“Collisions,” Collaboration with Emma Cherry, Part 6/8
(See Emma Cherry, Image 1)
Setting:
Strange how you can know something, hearing the phone ring or just walking through a door. Like you feel it, and you know. You just know. I don’t remember the day, but it was in November, like early November. It was cold that night, and I remember I had on boots, a scarf and a hat and gloves, and walking home, I was so pleased with being all bundled up. I’d been playing at Lila’s, after school, and besides how cold it was, it was just like any other day, walking home. I mean, I saw the living room lights from the end of the block, and I felt nothing different.
I can still remember unlocking the front door, and that wave of heat, stepping inside, and then it was like some other light was turned on. Not the overhead, something else. Because when I closed the front door, behind me, looking up and seeing my mom and dad sitting in the living room, waiting for me to walk in, I knew. It was a trap—they’d set a trap for me in the living room—I knew the moment I laid eyes on them, and all I could say was, No.
I don’t know how long. Seemed like forever, though, just standing there, between the front hall and the living room, and they both looked at me, waiting for me to come in, so it could begin, and I just stared, hoping they’d change their minds, come to their senses or whatever. They didn’t, of course, they just kept looking, waiting on me, and then I said it again, louder this time, nodding my head; I said, No.
And for a second, there, I thought maybe, I don’t know, maybe I could actually close the door and sneak out. Like maybe if I was fast, faster than sound or light or time, even, I could stop this from happening. Felt like, somehow, I’d triggered everything, walking in, set it in motion, you know, what they were about to do. Don’t . . . please don’t, I said, standing there, in my coat, holding my book bag, nodding at them. Don’t do this to me. I don’t want to go, I said. I could hear myself, my voice, breaking, but I remember that feeling of watching myself, splitting into two. Many things, all at once.
Thee, come in, Mom said, and she knew. I knew she knew I knew what was happening, somehow, because tears were welling in her eyes.
No, I said, nodding, and I remember turning behind me, making sure there was no other way out, but there wasn’t.
Thea, come sit down, my dad said, but all I could think about was my bedroom: because I grew up in that room. It wasn’t rainbows anymore, it was wallpapered in tons of pictures and drawings—mine, all mine. It was my room, and I’d never lived anywhere but there, and it was gone. I mean, of course the walls were still there, but the part that was mine, it just disappeared. In that moment, our house was gone, my room was gone, my family, everything I had, just, like . . . poof. I mean, really, how is possible you’re a family one minute, one second, and then, what, it’s just over? I mean, seriously, if family’s so sacred, how is that possible?
Standing there, knowing my room was gone . . . I mean, really, unless you’ve stood there, you can’t say it’s cynical to think families are no different than cars or house or boats, things that you could buy and sell. They have expiration dates like anything else. The difference is when you do this with a car, what they were doing, it’s called an accident. When you do it with people, it’s called human. Go figure, right.
Sit down with us, Mom said, patting the seat next to her, on the couch, trying not to cry. And out of nowhere, she looked puffy. And I thought, Why didn’t I see this before? Why didn’t I see this this morning, at breakfast? How long has this been going on? Why am I always the last to know? And then I felt a burning in my cheeks, and it was just blood, buts still.
So I said it again: No. I said no, and then I looked at my dad, sitting in the opposite chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. They were clasped, and he didn’t even look at me. He couldn’t look at me, and I waited, but he wouldn’t dare. I just stood there, looking at him, waiting, thinking, Coward. You’re such a coward.
And my mom, shellshocked. I never really knew what that meant–I mean, you saw it in war movies, you know. I’d never seen it in person, in front of me, on my mom’s face. Looking at her, sitting here, across from my dad, you could just see it in her eyes. Our beautiful house, our beautiful living room, all the time and energy and money she’d put into it, what did it matter? It wasn’t true. Not of it was true. And then Dad sighed this heavy sigh, and I just nodded no, like don’t do that. You have no right.
I don’t know how, really, but I knew everything in that, like, second, you know? No, seriously, in one second, it was like I’d read an entire book, and I knew exactly what he did. I knew the whole story. Somehow, I swear, I even knew who it was, the woman. All then, all of a sudden, I felt sick, so I dropped my bag on the floor and ran to the bathroom, downstairs, and I made it just in time, retching.
Mom came, knocking, asking if she could come in, and when I opened the door, she tried to touch me, hug me, and I stepped back. Don’t touch me, I said, looking at her hands like they were dirty, and so angry, too. Out of nowhere, it was like this fury in me coming up, pushing up from the floor to my ankles, and my ankles to my knees, it just kept rising, and she saw it, too, raising her hands and stepping back, hands off.
And what’s so screwed up, the worst part is I knew he was lying, but then I had to wonder if I was lying to myself, too. Maybe I was just like my dad, you know? Maybe I’d do the same to my kids one day, too. It was such an awful thought, I went to my room, locked the door, and I stood there. i just stood, looking around at all my things, all these things I loved so much, all my pictures, my drawings, everything I thought I could keep. What was mine? Nothing. There was nothing that couldn’t be taken away.
I held my hand to the wall, just to . . . I don’t know, to hold myself up? To make sure it was there? And it was. Still, it took me a moment, because I couldn’t feel my legs at first, but then I knew what I had to do. I started tearing it apart, my whole room. The curtains, the bedspread, everything I had, I broke. I took my arm and swept it across my desk, knocking everything on the floor. I mean, what did it matter, really? They were just things, right? And if he could do it, I could do it, too. Why was it any different, what he’d done to us, sweeping us aside?
The strange thing was, while it was happening, I could feel my voice, but I couldn’t hear it. I just heard the words inside my head, not outside. And that’s when I heard my mom shouting, calling my name, pounding on the door. She’d heard me, and both my parents were banging on my door, demanding I let them in.
I don’t know how much time had passed, but when I stopped throwing things, when I could hear sound again, I looked around, and the room was a disaster. The porcelain hands and faces of my dolls were broken, down feathers, dozens of triangles of tape on the wall, where all the pictures had been ripped . . . I snapped back, looking around, and I was like, Ohmygod. My room was such a mess, I couldn’t believe I’d just done that. I really lost, too.
But, honestly, I have to say, looking around, I felt better. I felt like at least one person in our family, what was our family, could still be honest. Me.
The whole time, my dad kept pounding. That ’s all he knew how to do, pound on the door, telling me to unlock it, let him in. So I walked over, and I remember feeling so calm as I unlocked it and opened the door. I’ll never forget the look on his face, or my mom’s face, seeing what I’d done to all my things. My dad looked like he was going to fall back, and then he stepped forward, one step. He looked at me, shocked, but demanding an explanation. And I just looked at him, thinking, Who are you to look at me that way? Like you don’t know the answer?
And then I told him: I hate you, I said.
We stood there, the three of us, frozen. And then, for the last time, covering his mouth with one hand, he turned to my mom, needing her, and I’ll never forget this, how calmly she said it, just like a mom. She looked at him, and for the last time, she said, I’ll get the broom.
Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of the post, Family Gatherings, Sketch 6.