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LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 13: Kintsugi
They were yelling. Again. Slamming doors. Flipping tables. Punching walls. When she goes to pour cereal before school, Anna pulls out a bowl and remembers how the matching one shattered as it hit the wall above the kitchen table. That toddler drawing of Santa Claus that hangs all year round? They can’t take it down or their landlord would discover the hole behind it.
Anna used to try to figure out what they were arguing about, thinking she might be able to solve the problem. She even tried to intervene once by telling them both to calm down, but she then became the target of her father’s wrath and never did it again.
He never hit Anna or her mother, which she understood was supposed to be a blessing, but they were terrified of him all the same. It seemed that there was no way to predict what would make him angry, so they’d mostly just started to avoid him. He rarely even ate dinner with them anymore.
As the shrieking continued in the next room, Anna retrieved her little sister from her room down the hall.
“Why are they angry?” her sister asked innocently.
“I don’t know, kiddo, but don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong.” She smiled and reached for her little sister’s foot before beginning to recite “This Little Piggy.” Despite the cacophony of shouts vibrating through the walls, her little sister began to laugh.
…
“Pizza’s here!” Anna’s mother shouted as she closed the front door behind her with her foot. Anna and the two friends she’d selected to stay over in celebration of her birthday came running from her bedroom, whatever game they were playing quickly forgotten.
As they were devouring the pizza in ways that only growing children can do, Anna’s friend’s head swiveled around the table at their other friend, Anna, Anna’s sister, and Anna’s mother.
“Where’s your father? Isn’t he going to eat?”
“Oh, he had to take care of a few things before he came home from work,” her mother replied as she caught Anna’s eye.
“Yeah,” Anna added, “He works a lot. We’ll probably be asleep by the time he gets home. He might even leave again before we get up in the morning.”
“Oh, that sucks,” replied her friend as she took another large bite of her pizza.
“So, what are we doing after dinner, ladies?” her mother asked, changing the topic of conversation. “Watching a movie?”
Anna sensed that her friends knew they were lying, but she hoped that they thought he just didn’t like them. Or was separated from her mother. Practically anything was better than the fact that he was locked away in a prison cell for selling drugs and Anna hadn’t seen him for almost a year. If her friends knew that, her mother had warned her, they would be at risk of losing their housing voucher and her mother’s income would not cover rent, let alone food, without it.
…
Anna shut her bedroom door behind her and dropped her backpack onto the floor at her feet. Her shoulders relaxed and she took a deep breath before turning on her computer. As the modem loudly dialed the internet, she used the bathroom and sat down just in time for the first instant message to appear on her screen.
Her friends at school teased her for having friends online, often joking that she was probably talking to a 40-year-old man and not another 15-year-old girl with the same band posters hanging on her bedroom wall, but they couldn’t change her mind. The internet had allowed her to find people that understood her in a way she’d never experienced before, something that didn’t seem entirely possible in a town of 15,000 people. As much as she tried to wear her differences as a coat of arms, they always felt more like Achilles’ heels and she reveled in the few hours after school when she could simply be.
…
Anna quickly retrieved the books she needed from her locker before slamming it shut and jogging toward the parking lot, where her mother was waiting for her. But when she opened the car door, she burst into tears.
“Why are you crying?” her mother asked, bewildered.
“I don’t know!” Anna wailed.
“Okay, well, get in. My lunch break is only so long, you know.”
“I–I don’t think I want to go home.”
“What are you talking about? How are you going to get home then?”
“I’ll ask someone for a ride?” Anna wasn’t completely sure her statement was accurate, but she did know that the clenching in her stomach had loosened at the thought of not having to get into the car with her mother.
“Whatever,” her mother said. “Be home for dinner.” Anna watched as her mother pulled away from the curb and turned out of the parking lot.
When Anna got home that evening–in time for dinner as promised, though she didn’t see any dinner on the table–her parents were seething.
“What the hell was that?” her father demanded.
“I–I think I need to see a therapist,” Anna stammered. She’d wandered around campus until she’d found someone she knew. When he’d asked why she was on campus so late, she’d explained how she’d felt and he’d postulated that maybe she had bipolar or some sort of anxiety disorder.
“We can’t afford that!” her mother exclaimed.
“Then what?” Anna argued, surprising herself. “What am I supposed to do? Something’s wrong with me!”
Her parents tried to argue that nothing was wrong with her, which they probably thought was the right thing to say, but it just felt meaningless and dismissive; it couldn’t change the way she felt, that sense of foreboding that seemed to live in the pit of her stomach now, and they weren’t willing to entertain the idea that she might actually need something else.
…
“But why me? I’m not like the other girls,” Anna cried.
“That’s why: you’re real; you don’t fake it.”
And that’s when Anna knew she was going to marry him someday.
…
Sometimes Anna wondered how her life would be different if things had transpired another way. But would that effect be positive or negative? There was no way to tell. In the end, she decided it didn’t matter. These experiences were each a part of her, sure, but she was more than just the sum of her parts.
Anna used to try to figure out what they were arguing about, thinking she might be able to solve the problem. She even tried to intervene once by telling them both to calm down, but she then became the target of her father’s wrath and never did it again.
He never hit Anna or her mother, which she understood was supposed to be a blessing, but they were terrified of him all the same. It seemed that there was no way to predict what would make him angry, so they’d mostly just started to avoid him. He rarely even ate dinner with them anymore.
As the shrieking continued in the next room, Anna retrieved her little sister from her room down the hall.
“Why are they angry?” her sister asked innocently.
“I don’t know, kiddo, but don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong.” She smiled and reached for her little sister’s foot before beginning to recite “This Little Piggy.” Despite the cacophony of shouts vibrating through the walls, her little sister began to laugh.
…
“Pizza’s here!” Anna’s mother shouted as she closed the front door behind her with her foot. Anna and the two friends she’d selected to stay over in celebration of her birthday came running from her bedroom, whatever game they were playing quickly forgotten.
As they were devouring the pizza in ways that only growing children can do, Anna’s friend’s head swiveled around the table at their other friend, Anna, Anna’s sister, and Anna’s mother.
“Where’s your father? Isn’t he going to eat?”
“Oh, he had to take care of a few things before he came home from work,” her mother replied as she caught Anna’s eye.
“Yeah,” Anna added, “He works a lot. We’ll probably be asleep by the time he gets home. He might even leave again before we get up in the morning.”
“Oh, that sucks,” replied her friend as she took another large bite of her pizza.
“So, what are we doing after dinner, ladies?” her mother asked, changing the topic of conversation. “Watching a movie?”
Anna sensed that her friends knew they were lying, but she hoped that they thought he just didn’t like them. Or was separated from her mother. Practically anything was better than the fact that he was locked away in a prison cell for selling drugs and Anna hadn’t seen him for almost a year. If her friends knew that, her mother had warned her, they would be at risk of losing their housing voucher and her mother’s income would not cover rent, let alone food, without it.
…
Anna shut her bedroom door behind her and dropped her backpack onto the floor at her feet. Her shoulders relaxed and she took a deep breath before turning on her computer. As the modem loudly dialed the internet, she used the bathroom and sat down just in time for the first instant message to appear on her screen.
Her friends at school teased her for having friends online, often joking that she was probably talking to a 40-year-old man and not another 15-year-old girl with the same band posters hanging on her bedroom wall, but they couldn’t change her mind. The internet had allowed her to find people that understood her in a way she’d never experienced before, something that didn’t seem entirely possible in a town of 15,000 people. As much as she tried to wear her differences as a coat of arms, they always felt more like Achilles’ heels and she reveled in the few hours after school when she could simply be.
…
Anna quickly retrieved the books she needed from her locker before slamming it shut and jogging toward the parking lot, where her mother was waiting for her. But when she opened the car door, she burst into tears.
“Why are you crying?” her mother asked, bewildered.
“I don’t know!” Anna wailed.
“Okay, well, get in. My lunch break is only so long, you know.”
“I–I don’t think I want to go home.”
“What are you talking about? How are you going to get home then?”
“I’ll ask someone for a ride?” Anna wasn’t completely sure her statement was accurate, but she did know that the clenching in her stomach had loosened at the thought of not having to get into the car with her mother.
