when I think it’s safe.