Heather and I sit inside of a fake house it's blue and purple with pink window coverings. We are five and playing house. She is the mommy and I am the daddy. Her little white fingers wrap around the tiny plastic pieces of bread which I pretend to eat slowly. She asks me "How was work?"
"Looooooonnnnng" I say. "I don't want to talk about it" I say. She begins to tell me about her day and she fades off. I'm too busy feeling the hard bumps in the plastic bread. Stale and overcooked, heather was never a good cook. I look outside the tiny house to the real one, It's blinds are closed.
I put down the bread and say "That was delicious." I reach my hand down and pick at the grass beneath our feet growing in patches of brown and beaten down from our playing . I rip up the grass in bunches and let the little fibers roll in my hand until I drop them all on top of the bread making a tiny mountain of green. The ground of our floor is hard, dirt breaks beneath my tiny legs and the cracks in the dirt hurt my knees when I kneel.
"It's cheaper than carpet"I think and I tear up another handful of grass.
****
I'm watching TV on my mom and dad's bed. It's big and soft brass bars with elegant curves bookend the mattress. I'm wrapped up in their red comforter splashed with floral designs. I lay the wrong way on the bed facing the TV wrapped up like a joint with my feet on my parents pillows even though I know I could get in trouble for it. I'm too busy watching the flicker of the TV to pay attention to the picture that hangs above the bed. My mother stretched across the floor with her legs crossed and curved behind her covered in soft dark stockings. She's shoe-less and topless wrapped up in a fur coat that only allows us to see her shoulders.
She is beautiful.
This picture was a gift to my father when my parents first got married. There was a time when it was talked about constantly but now we don't pay it much mind.
My name is called from the kitchen. I pretend not to hear so I can keep watching TV but it gets called again and this time my mom sounds angry. I shoot up from the bed and head downstairs to the kitchen.
"What is it mom? Am I in trouble?"
"No your not in trouble" she says.
I'm standing at the top of the backstairs of the house which looks down on our kitchen. I can't really make out the details on my parents faces because I haven't gotten my glasses yet. My dad is sitting at the tab;e in the kitchen with his head in his hands. My mom is standing. She looks up at me and tells me there is something they have to tell me. She looks at my dad as if she expects him to speak.
He doesn't, he just keeps his head buried in between his hands.
My mom lets out a large sigh. She looks back up at me and says...
"You've got a sister Chris." My eyes light up.
"What?"
"You have a sister?"
"You're pregnant?"
"No, she's already alive."
My mind starts racing. An older sister. A child my family had given away long before I was born. An adventurous girl who had traveled the world and lived in New York and drove a car. She had finally hunted us down to be welcomed into our loving family.
"No" my mom said. "She's your younger sister. She's just a baby. She's your half sister."
They send me upstairs. I sit back on my parents bed considering the situation. My mom staring down at me from that picture. Her light skin, her curly brown hair. Her firetruck red lipstick, She's very pretty but the most beautiful thing about her is her eyes. Deep brown and filled with a confidence that is heartbreaking.
"A half sister. How did that happen?"
She is beautiful.
This picture was a gift to my father when my parents first got married. There was a time when it was talked about constantly but now we don't pay it much mind.
My name is called from the kitchen. I pretend not to hear so I can keep watching TV but it gets called again and this time my mom sounds angry. I shoot up from the bed and head downstairs to the kitchen.
"What is it mom? Am I in trouble?"
"No your not in trouble" she says.
I'm standing at the top of the backstairs of the house which looks down on our kitchen. I can't really make out the details on my parents faces because I haven't gotten my glasses yet. My dad is sitting at the tab;e in the kitchen with his head in his hands. My mom is standing. She looks up at me and tells me there is something they have to tell me. She looks at my dad as if she expects him to speak.
He doesn't, he just keeps his head buried in between his hands.
My mom lets out a large sigh. She looks back up at me and says...
"You've got a sister Chris." My eyes light up.
"What?"
"You have a sister?"
"You're pregnant?"
"No, she's already alive."
My mind starts racing. An older sister. A child my family had given away long before I was born. An adventurous girl who had traveled the world and lived in New York and drove a car. She had finally hunted us down to be welcomed into our loving family.
"No" my mom said. "She's your younger sister. She's just a baby. She's your half sister."
They send me upstairs. I sit back on my parents bed considering the situation. My mom staring down at me from that picture. Her light skin, her curly brown hair. Her firetruck red lipstick, She's very pretty but the most beautiful thing about her is her eyes. Deep brown and filled with a confidence that is heartbreaking.
"A half sister. How did that happen?"
***
Alot of people say they have never seen their father cry. I have.
Many times.
My father has always been a sensitive man, caring and nice and gentle. A man who when the emotions of life come, doesn't fight them but is overcome by them. On the other hand; I've never seen my mother cry. Her strength and resolve coming from living without a father and a drunken mother.
I can only assume how hard the next few years would be.