“Whatever,” her mother said. “Be home for dinner.” Anna watched as her mother pulled away from the curb and turned out of the parking lot.
When Anna got home that evening–in time for dinner as promised, though she didn’t see any dinner on the table–her parents were seething.
“What the hell was that?” her father demanded.
“I–I think I need to see a therapist,” Anna stammered. She’d wandered around campus until she’d found someone she knew. When he’d asked why she was on campus so late, she’d explained how she’d felt and he’d postulated that maybe she had bipolar or some sort of anxiety disorder.
“We can’t afford that!” her mother exclaimed.
“Then what?” Anna argued, surprising herself. “What am I supposed to do? Something’s wrong with me!”
Her parents tried to argue that nothing was wrong with her, which they probably thought was the right thing to say, but it just felt meaningless and dismissive; it couldn’t change the way she felt, that sense of foreboding that seemed to live in the pit of her stomach now, and they weren’t willing to entertain the idea that she might actually need something else.
…
“But why me? I’m not like the other girls,” Anna cried.
“That’s why: you’re real; you don’t fake it.”
And that’s when Anna knew she was going to marry him someday.
…
Sometimes Anna wondered how her life would be different if things had transpired another way. But would that effect be positive or negative? There was no way to tell. In the end, she decided it didn’t matter. These experiences were each a part of her, sure, but she was more than just the sum of her parts.
LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 12: America
“Más ensalada, por favor,” Juan asked his mother as he held up his chipped plate in her direction at the end of the table. “Gracias, Mamá,” he replied as he set his replenished plate down in front of him and lifted his fork for another bite.
“De nada, Mijo. Qué aprendiste en la escuela hoy?” While Juan struggled to translate what he’d learned during the school day in English into Spanish, there was a heavy knock on the door.
His mother’s eyes grew wide as she stared at his father, both still rooted to their chairs around the small table.
“ICE!” yelled a deep voice on the other side of the door. This seemed to rouse Mamá, who got up from the table quickly and began sifting through papers in a drawer closest to the door, where she’d kept these documents for this exact day, though she had hoped it would have proven to be unnecessary. She pulled out three different papers: Juan’s California birth certificate, her registration for the citizenship test the following month, which they’d been saving up for as long as Juan could remember, and a printout from the library titled “Know Your Rights: If ICE Visits Your Home.”
Mamá handed the last page to Juan. “Puedes leer?”
“Solamente un poco. Qué es ‘war-ant?’” Juan asked her.
“Creo que la policía no puede venir aquí sin un ‘warrant.’” She wished she had time to verify this as she wasn’t completely sure she remembered correctly what the police were allowed to do with and without a warrant.
“Warrant?” she called through the door.
“Open up,” boomed the deep voice in response, “or we break down the door.”
“No, no!” Mamá yelled, thinking of how much it would cost to replace the door and possibly the jamb as she unlocked the deadbolt. She tried to hold the door only an inch or so open, but two men dressed almost entirely in black with bulletproof vests emblazoned with “police” across the chest and handguns and clubs secured in their belts pushed past her into their tiny studio apartment.
Juan’s father, Miguel, began rising from his seat at the table when one of the men unholstered his weapon and aimed it at him.
“Sit down!” bellowed the agent. Miguel looked bewilderingly at his wife and son. “Siéntete, Papá!” Juan yelled quickly. Unlike his mother, his father was too busy working in the fields to learn much English yet. Once his mother had her citizenship, she could get a job, his father wouldn’t need to take on extra shifts and would have some time to learn English and, eventually, take the citizenship test himself. As Miguel slowly sat back down, another agent came around behind him and snapped cuffs around his wrists. Juan glanced at his mother and found another agent clasping cuffs around her wrists, too.
“Mamá! Papá! No!” Juan cried. The agent guided his mother to the closest seat at the table, which happened to be his seat, where his extra portion of salad he’d requested now laid limply on his abandoned plate. The agent intercepted Juan as he ran for his mother.
“It’s okay, son,” the agent said, eyeing the one mattress they all shared on the floor in the corner of the studio apartment. “We aren’t going to hurt them, but we do need to take everyone in.”
“Mijo!” Mamá yelled. “Mijo born here!” Her voice was urgent and her eyes were fixed on the agent who had spoken.
“Can you verify that?” the agent asked.
“There,” Mamá nodded in the direction of the papers left on the counter. The agent picked out the birth certificate and left the other papers on the counter.
“Come with me,” he glanced at the paper in his hand, “Juan.” As the boy was guided out the door and down the stairs to the waiting police cruiser at the curb, he started crying. They were tears of terror that soaked the front of his secondhand t-shirt as he recalled what the boys on the playground had told him about the men who would eventually come to take his parents away from him forever and force him to live with some white family that may or may not be treat him well.
As his mother was escorted past the cruiser to the waiting van by the other agent, he heard her pleading. “We come for better life, but life here hard. More hard than thought. I learning English and register for test to be citizen. Mijo born here and go to school. Manuel work long days in fields, but will—” Her voice was cut off as a policewoman shut the door of the cruiser before getting into the driver’s side.
“We’ll find you a nice family to live with, one that lives in a better part of the city with a yard and a bedroom of your own,” she said to him as she pulled away from the curb. Juan turned around and watched as his father was now being escorted to the waiting van until the cruiser turned the corner and he could no longer see his parents or the apartment building that was the only home he’d ever known.
“De nada, Mijo. Qué aprendiste en la escuela hoy?” While Juan struggled to translate what he’d learned during the school day in English into Spanish, there was a heavy knock on the door.
His mother’s eyes grew wide as she stared at his father, both still rooted to their chairs around the small table.
“ICE!” yelled a deep voice on the other side of the door. This seemed to rouse Mamá, who got up from the table quickly and began sifting through papers in a drawer closest to the door, where she’d kept these documents for this exact day, though she had hoped it would have proven to be unnecessary. She pulled out three different papers: Juan’s California birth certificate, her registration for the citizenship test the following month, which they’d been saving up for as long as Juan could remember, and a printout from the library titled “Know Your Rights: If ICE Visits Your Home.”
Mamá handed the last page to Juan. “Puedes leer?”
“Solamente un poco. Qué es ‘war-ant?’” Juan asked her.
“Creo que la policía no puede venir aquí sin un ‘warrant.’” She wished she had time to verify this as she wasn’t completely sure she remembered correctly what the police were allowed to do with and without a warrant.
“Warrant?” she called through the door.
“Open up,” boomed the deep voice in response, “or we break down the door.”
“No, no!” Mamá yelled, thinking of how much it would cost to replace the door and possibly the jamb as she unlocked the deadbolt. She tried to hold the door only an inch or so open, but two men dressed almost entirely in black with bulletproof vests emblazoned with “police” across the chest and handguns and clubs secured in their belts pushed past her into their tiny studio apartment.
Juan’s father, Miguel, began rising from his seat at the table when one of the men unholstered his weapon and aimed it at him.
“Sit down!” bellowed the agent. Miguel looked bewilderingly at his wife and son. “Siéntete, Papá!” Juan yelled quickly. Unlike his mother, his father was too busy working in the fields to learn much English yet. Once his mother had her citizenship, she could get a job, his father wouldn’t need to take on extra shifts and would have some time to learn English and, eventually, take the citizenship test himself. As Miguel slowly sat back down, another agent came around behind him and snapped cuffs around his wrists. Juan glanced at his mother and found another agent clasping cuffs around her wrists, too.
“Mamá! Papá! No!” Juan cried. The agent guided his mother to the closest seat at the table, which happened to be his seat, where his extra portion of salad he’d requested now laid limply on his abandoned plate. The agent intercepted Juan as he ran for his mother.
“It’s okay, son,” the agent said, eyeing the one mattress they all shared on the floor in the corner of the studio apartment. “We aren’t going to hurt them, but we do need to take everyone in.”
“Mijo!” Mamá yelled. “Mijo born here!” Her voice was urgent and her eyes were fixed on the agent who had spoken.
“Can you verify that?” the agent asked.
“There,” Mamá nodded in the direction of the papers left on the counter. The agent picked out the birth certificate and left the other papers on the counter.
