“Which Morning?,” Collaboration with Alex Simms, Part 8/8
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Setting: Early morning, just getting light outside, Thea’s sitting on her bed, staring out her bedroom window, watching the spotlights at the strip mall, across the highway, turn off.
I remember our old house, our old life, all the time. I just try not to, you know. Because it hurts, it really does. Like I can see every room, and I remember exactly how my room looked when I woke up in the morning or how the living room looked at sunset. I remember falling in love with light, there, sitting on the couch in the living room, trying to draw the window or a chair, or whatever it was that had the best shadow at that moment.
Sometimes, out of nowhere, I’ll walk into the kitchen, here, and I’ll just think of our old kitchen, and I can still feel it in me. I see it like I’m there, it’s like I’m there, in our old kitchen, and I know what’s in every drawer, and I remember exactly how it felt, reaching up to open a cabinet, getting something out to eat. We had such a great kitchen, too. Like we had a huge fridge, and we had a ridiculous stove, and we had a laundry room, and we separate floors, and bathrooms, and a big back yard, and space, you know. We had a home, and I remember it so well, I can’t stand to think about it now, you see what I mean?
But how do you try not to remember? It’s like trying not to touch a canker sore, only it’s your whole life. I mean, I feel it all the time, and I remember all the time. And the harder I try to avoid it, not thinking about it, the worse I make it. It’s not just me, either. I know my mom feels the same, even if she never says anything. I mean, my mom never talks about our old house, or our old life, even. So then, sometimes, it’s like there are three of us in this little apartment: me; my mom; and our old life. We’re just so stuck, you know?
I mean, I really don’t understand when I see women talk about starting over on TV. Because they make it sound so easy, and I used to believe them, too. I guess it just made it so much easier to look at these women who were so alone now, and think, Oh, well, at least they’re starting over now. It’ll get better. But me and mom, it’s like we haven’t started over, we’ve false started over, you know? Like we started running, and we’ve been called back to the starting line, and now we’re just waiting for something to give.
But the thing is, soon as I’m there, soon as my thoughts are there, back in our old house, I really feel like I’m there, but then I tense up, because I know what’s coming. It’s so hard to remember because, when I imagine myself in each room, walking from room to room in my head, I tense up, like, literally, and I’ll realize my hands are in fists, because I know what’s coming, what’s going to happen to us. Because now I know all the things that were going on then that I didn’t know about, and then I just want to do something, throw something, tear something, scream, I don’t know what. And then something in my head clicks, and I don’t feel anything. I just shut down, you know?
I can’t do it yet. I can’t forgive him, my dad, no. And honestly, I’m not sure if I ever will. I know forgiveness is divine, but maybe I don’t need to be divine, maybe I just need to be a girl.
Still, you know, my mom tries talking to me about it sometimes, telling me I’m the one being eaten up by it, She always says I’m the one who pays the most for my anger, and she might be right, but I’m just like, Well, the thing is, I can afford to pay right now. I mean, I’m fifteen years old, I’m allowed to hate my dad, you know?
On the bright side, I almost have to laugh when I think of all the times my dad called me sensitive. I mean, he used to say it like it was a dirty word, too. He was always like, You’re too sensitive, Thea. You’re just too sensitive! You gotta grow some skin. The last time I saw him, the last time he said that to me, after he moved out, finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
He’d just moved into his apartment, and clearly someone had been decorating, and let’s just say my dad is not the decorating type. And then I got it, right away: she’d already moved in with him, more or less. They were living together. And the very thought of her living htere, with him, made me so angry, too. But the thing was, I wasn’t feeling much, so it felt more like being inflated with hot air. I’m serious, it’s like my mind snaps, and then, when I should feel so angry, my chest starts expanding like I’m taking this deep, deep breath. And then it stops. And I feel nothing, just the pressure in my brain.
And that’s why, for the first time, I said something I would’ve never said in my life, before he left us. I said, But why, Dad? So I can cheat on my wife and leave my family for some college girl? And, I have to say, I couldn’t quite believe it, myself, when I actually heard my own voice. I was kind of stunned, really.
But my dad, oh, he wanted to smack me. He couldn’t, and he’d never ever hit me, but he wanted to; I could see it in his eyes. Like when you can see the anger so clearly in someone’s eyes, you see the little film in their head, and in the film in his mind’s eye, he smacked me, right across the face. Oh, he was so angry, and that was my revenge. Short, but very, very sweet.
I wish my mom knew, somehow, but I could never tell her. It would just upset her, the whole two-wrongs-don’t-make-a-right-of-it. She wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the fact that I was trying to stand up for her, for us. Still, I wasn’t as sensitive as he thought. And for once, there were benefits to being as insensitive as he was. Like being able to say that and look him in the eye and feel nothing. I mean, nothing. Anyhow.
Cam never believed it when I told him, until I showed him some pictures. Because I was a fat baby. I mean, really fat, like the rolls on my thighs had rolls. One of my very favorite pictures was this shot my mom took of me and my dad, when I was about six months old, maybe a little older, I’m not sure. But my dad had just given me a bath, and it was late afternoon, and he was just wearing a white tee shirt, like Hanes or whatever. We’d just moved into our house, and we’re in the living room, sitting on the old couch, and it’s such beautiful light, and my dad’s sitting on the couch with me on his lap, chewing on my hand.
That’s all it is, just this one moment. I mean, it’s not the best picture we have, it’s something else. I guess it’s seeing him when he was so happy with my mom, with his family—with me, you know. In the picture, at that moment, my mouth is just wide, wide open, laughing, and you can just hear that deep baby laugh, like where it comes almost from their diapers, not just their diaphragm. You can just tell how much my dad loves making me laugh that hard—he’s getting such a kick out of it. And me, it’s like, I’m just so happy he’s eating my hand. Like what could possibly be better than being eaten alive by your own dad, right?
And then I lost it. The night my parents told me they were splitting up, I really lost it and tore my room apart. I did so many, just so many things I wish I could take back that night, throwing things out, tearing things up. One of the worst things I did that night was tear that picture into twenty pieces, maybe more.
I know why I did it, of course. I did it just to be sure I could make it worse, that I had that control. As if there was any doubt. So I know why, yes, but what I don’t understand is, why do we do that, when we know we can always make it worse? I mean, there’s nothing to prove, really, since it’s a given, you know what I mean?
But then, the next day, when I’d calmed down, I gathered up all the pieces of the picture and put them in an envelope. I didn’t look at them again until after we moved, my mom and I, the day I got home from the hospital, I took it out for the first time, that envelope. Mom searched everything in my room before I left, but I don’t think she looked in the envelope. If she did, she never said, and it was folded up and taped, just like I’d left it, but anyhow.
I laid all the pieces out on my desk, and looking at them, I knew a day might come that I would regret doing that more than anything. And it might, sure, but not that day. I didn’t feel sad or angry at all, just strange. It was like looking at someone else’s life. Someone else’s dad. Someone else’s me.
My mom always says, You’ll feel better in the morning. These days, I’m just like, What morning, Mom? Which morning are you talking about? I’m waiting, you know. Seriously, anytime that morning wants to show up, here I am. Thea Denny, ready, willing and able.