“Come with me,” he glanced at the paper in his hand, “Juan.” As the boy was guided out the door and down the stairs to the waiting police cruiser at the curb, he started crying. They were tears of terror that soaked the front of his secondhand t-shirt as he recalled what the boys on the playground had told him about the men who would eventually come to take his parents away from him forever and force him to live with some white family that may or may not be treat him well.
As his mother was escorted past the cruiser to the waiting van by the other agent, he heard her pleading. “We come for better life, but life here hard. More hard than thought. I learning English and register for test to be citizen. Mijo born here and go to school. Manuel work long days in fields, but will—” Her voice was cut off as a policewoman shut the door of the cruiser before getting into the driver’s side.
“We’ll find you a nice family to live with, one that lives in a better part of the city with a yard and a bedroom of your own,” she said to him as she pulled away from the curb. Juan turned around and watched as his father was now being escorted to the waiting van until the cruiser turned the corner and he could no longer see his parents or the apartment building that was the only home he’d ever known.
Entry tags:
LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 11: “Surgery often looks like murder if you judge it halfway through.”
“I–I need your help,” Claudia said as soon as I’d answered the phone.
“Okay, what do you need?” I asked tentatively.
“I think I might be pregnant…”
“Wait, what? How? I mean, I know how, but you and Jeremy always use condoms, right?”
“Usually, yeah. But a couple weeks ago, we got carried away and neither of us had a condom with us. I told him to pull out before he, you know, and he did, but he barely made it and I googled it and I was supposed to get my period last week. Will you go with me to get a pregnancy test?”
“Now?”
“Tomorrow. I’m at work right now; I'm on my lunch break, but I’d rather not do that here.”
“Claudia?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s going to be okay. No matter what happens, it’s going to be okay.”
…
“Do you see anything yet?” Claudia asked anxiously.
“We have to wait a few minutes.”
“I know, I know,” she said as she paced about the tiny apartment bathroom.
“Okay, I think it’s time–” I started, but Claudia already had the stick in her hand and she was squinting at it.
“It’s so light. What does that mean?”
“The instructions say that it doesn’t matter how faint the line is,” I said, glancing at the smoothed out directions on the counter to confirm. “If you can see a second line, it means you’re pregnant.” Claudia sat down on the edge of the bathtub as this information sunk in.
“What am I going to do?” she moaned.
“What do you want to do?” I asked gingerly.
“I don’t know. I mean, I can’t have a baby right now. I’m only half way through college and earn minimum wage at the theatre part time.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “But I don’t even know where to begin if I wanted to…if I wanted the ‘alternative.’”
“How about we go to Planned Parenthood tomorrow and confirm the pregnancy first? They should be able to help us with whatever you decide to do after that.” I didn’t want to admit to her that I wasn’t exactly an expert on the topic either.
“Okay, thanks,” she responded quietly as we heard her roommate unlock the front door. Claudia’s eyes grew wide as we realized Sam was talking to someone else. Claudia shoved the stick still in her hand into the opened box left next to the sink while I stepped into the hallway and peaked around the corner into the living room.
“Hey, Sam, can you come help me with something?” I asked.
“What do you need?” she responded brightly as she turned the corner into the hallway. She glanced between me, Claudia, and the opened box in her hand. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” confirmed Claudia. “Um, do you think we can stay in tonight? Just us?”
“I already made plans with Scott. He’s waiting in the living room.” She motioned nonchalantly in that direction. “We just stopped by the apartment so I could get my jacket.”
“Oh, okay,” replied Claudia sheepishly.
Once Sam had grabbed her jacket and left with Scott, Claudia turned to me. “I can’t believe she just left with him like that. I really need her right now and she just met him the other day.” I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t know Sam very well; I only knew her through Claudia, but they had grown up together and even had matching tattoos, so I was just as surprised as she was.
“Yeah,” I said noncommittally, “But I’m here. Do you want to order some take out and binge watch Law and Order: SVU tonight?” Claudia gave me a small smile and nodded.
…
As we pulled into the parking lot, I breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of protestors out front. The last time I’d come in for a pap smear, there had been a small group that accosted me as I approached the building and I was glad Claudia wouldn’t have to deal with that, too, at least.
Inside, I approached the woman behind the counter while Claudia drifted over to the corner as far away from the other person in the waiting room as she could get. The woman behind the counter handed me a clipboard and a pen. I filled out as much of the form as I could and then handed it to Claudia to fill in the rest.
“Can I put you down as my emergency contact?” Claudia asked hesitantly.
“Of course,” I smiled. She handed me the clipboard to fill in my phone number and then I returned it to the counter. Claudia silently watched whatever court show was on the TV in the corner while I contemplated what had brought in the other person in the waiting room who didn’t seem nearly as nervous as Claudia.
“Claudia?” A nurse with a clipboard was standing in the entrance of a newly opened door to the left of the receptionist. Claudia stood up and took a few hesistant steps toward the nurse before turning back to me.
“Is it alright if I go with her?” I asked the nurse, who nodded and held the door open for us.
After escorting us to a small exam room down the hall, the nurse handed Claudia an empty, sealed cup with an individually wrapped sanitized wipe and pointed to the restroom two doors down. A few minutes later, Claudia returned with a full cup and handed it to the nurse. I was surprised to see that she opened it right there on the counter and inserted the tip of litmus paper into the warm, yellow urine.
“You’re pregnant,” she reported brusquely as she dropped the paper in the cup, resealed it, and tossed it into the bin labeled “biohazard.” She sat down across from us and gave Claudia a thin smile.
“Does the father know?” she asked.
“No. I–I didn’t tell him yet.” Claudia said, glancing away. “I promise I’ll tell him tonight.”
“Do you want to keep it?” the nurse asked delicately.
“I can’t,” Claudia choked as a tear slid down her cheek.
The nurse started to pull pamphlets from a plastic container mounted on the wall. “Look these over. Do you have insurance?”
“I’m on my parents’ insurance, but they can’t know about this. How am I going to afford this?” She looked between me and the nurse, panicked.
“Call this place,” the nurse said as she added another pamphlet to the stack on the table.
…
A few internet searches and a handful of phone calls later, I had Claudia set up with an appointment the following week with financial assistance. We picked up Jeremy on the way and Sam met us there. Shortly after we’d signed in, a nurse came to retrieve Claudia for an ultrasound.
“Do you want to come with me?” she asked me.
“You’re sure you don’t want Jeremy instead?”
“I’m sure.”
When we returned to the waiting room, Sam explained she had to go to work and quickly hugged Claudia goodbye.
“You know I don’t want to do this, right?” Claudia whispered after Jeremy stepped away to use the bathroom.
“I know you don’t.”
“It’s just that my mother would kill me. Or worse, she’d disown me and then I’d be homeless with a baby. Jeremy wanted to keep it, but he can’t take care of us; he can barely take care of himself. I can’t do that to this baby.”
“I understand.”
“Not everyone will,” she replied morosely. She cleared her throat and said, “I should have asked you earlier, but can Jeremy and I stay at your place tonight?”
…
Claudia didn’t say anything on the drive back to my apartment. She fell asleep almost immediately, but we managed to get her to eat something for dinner before she complained that she was still tired.
As I laid in bed that night, I wondered what it felt like to have to make such an impossible decision, to not feel like you could turn to your parents or your best friend. I imagined what she must have been thinking as she turned up the music in a vain attempt to drown out the noise of the machine. I pondered whether she’d tell her future children about the brother or sister they might have had or if, now that it was over, she would ever mention it again.
I know it was one of the worst days of Claudia’s life, but it was one of the best days of my life because she needed me. No one else was there for her, so she needed me and it felt so gratifying to finally be needed.
“Okay, what do you need?” I asked tentatively.
“I think I might be pregnant…”
“Wait, what? How? I mean, I know how, but you and Jeremy always use condoms, right?”
“Usually, yeah. But a couple weeks ago, we got carried away and neither of us had a condom with us. I told him to pull out before he, you know, and he did, but he barely made it and I googled it and I was supposed to get my period last week. Will you go with me to get a pregnancy test?”
“Now?”
“Tomorrow. I’m at work right now; I'm on my lunch break, but I’d rather not do that here.”
“Claudia?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s going to be okay. No matter what happens, it’s going to be okay.”
…
“Do you see anything yet?” Claudia asked anxiously.
“We have to wait a few minutes.”
“I know, I know,” she said as she paced about the tiny apartment bathroom.
“Okay, I think it’s time–” I started, but Claudia already had the stick in her hand and she was squinting at it.
“It’s so light. What does that mean?”
“The instructions say that it doesn’t matter how faint the line is,” I said, glancing at the smoothed out directions on the counter to confirm. “If you can see a second line, it means you’re pregnant.” Claudia sat down on the edge of the bathtub as this information sunk in.
“What am I going to do?” she moaned.
“What do you want to do?” I asked gingerly.
“I don’t know. I mean, I can’t have a baby right now. I’m only half way through college and earn minimum wage at the theatre part time.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “But I don’t even know where to begin if I wanted to…if I wanted the ‘alternative.’”
“How about we go to Planned Parenthood tomorrow and confirm the pregnancy first? They should be able to help us with whatever you decide to do after that.” I didn’t want to admit to her that I wasn’t exactly an expert on the topic either.
“Okay, thanks,” she responded quietly as we heard her roommate unlock the front door. Claudia’s eyes grew wide as we realized Sam was talking to someone else. Claudia shoved the stick still in her hand into the opened box left next to the sink while I stepped into the hallway and peaked around the corner into the living room.
“Hey, Sam, can you come help me with something?” I asked.
“What do you need?” she responded brightly as she turned the corner into the hallway. She glanced between me, Claudia, and the opened box in her hand. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” confirmed Claudia. “Um, do you think we can stay in tonight? Just us?”
“I already made plans with Scott. He’s waiting in the living room.” She motioned nonchalantly in that direction. “We just stopped by the apartment so I could get my jacket.”
“Oh, okay,” replied Claudia sheepishly.
Once Sam had grabbed her jacket and left with Scott, Claudia turned to me. “I can’t believe she just left with him like that. I really need her right now and she just met him the other day.” I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t know Sam very well; I only knew her through Claudia, but they had grown up together and even had matching tattoos, so I was just as surprised as she was.
“Yeah,” I said noncommittally, “But I’m here. Do you want to order some take out and binge watch Law and Order: SVU tonight?” Claudia gave me a small smile and nodded.
…
As we pulled into the parking lot, I breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of protestors out front. The last time I’d come in for a pap smear, there had been a small group that accosted me as I approached the building and I was glad Claudia wouldn’t have to deal with that, too, at least.
Inside, I approached the woman behind the counter while Claudia drifted over to the corner as far away from the other person in the waiting room as she could get. The woman behind the counter handed me a clipboard and a pen. I filled out as much of the form as I could and then handed it to Claudia to fill in the rest.
“Can I put you down as my emergency contact?” Claudia asked hesitantly.
“Of course,” I smiled. She handed me the clipboard to fill in my phone number and then I returned it to the counter. Claudia silently watched whatever court show was on the TV in the corner while I contemplated what had brought in the other person in the waiting room who didn’t seem nearly as nervous as Claudia.
“Claudia?” A nurse with a clipboard was standing in the entrance of a newly opened door to the left of the receptionist. Claudia stood up and took a few hesistant steps toward the nurse before turning back to me.
“Is it alright if I go with her?” I asked the nurse, who nodded and held the door open for us.
After escorting us to a small exam room down the hall, the nurse handed Claudia an empty, sealed cup with an individually wrapped sanitized wipe and pointed to the restroom two doors down. A few minutes later, Claudia returned with a full cup and handed it to the nurse. I was surprised to see that she opened it right there on the counter and inserted the tip of litmus paper into the warm, yellow urine.
“You’re pregnant,” she reported brusquely as she dropped the paper in the cup, resealed it, and tossed it into the bin labeled “biohazard.” She sat down across from us and gave Claudia a thin smile.
“Does the father know?” she asked.
“No. I–I didn’t tell him yet.” Claudia said, glancing away. “I promise I’ll tell him tonight.”
“Do you want to keep it?” the nurse asked delicately.
“I can’t,” Claudia choked as a tear slid down her cheek.
The nurse started to pull pamphlets from a plastic container mounted on the wall. “Look these over. Do you have insurance?”
“I’m on my parents’ insurance, but they can’t know about this. How am I going to afford this?” She looked between me and the nurse, panicked.
“Call this place,” the nurse said as she added another pamphlet to the stack on the table.
…
A few internet searches and a handful of phone calls later, I had Claudia set up with an appointment the following week with financial assistance. We picked up Jeremy on the way and Sam met us there. Shortly after we’d signed in, a nurse came to retrieve Claudia for an ultrasound.
“Do you want to come with me?” she asked me.
“You’re sure you don’t want Jeremy instead?”
“I’m sure.”
When we returned to the waiting room, Sam explained she had to go to work and quickly hugged Claudia goodbye.
“You know I don’t want to do this, right?” Claudia whispered after Jeremy stepped away to use the bathroom.
“I know you don’t.”
“It’s just that my mother would kill me. Or worse, she’d disown me and then I’d be homeless with a baby. Jeremy wanted to keep it, but he can’t take care of us; he can barely take care of himself. I can’t do that to this baby.”
“I understand.”
“Not everyone will,” she replied morosely. She cleared her throat and said, “I should have asked you earlier, but can Jeremy and I stay at your place tonight?”
…
Claudia didn’t say anything on the drive back to my apartment. She fell asleep almost immediately, but we managed to get her to eat something for dinner before she complained that she was still tired.
As I laid in bed that night, I wondered what it felt like to have to make such an impossible decision, to not feel like you could turn to your parents or your best friend. I imagined what she must have been thinking as she turned up the music in a vain attempt to drown out the noise of the machine. I pondered whether she’d tell her future children about the brother or sister they might have had or if, now that it was over, she would ever mention it again.
I know it was one of the worst days of Claudia’s life, but it was one of the best days of my life because she needed me. No one else was there for her, so she needed me and it felt so gratifying to finally be needed.
Entry tags:
LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 10: Craic
Looking around, it seemed like a typical teen party: girls wearing skin-tight clothing that only covered the necessities, boys crowded around a keg in the corner of the backyard while there were bottles of hard liquor and red Solo cups scattered across the island in the kitchen just inside the sliding glass door, music that was loud enough you could barely hear the person next to you talking, and an odd, almost palpable level of anticipation and possibility in the air. Liz attended every single party and they were all some version of this as if the hosts were merely trying to recreate that first party they went to, like how a drug addict is always in search of replicating that first high, but Liz couldn’t be more bored. She came because she is expected to; if you don’t come to the parties, you run the risk of becoming a pariah and she didn’t exactly have the most social capital as it was. People knew her and she knew them, but there was a distance between them. She had friends she sat with at lunch and periodically hung out with outside of school. Some of her friends were even well-connected in the social hierarchy via sports or clubs or other extracurriculars, but she never bought into the stuff they were into and in some ways it felt as if their friendship was merely an act of survival in the jungle that was high school.
On the side of the yard, some movement caught Liz’s attention. A group of football players were laughing and pushing around one of their smiling teammates. Liz recognized him as Tyler, who lived across the street from her. They weren’t exactly friends, but predictably, their paths crossed frequently enough that they were friendly with each other.
This far from the speakers that were attached to the back of the house, Liz could just make out the words “dumb” and “stupid” floating through the air and she winced, thinking of the tutor that arrives at his house three times a week after football practice. One of the things she really didn’t understand about other teenagers was how much they tormented their own friends under the guise of "good-natured teasing" about their less than perfect qualities and nothing ever changed; the victim put up with it and bystanders remained silent. She drained the rest of her cup and, to her amazement, her feet carried her closer to the group.
“Tyler will be lucky if he graduates,” Steve smirked as she approached.
“If he does, it’ll only be because he spends so much time in the learning center getting help,” Tim said. “You won’t ever catch me in there,” he added, shaking his head.
“‘Help?’ They just give him the answers!” Steve replied and the group rang out in another round of laughter.
“Knock it off, Steve,” Liz heard herself saying on the outskirts of the huddled group.
“Oh, look at that,” Steve said, turning in her direction. “Tyler has a girl fighting his battles for him, too. Isn’t that cute?” he said as he gave Tyler another push in Tim’s direction.
Liz, ignoring Steve’s comment, said, “C’mon, Tyler, let’s see if there’s any food inside,” but when her eyes met Tyler’s, he was no longer smiling and rapidly shook his head once. Even though Tyler was quick, Steve had still managed to catch his silent plea.
“Wow, Tyler doesn’t even want your help,” Steve spat. “Maybe it’s because of your father. I wonder how long he’ll be home for this time.” Liz’s attention moved from Tyler to Steve, who was patiently waiting for her response with a grin. Liz didn’t talk about her father much; there wasn’t exactly a lot to tell because everyone already knew that he was hardly home as he oscillated between jail awaiting trial and prison where he’d serve out his sentence, but he was currently home after being released last week. Her classmates rarely mentioned him, though, and Liz immediately regretted walking over. She shot Tyler one last look, but his eyes were turned downward, seemingly engrossed in his sneakers.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t think of a good comeback because she could: Steve’s mother was well-known for getting around, so to speak, but while Liz’s cheeks burned, she couldn’t quite bring herself to stoop to Steve’s level. She may not be able to stop him and Tyler may not appreciate her intervention, but she didn’t have to be complicit and play their stupid game.
"Only a year and a half of high school left," she muttered to herself as she walked away, but if social media was any indicator, there were bullies of all ages.
On the side of the yard, some movement caught Liz’s attention. A group of football players were laughing and pushing around one of their smiling teammates. Liz recognized him as Tyler, who lived across the street from her. They weren’t exactly friends, but predictably, their paths crossed frequently enough that they were friendly with each other.
This far from the speakers that were attached to the back of the house, Liz could just make out the words “dumb” and “stupid” floating through the air and she winced, thinking of the tutor that arrives at his house three times a week after football practice. One of the things she really didn’t understand about other teenagers was how much they tormented their own friends under the guise of "good-natured teasing" about their less than perfect qualities and nothing ever changed; the victim put up with it and bystanders remained silent. She drained the rest of her cup and, to her amazement, her feet carried her closer to the group.
“Tyler will be lucky if he graduates,” Steve smirked as she approached.
“If he does, it’ll only be because he spends so much time in the learning center getting help,” Tim said. “You won’t ever catch me in there,” he added, shaking his head.
“‘Help?’ They just give him the answers!” Steve replied and the group rang out in another round of laughter.
“Knock it off, Steve,” Liz heard herself saying on the outskirts of the huddled group.
“Oh, look at that,” Steve said, turning in her direction. “Tyler has a girl fighting his battles for him, too. Isn’t that cute?” he said as he gave Tyler another push in Tim’s direction.
Liz, ignoring Steve’s comment, said, “C’mon, Tyler, let’s see if there’s any food inside,” but when her eyes met Tyler’s, he was no longer smiling and rapidly shook his head once. Even though Tyler was quick, Steve had still managed to catch his silent plea.
“Wow, Tyler doesn’t even want your help,” Steve spat. “Maybe it’s because of your father. I wonder how long he’ll be home for this time.” Liz’s attention moved from Tyler to Steve, who was patiently waiting for her response with a grin. Liz didn’t talk about her father much; there wasn’t exactly a lot to tell because everyone already knew that he was hardly home as he oscillated between jail awaiting trial and prison where he’d serve out his sentence, but he was currently home after being released last week. Her classmates rarely mentioned him, though, and Liz immediately regretted walking over. She shot Tyler one last look, but his eyes were turned downward, seemingly engrossed in his sneakers.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t think of a good comeback because she could: Steve’s mother was well-known for getting around, so to speak, but while Liz’s cheeks burned, she couldn’t quite bring herself to stoop to Steve’s level. She may not be able to stop him and Tyler may not appreciate her intervention, but she didn’t have to be complicit and play their stupid game.
"Only a year and a half of high school left," she muttered to herself as she walked away, but if social media was any indicator, there were bullies of all ages.
Entry tags:
LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 9: All hat, no cattle
Jane glanced at her watch before turning her attention back to the entrance. She’d opted to sit on the side of the table facing the door and now she regretted it. Her eyes drifted back to her watch, even though she’d just looked a moment ago and she knew the time hadn’t changed. She sighed and tried to stretch and shake the tension out of her limbs and back, but it didn’t seem to make her feel any better.
“Ready to order, ma’am?” the waitress asked as she appeared at Jane’s elbow.
“N–not yet,” she stammered. “Um, can I have another glass of soda, please?” The caffeine probably wasn’t helping her nerves, but she felt awkward not ordering something. Her stomach rumbled as the waitress nodded and headed away from the table. Jane was starving, too nervous to eat earlier as she anxiously changed her clothes for the third time, but she wanted to avoid the awkward exchange--the feigned hurt followed by the pitiful excuses--that would undoubtedly ensue once her mother arrived if she had ordered without her.
“Why do I even care? Why do I keep setting myself up for this? It’s not like I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she chastised herself as she moved her napkin from one side of the table to the other, desperate for anything to catch her attention and avert her eyes from the door.
When she looked up again, she thought she glimpsed a flash of her mother’s long, silver hair behind a tall man with a baseball cap entering the restaurant, but when the woman’s face appeared on the side of the man, Jane felt oddly disappointed.
She thought of all the things she wanted to tell her mother, of all the things she should tell her mother and, for a moment, she actually believed that she could and would say them to her when she arrived as the anger burned brightened in her chest.
Then her mother burst through the door dramatically and rushed over to Jane’s table.
“I’m so sorry, dear. Traffic was an absolute nightmare today,” she said as she leaned over to give Jane an awkward hug. Jane wished she believed her, that she didn’t feel so insignificant. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
Jane opened her mouth to snarkly reply, but the waitress appeared at their table again eager to take their orders now that everyone had arrived and her motivation deflated as her mother rattled off her order to the waitress. Maybe, Jane realized, she wasn’t any better than her mother, after all.
“Ready to order, ma’am?” the waitress asked as she appeared at Jane’s elbow.
“N–not yet,” she stammered. “Um, can I have another glass of soda, please?” The caffeine probably wasn’t helping her nerves, but she felt awkward not ordering something. Her stomach rumbled as the waitress nodded and headed away from the table. Jane was starving, too nervous to eat earlier as she anxiously changed her clothes for the third time, but she wanted to avoid the awkward exchange--the feigned hurt followed by the pitiful excuses--that would undoubtedly ensue once her mother arrived if she had ordered without her.
“Why do I even care? Why do I keep setting myself up for this? It’s not like I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she chastised herself as she moved her napkin from one side of the table to the other, desperate for anything to catch her attention and avert her eyes from the door.
When she looked up again, she thought she glimpsed a flash of her mother’s long, silver hair behind a tall man with a baseball cap entering the restaurant, but when the woman’s face appeared on the side of the man, Jane felt oddly disappointed.
She thought of all the things she wanted to tell her mother, of all the things she should tell her mother and, for a moment, she actually believed that she could and would say them to her when she arrived as the anger burned brightened in her chest.
Then her mother burst through the door dramatically and rushed over to Jane’s table.
“I’m so sorry, dear. Traffic was an absolute nightmare today,” she said as she leaned over to give Jane an awkward hug. Jane wished she believed her, that she didn’t feel so insignificant. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
Jane opened her mouth to snarkly reply, but the waitress appeared at their table again eager to take their orders now that everyone had arrived and her motivation deflated as her mother rattled off her order to the waitress. Maybe, Jane realized, she wasn’t any better than her mother, after all.
Entry tags:
LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 8: You are an opossum living in the trashcan of my heart"
My cousin reached out to my sister recently with concerns about our parents. While we were aware that my mother inherited some money from my uncle’s estate, there was a lot of drama at the time as my uncle’s will was not notarized and my parents were very vocal about feeling as if they didn't receive what they were due. Between their insistence that they should have been given more, the appreciation for how my mother took care of his father as my uncle’s health deteriorated, and the presumed guilt my cousin felt for not being there for his father more, unbeknownst to us, he and his wife have sent my parents a total of $20,000 over the course of the last two years.
They are both a few months shy of 65 and neither one has worked in about a decade; my mother had a stroke at 50 and my father never found a job after being let go from a nonprofit that assessed the energy efficiency of houses and replaced parts (doors, windows, hot water heaters, appliances, etc.) accordingly for low-income clients due to no longer being able to physically perform manual labor jobs and not having the social or technological skills (he might be able to figure out how to turn on a computer) necessary for most modern jobs these days.
Growing up, we were pretty poor; we got Section 8 and their highest total wages were less than I make as a teacher in California. At times, we were even down to one income as my father was in prison or out of work. My mother would ask the local grocery store to hold her checks for a week until her next paycheck and we would get food from the food bank. I’m sure she had more tools in her tool belt to ensure we made it through the month than I even know.
Nowadays, my parents report that between my mother’s retirement, disability, and social security, they take home about $3000 a month, which should cover their monthly expenses but somehow doesn’t.
Five years ago, while I was pregnant, our plan had been for my parents to move closer to us; we would help them buy a house and, in exchange, they would watch Aurora for us. This would also allow us to help them around the house and we share bulk groceries we can’t finish before they spoil with them. Being near family would have also helped their mental health as now my paternal grandmother is the only one local. But they found fault with every house we found in their price range and, once I had to return to work, we had to reroute that money to daycare. Now, housing prices have skyrocketed and we no longer feel that my parents are stable enough, physically and mentally, to supervise a child independently.
While we could feasibly help some financially, we don’t trust that our parents would use that money for necessities or be able to stretch it like they have in the past as they now frequently buy overpriced items at gas stations, refuse to frequent cheaper grocery stores, and my mother cooks less, partially due to trouble standing for extended periods of time, resulting in more fast food and takeout purchases than before. My father still relapses periodically and my mother has, with few exceptions, continued to enable it by keeping his secrets from us.
This new knowledge has left my sister and I with many conflicting feelings. We want to be able to help, of course, as they are our parents, but they are resistant to the type of help we can and are willing to provide. For example, my sister has offered to help them budget (that’s why we know approximately how much they take home a month), but my mother will not provide her with all the specifics. Similarly, we offered to buy them a new hot water heater that they desperately need, but they had to coordinate a day and time for installation and never have. But I now have my own family and live 3.5 hours away from my parents; my sister got married nine months ago and lives on the other side of the country. They are also looking at moving back to the west coast and starting their own family in the next couple of years.
And, maybe it’s selfish, but I also feel like I’ve worked really hard to have what I have and I shouldn’t have to be responsible for my parents’ mistakes, which has taken years of therapy to achieve as I dutifully hid my parents’ drug habits and my father’s absences from my even my closest friends growing up and spent all of my time working toward higher education with which to, eventually, remove myself from precisely this situation.
But how bad is it? Are they using the money they receive from others (my cousin is not the only one) on necessities or splurging? Are they at risk of losing their house? What does my cousin expect us to do? Does he believe we are somehow more financially capable than they are? He has also asked us not to share with my parents that he has discussed this with us, which limits our ability to even address the issue with them effectively as we cannot cite specifics. Is it not just about money and do my parents need someone to take over their finances, which is even more undesirable than simply sending them money? Their health is not being any better managed, it seems. Do they just simply feel as if, unlike when I was growing up, they have nothing left to lose?
Between being a parent and a wife, owning a house with pets, and being a teacher, I just feel like I don’t have anything left to give at the end of the day and I’m feeling smothered by the pressure to be everyone to everyone at the same time.
They are both a few months shy of 65 and neither one has worked in about a decade; my mother had a stroke at 50 and my father never found a job after being let go from a nonprofit that assessed the energy efficiency of houses and replaced parts (doors, windows, hot water heaters, appliances, etc.) accordingly for low-income clients due to no longer being able to physically perform manual labor jobs and not having the social or technological skills (he might be able to figure out how to turn on a computer) necessary for most modern jobs these days.
Growing up, we were pretty poor; we got Section 8 and their highest total wages were less than I make as a teacher in California. At times, we were even down to one income as my father was in prison or out of work. My mother would ask the local grocery store to hold her checks for a week until her next paycheck and we would get food from the food bank. I’m sure she had more tools in her tool belt to ensure we made it through the month than I even know.
Nowadays, my parents report that between my mother’s retirement, disability, and social security, they take home about $3000 a month, which should cover their monthly expenses but somehow doesn’t.
Five years ago, while I was pregnant, our plan had been for my parents to move closer to us; we would help them buy a house and, in exchange, they would watch Aurora for us. This would also allow us to help them around the house and we share bulk groceries we can’t finish before they spoil with them. Being near family would have also helped their mental health as now my paternal grandmother is the only one local. But they found fault with every house we found in their price range and, once I had to return to work, we had to reroute that money to daycare. Now, housing prices have skyrocketed and we no longer feel that my parents are stable enough, physically and mentally, to supervise a child independently.
While we could feasibly help some financially, we don’t trust that our parents would use that money for necessities or be able to stretch it like they have in the past as they now frequently buy overpriced items at gas stations, refuse to frequent cheaper grocery stores, and my mother cooks less, partially due to trouble standing for extended periods of time, resulting in more fast food and takeout purchases than before. My father still relapses periodically and my mother has, with few exceptions, continued to enable it by keeping his secrets from us.
This new knowledge has left my sister and I with many conflicting feelings. We want to be able to help, of course, as they are our parents, but they are resistant to the type of help we can and are willing to provide. For example, my sister has offered to help them budget (that’s why we know approximately how much they take home a month), but my mother will not provide her with all the specifics. Similarly, we offered to buy them a new hot water heater that they desperately need, but they had to coordinate a day and time for installation and never have. But I now have my own family and live 3.5 hours away from my parents; my sister got married nine months ago and lives on the other side of the country. They are also looking at moving back to the west coast and starting their own family in the next couple of years.
And, maybe it’s selfish, but I also feel like I’ve worked really hard to have what I have and I shouldn’t have to be responsible for my parents’ mistakes, which has taken years of therapy to achieve as I dutifully hid my parents’ drug habits and my father’s absences from my even my closest friends growing up and spent all of my time working toward higher education with which to, eventually, remove myself from precisely this situation.
But how bad is it? Are they using the money they receive from others (my cousin is not the only one) on necessities or splurging? Are they at risk of losing their house? What does my cousin expect us to do? Does he believe we are somehow more financially capable than they are? He has also asked us not to share with my parents that he has discussed this with us, which limits our ability to even address the issue with them effectively as we cannot cite specifics. Is it not just about money and do my parents need someone to take over their finances, which is even more undesirable than simply sending them money? Their health is not being any better managed, it seems. Do they just simply feel as if, unlike when I was growing up, they have nothing left to lose?
Between being a parent and a wife, owning a house with pets, and being a teacher, I just feel like I don’t have anything left to give at the end of the day and I’m feeling smothered by the pressure to be everyone to everyone at the same time.
Entry tags:
LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 7: “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are"
A rock came crashing through the living room window as she lathered peanut butter on toast, again, in the kitchen. “Murderer!” someone yelled outside followed by the squealing of tires as a car sped away. After a few minutes of silence, she felt brave enough to approach the window. Glass was scattered across the sofa underneath the window and she could feel the cold night air seeping into the room. As she peered through the blinds, she could just see the garage door where she’d painted over “Die, bitch!” yesterday. She sighed and stooped in front of the TV to pick up the rock that had stopped there before grabbing the dustpan and broom in the hallway closet.
Her phone vibrated on the kitchen table. It was probably her mother checking in on her, which she did a lot of these days. Most of her friends had shown concern for her at first, but then they all slowly stopped calling and texting. As she lifted the phone, the screen brightened and she could see the message was not from her mother at all. The message, from an unknown number, said, “I hope someone kills the person you love most in the world so you can feel the way you made Derek’s family feel!” Apparently, it was time to change her phone number again. She’d had to get rid of all her social media accounts, too, after she received hundreds of death threats.
She hadn’t intended to. That counted for something, right? Her lawyer called it “self-defense” and, apparently, the judge agreed as her case never went to trial; she never even spent a night in jail.
She had to–or she’d thought she did, at least. He was angry. Angrier than she’d ever seen him. And she was scared. Scared he was going to harm her. It was a visceral response that she didn’t doubt in the moment, but now–outside it, away from it–she wasn’t so sure.
She’d excused herself to go to the bathroom. As she turned down the hallway, she’d felt Derek grab her arm and pull her back.
"Ow, you’re hurt—" She swallowed her words when she saw the look on his face. He was calling her a slut, yelling that she’d embarrassed him in front of his friends. He was in her face and she could feel the spittle hitting her skin. She backed up a step, but her back bumped against the wall behind her. She started to wildly look around him as he continued to berate her. In the crowded bar, no one seemed to be looking in her direction. He pushed her shoulder and demanded that she listen to him. She pushed him away. She pushed him with both of her hands, as hard as she could. She didn't mean to hurt him; she just wanted him to be away from her. But he slipped on a stray piece of ice on the floor. On his way down, his head hit the corner of the table nearest the hallway before finally landing, silently amidst the loud music of the bar, on the floor. After a few seconds, she had a new fear; he wasn't moving. Slowly, the blood started to pool under his head. There was so much blood.
Shaking the memory away, she looked down at her oversized t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d showered. She ran a hand over her hair tied loosely on the top of her head, shrugged, and pulled the blanket on the bed back. As her head sunk into the pillow and eyelids began to close, she wondered, still, how she was supposed to live like this or whether, whatever this was, could really be considered living at all. And, if not, was she suffering right alongside Derek’s family? Or did the pain she caused negate her claim to any of her own?
Her phone vibrated on the kitchen table. It was probably her mother checking in on her, which she did a lot of these days. Most of her friends had shown concern for her at first, but then they all slowly stopped calling and texting. As she lifted the phone, the screen brightened and she could see the message was not from her mother at all. The message, from an unknown number, said, “I hope someone kills the person you love most in the world so you can feel the way you made Derek’s family feel!” Apparently, it was time to change her phone number again. She’d had to get rid of all her social media accounts, too, after she received hundreds of death threats.
She hadn’t intended to. That counted for something, right? Her lawyer called it “self-defense” and, apparently, the judge agreed as her case never went to trial; she never even spent a night in jail.
She had to–or she’d thought she did, at least. He was angry. Angrier than she’d ever seen him. And she was scared. Scared he was going to harm her. It was a visceral response that she didn’t doubt in the moment, but now–outside it, away from it–she wasn’t so sure.
She’d excused herself to go to the bathroom. As she turned down the hallway, she’d felt Derek grab her arm and pull her back.
"Ow, you’re hurt—" She swallowed her words when she saw the look on his face. He was calling her a slut, yelling that she’d embarrassed him in front of his friends. He was in her face and she could feel the spittle hitting her skin. She backed up a step, but her back bumped against the wall behind her. She started to wildly look around him as he continued to berate her. In the crowded bar, no one seemed to be looking in her direction. He pushed her shoulder and demanded that she listen to him. She pushed him away. She pushed him with both of her hands, as hard as she could. She didn't mean to hurt him; she just wanted him to be away from her. But he slipped on a stray piece of ice on the floor. On his way down, his head hit the corner of the table nearest the hallway before finally landing, silently amidst the loud music of the bar, on the floor. After a few seconds, she had a new fear; he wasn't moving. Slowly, the blood started to pool under his head. There was so much blood.
Shaking the memory away, she looked down at her oversized t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d showered. She ran a hand over her hair tied loosely on the top of her head, shrugged, and pulled the blanket on the bed back. As her head sunk into the pillow and eyelids began to close, she wondered, still, how she was supposed to live like this or whether, whatever this was, could really be considered living at all. And, if not, was she suffering right alongside Derek’s family? Or did the pain she caused negate her claim to any of her own?
Entry tags:
LJ Idol: Strikes Week 6: Pursuit
The system is rigged,
We’re set up to fail;
There isn’t someone on the top,
If there isn’t someone on the bottom.
We’re asking for help,
We’re shouting about the cracks,
We’re begging for a life vest
As we drown under the waves of expectations.
But the cycle repeats.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
There’s always someone
Dewy-eyed or
Desperate enough
To take our place
If we break.
In a broken system,
Everyone loses.
But bruised and limping,
We carry on.
We’re trapped.
…do you want
to burn it all down
and rebuild it
with me?
We’re set up to fail;
There isn’t someone on the top,
If there isn’t someone on the bottom.
We’re asking for help,
We’re shouting about the cracks,
We’re begging for a life vest
As we drown under the waves of expectations.
But the cycle repeats.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
There’s always someone
Dewy-eyed or
Desperate enough
To take our place
If we break.
In a broken system,
Everyone loses.
But bruised and limping,
We carry on.
We’re trapped.
…do you want
to burn it all down
and rebuild it
with me?
Entry tags:
LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 5: Kuchisabishii
“It’s so weird being back here without him,” Sara murmured to herself as she surveyed the living room and stuffed her father’s spare keys into her pocket. She let out a sigh and stepped further into the room. To her right was the hallway that led to her parents’ bedroom—well, what used to be her parents’ bedroom, at least, the bathroom, and her childhood bedroom. Not quite ready to face the onslaught of memories in that direction, she turned left and headed into the kitchen instead.
There were a few dishes left in the drainer next to the empty sink and the trash can was nearly full, but otherwise nothing was out of place. It struck Sara as odd how something so monumental to her existence as the last of her parents departing the earth wouldn’t leave more tangible effects on the world. It seemed unfair that she was supposed to somehow muster the energy and wrangle all the feelings in order to not only continue her life without them, but she was also responsible for seemingly erasing any evidence that they were once here with her. When her mother passed, she felt the pain, of course, but it was different than this; she still had her father and, though they went through her mother’s clothes, most of her mother’s belongings had remained untouched. The daunting task of going through a lifetime’s possessions weighed heavily on her–and with no siblings–only her shoulders now.
So, she started small. She tugged the corner of the trash bag off the can and carried the bag out the back door to the plastic receptacle provided by the city her father kept on the side of the house. She found the new bags tucked into the same drawer where they’ve been kept her entire life and she secured one bag into the now empty trash can before grabbing another one and pulling open the refrigerator door. There wasn’t much inside: an assortment of condiments, a few beers, about three fingers of a half gallon of milk, a half a loaf of bread, and a Tupperware container with a steak inside. She threw the condiments in the trash bag and reached for the Tupperware. The lid popped open, she took a sniff, and tore off a bite of the meat. It was tender and she recognized the spices her father regularly used when grilling. Her stomach churned as she realized this was the last time she’d eat anything her father prepared. It wasn’t often that you were aware of an experience being the last time while it happened and, though she might have disagreed before, she certainly was not enjoying the knowledge now. She set the Tupperware on the table and pulled a knife and a fork out of the top drawer. If she was going to do this, she needed to do it properly and savor it. Barbecuing had been a favored pastime of her father’s during the warmer months when she grew up. Eventually, he bought the equipment and learned how to smoke his own meat, too. Even after leaving home, he would be sure to prepare something each time she visited and send her home with leftovers that easily lasted her an entire week. She stabbed the last piece and bit her lip as she paused briefly before stuffing it into her mouth quickly to ensure she couldn’t change her mind.
She took a couple steps toward the kitchen sink before diverting to the trash and tossing the Tupperware inside. She put the dishes in their places in the cabinets to be boxed up and sold later. She opened the other cupboards and found an open cereal box, a jar of peanut butter, a few cans of various soups among other pantry staples. Some of these must have dated back to her teenage years, but she began filling the trash bag she’d left by the refrigerator anyway. She’d have to see if a food bank or homeless shelter could take some of these items.
Sara suddenly remembered the old freezer in the garage. She carried the trash bag in her left hand while she switched on the light in the garage with her right. She dropped the bag on the floor in front of the white chest freezer and lifted its lid. There were some frozen vegetables on one side and various cuts of meat with dates Sharpied on the Ziplock bag on the other sides. She picked up a particularly interesting looking cut, but quickly dropped it back into the freezer when she noticed the unmistakable set of fingers in the bag underneath.
There were a few dishes left in the drainer next to the empty sink and the trash can was nearly full, but otherwise nothing was out of place. It struck Sara as odd how something so monumental to her existence as the last of her parents departing the earth wouldn’t leave more tangible effects on the world. It seemed unfair that she was supposed to somehow muster the energy and wrangle all the feelings in order to not only continue her life without them, but she was also responsible for seemingly erasing any evidence that they were once here with her. When her mother passed, she felt the pain, of course, but it was different than this; she still had her father and, though they went through her mother’s clothes, most of her mother’s belongings had remained untouched. The daunting task of going through a lifetime’s possessions weighed heavily on her–and with no siblings–only her shoulders now.
So, she started small. She tugged the corner of the trash bag off the can and carried the bag out the back door to the plastic receptacle provided by the city her father kept on the side of the house. She found the new bags tucked into the same drawer where they’ve been kept her entire life and she secured one bag into the now empty trash can before grabbing another one and pulling open the refrigerator door. There wasn’t much inside: an assortment of condiments, a few beers, about three fingers of a half gallon of milk, a half a loaf of bread, and a Tupperware container with a steak inside. She threw the condiments in the trash bag and reached for the Tupperware. The lid popped open, she took a sniff, and tore off a bite of the meat. It was tender and she recognized the spices her father regularly used when grilling. Her stomach churned as she realized this was the last time she’d eat anything her father prepared. It wasn’t often that you were aware of an experience being the last time while it happened and, though she might have disagreed before, she certainly was not enjoying the knowledge now. She set the Tupperware on the table and pulled a knife and a fork out of the top drawer. If she was going to do this, she needed to do it properly and savor it. Barbecuing had been a favored pastime of her father’s during the warmer months when she grew up. Eventually, he bought the equipment and learned how to smoke his own meat, too. Even after leaving home, he would be sure to prepare something each time she visited and send her home with leftovers that easily lasted her an entire week. She stabbed the last piece and bit her lip as she paused briefly before stuffing it into her mouth quickly to ensure she couldn’t change her mind.
She took a couple steps toward the kitchen sink before diverting to the trash and tossing the Tupperware inside. She put the dishes in their places in the cabinets to be boxed up and sold later. She opened the other cupboards and found an open cereal box, a jar of peanut butter, a few cans of various soups among other pantry staples. Some of these must have dated back to her teenage years, but she began filling the trash bag she’d left by the refrigerator anyway. She’d have to see if a food bank or homeless shelter could take some of these items.
Sara suddenly remembered the old freezer in the garage. She carried the trash bag in her left hand while she switched on the light in the garage with her right. She dropped the bag on the floor in front of the white chest freezer and lifted its lid. There were some frozen vegetables on one side and various cuts of meat with dates Sharpied on the Ziplock bag on the other sides. She picked up a particularly interesting looking cut, but quickly dropped it back into the freezer when she noticed the unmistakable set of fingers in the bag underneath.
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LJ Idol: 3 Strikes Week 4: "The axe forgets; the tree remembers"
Some days it was fine. Nice, even. He wasn’t the most romantic guy, sure, but it was clear that he loved me, that he respected me. He bought me flowers. He remembered our anniversary. He asked me about my day and actually listened until the end.
Other times, though, his anger paralyzed me. His words were sharp daggers aimed at piercing my heart. Afterward, he’d assure me that he loved me, that I’d misunderstood what he was saying—he didn’t mean it that way. Then he’d pretend it had never happened. A few times I brought it up later, but he’d sigh heavily and insist we’d already discussed it ad nauseam and I’d lose my nerve.
I felt an immense, debilitating pressure to say and do the “right” things at the correct times, but the inconsistency was difficult to manage; I didn’t know which side I’d encounter each day and I regularly made mistakes. Some days I could see that it wasn’t me, that his expectations were unrealistic, but other days, it chipped away at my psyche and I struggled to maintain a self-image of myself that wasn’t tainted by inadequacies as a wife and partner.
I could never fully rectify the contradiction of how he could say he loved me yet believe the heinous things he hurled in my direction.
He never hit me, though. That mattered, right?
I often found myself wondering if it’d be easier to leave if he had actually harmed me physically. Then other people could see the torment and understand the turmoil. Then I wouldn’t look like the bad guy. If he suddenly died—a mugging gone wrong or a car accident, perhaps—it would be even better. I wouldn’t be at fault, but I would also garner the sympathy I felt was owed to me after all these years.
The door unlocked and I heard my husband come through the door and begin to take his shoes off.
“Dinner will be ready in about half an hour,” I called from the kitchen. “How was your—” I stopped when I noticed the look on his face, the quiver of his lip. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but I was also afraid of the answer and the consequences of not replying correctly.
“Oh, never mind,” he barked as he turned to leave.
“What did I do?” I squeaked, rooted to the spot in front of the stove.
“You’re just being…being you,” he spat.
And I couldn’t take it anymore. If the problem was just me, that it wasn’t something wrong I’d said or done, I couldn’t fix it. I picked up the cast iron pan and, with both hands, swung it as hard as I could at his head. The sound he made hitting the floor was deafening followed by an eerie silence. As the blood began to pool on the floor behind his head, what I had done was slowly sinking in. Tears silently streamed down my face and my vision blurred.
“I—I just can’t anymore,” I moaned as my legs gave out.
“Sweetie, wake up…”
I blink my eyes against the early morning sunlight slipping through the blinds and glance toward my husband sitting up on his side of the bed. “I—I think I was having a nightmare.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“I, uh, was running away from a monster,” I muttered, hoping my face didn’t give anything away.
“It sounded like you said something about not having a choice,” he coaxed.
“Um, maybe. I didn’t really want to fight back, but I was afraid if I didn’t, he—it—would hurt me.”
“Then you had to,” he assured me as he kissed my forehead.
“I suppose you’re right.”
Other times, though, his anger paralyzed me. His words were sharp daggers aimed at piercing my heart. Afterward, he’d assure me that he loved me, that I’d misunderstood what he was saying—he didn’t mean it that way. Then he’d pretend it had never happened. A few times I brought it up later, but he’d sigh heavily and insist we’d already discussed it ad nauseam and I’d lose my nerve.
I felt an immense, debilitating pressure to say and do the “right” things at the correct times, but the inconsistency was difficult to manage; I didn’t know which side I’d encounter each day and I regularly made mistakes. Some days I could see that it wasn’t me, that his expectations were unrealistic, but other days, it chipped away at my psyche and I struggled to maintain a self-image of myself that wasn’t tainted by inadequacies as a wife and partner.
I could never fully rectify the contradiction of how he could say he loved me yet believe the heinous things he hurled in my direction.
He never hit me, though. That mattered, right?
I often found myself wondering if it’d be easier to leave if he had actually harmed me physically. Then other people could see the torment and understand the turmoil. Then I wouldn’t look like the bad guy. If he suddenly died—a mugging gone wrong or a car accident, perhaps—it would be even better. I wouldn’t be at fault, but I would also garner the sympathy I felt was owed to me after all these years.
The door unlocked and I heard my husband come through the door and begin to take his shoes off.
“Dinner will be ready in about half an hour,” I called from the kitchen. “How was your—” I stopped when I noticed the look on his face, the quiver of his lip. I wanted to ask what was wrong, but I was also afraid of the answer and the consequences of not replying correctly.
“Oh, never mind,” he barked as he turned to leave.
“What did I do?” I squeaked, rooted to the spot in front of the stove.
“You’re just being…being you,” he spat.
And I couldn’t take it anymore. If the problem was just me, that it wasn’t something wrong I’d said or done, I couldn’t fix it. I picked up the cast iron pan and, with both hands, swung it as hard as I could at his head. The sound he made hitting the floor was deafening followed by an eerie silence. As the blood began to pool on the floor behind his head, what I had done was slowly sinking in. Tears silently streamed down my face and my vision blurred.
“I—I just can’t anymore,” I moaned as my legs gave out.
“Sweetie, wake up…”
I blink my eyes against the early morning sunlight slipping through the blinds and glance toward my husband sitting up on his side of the bed. “I—I think I was having a nightmare.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“I, uh, was running away from a monster,” I muttered, hoping my face didn’t give anything away.
“It sounded like you said something about not having a choice,” he coaxed.
“Um, maybe. I didn’t really want to fight back, but I was afraid if I didn’t, he—it—would hurt me.”
“Then you had to,” he assured me as he kissed my forehead.
“I suppose you’re right.”