They would do a great job of hiding the fights, the separations. There was a time when I slept in the bed with my mom, while my dad slept in my bed. They told me my dad just wanted to see what it was like sleeping in a tiny bed.
It must have been so hard.
For my father knowing that his weakness had almost torn the family apart. For my mother using all of her strength to keep it together.
After that my father and I didn't spend much time together. Some sons lose their childhood experiences with their dad because of work. But mine was a self-inflicted wound. I kept to my room and stayed there for years. I laid in my bed and didn't get out till my feet reached over the end. I watched as my toys got smaller and went to my siblings. I had a brother now.
My family repaired itself but I watched from the outside as it did.
It, as my mothers son, was hard to forgive his trespasses. Though she hid her hurt so well, I had a serious anger in me for years. The years father and sons usually spend playing football or basketball or building model planes or working on cars. We spent those years looking at each other in the reflections of the bathroom mirror while we brushed our teeth. Catching glimpses of the other while we left the house.
We had become like distant relatives or acquaintances who catch eyes on the train but don't get up to speak. My mom once asked me while she drove me to school, if I hated my father.
I told her no, that I understood he just made a mistake. But how do you tell your mom that you just don't care. You don't, you lie and hide it. And we are good at that.
I remember being sixteen and my dad telling me he loved me while he dropped me off at school. The words were so unfamiliar that they stung like gargling vinegar. He sat behind the wheel and looked out at me, his face so worn and old. He looks like me but so many years older.
When i was five he looked young and full of life. On weekends he'd tell me that I was going on a playdate. We'd jump in the Toyota Celica my dad's sports car. My feet would bounce up and down on the carpet while I looked out the window. He and I would sing along to No Diggity and I'd ask him questions he couldn't answer.
We'd drive for so long I could fall asleep three times before we pulled up to a white house with a screen door.
I stood next to my father at the door when it opened a small white woman with dirty blond hair welcomed us in. Her and my father hugged while I raided the fridge. She would ask me how school was and I'd say fine. Playing the game until I was let go.
"Heather's outside if you want to play with her."
I bolted out the back screen door letting it slam shut. The dirty blond closes the back door and I hear the lock snap as I run up to Heather sitting in her plastic house. I look back at the small white house, it's not as pretty as ours, and heather's mom isn't as pretty as mine. The dirty blond and my dad say they are gonna talk while we play outside but the blond closes the blinds in the kitchen so we can't see in the house.
Heather looks like her mom, like how I look like my dad. She's wearing jeans and standing at the fake oven with the fake microwave. She opens the plastic box and pulls out a plastic purple plate with plastic bread on it. She turns to me with her dirty blond hair.
"Do you wanna play house?"
Many times.
My father has always been a sensitive man, caring and nice and gentle. A man who when the emotions of life come, doesn't fight them but is overcome by them. On the other hand; I've never seen my mother cry. Her strength and resolve coming from living without a father and a drunken mother.
I can only assume how hard the next few years would be.
They would do a great job of hiding the fights, the separations. There was a time when I slept in the bed with my mom, while my dad slept in my bed. They told me my dad just wanted to see what it was like sleeping in a tiny bed.
It must have been so hard.
For my father knowing that his weakness had almost torn the family apart. For my mother using all of her strength to keep it together.
After that my father and I didn't spend much time together. Some sons lose their childhood experiences with their dad because of work. But mine was a self-inflicted wound. I kept to my room and stayed there for years. I laid in my bed and didn't get out till my feet reached over the end. I watched as my toys got smaller and went to my siblings. I had a brother now.
My family repaired itself but I watched from the outside as it did.
It, as my mothers son, was hard to forgive his trespasses. Though she hid her hurt so well, I had a serious anger in me for years. The years father and sons usually spend playing football or basketball or building model planes or working on cars. We spent those years looking at each other in the reflections of the bathroom mirror while we brushed our teeth. Catching glimpses of the other while we left the house.
We had become like distant relatives or acquaintances who catch eyes on the train but don't get up to speak. My mom once asked me while she drove me to school, if I hated my father.
I told her no, that I understood he just made a mistake. But how do you tell your mom that you just don't care. You don't, you lie and hide it. And we are good at that.
I remember being sixteen and my dad telling me he loved me while he dropped me off at school. The words were so unfamiliar that they stung like gargling vinegar. He sat behind the wheel and looked out at me, his face so worn and old. He looks like me but so many years older.
When i was five he looked young and full of life. On weekends he'd tell me that I was going on a playdate. We'd jump in the Toyota Celica my dad's sports car. My feet would bounce up and down on the carpet while I looked out the window. He and I would sing along to No Diggity and I'd ask him questions he couldn't answer.
We'd drive for so long I could fall asleep three times before we pulled up to a white house with a screen door.
I stood next to my father at the door when it opened a small white woman with dirty blond hair welcomed us in. Her and my father hugged while I raided the fridge. She would ask me how school was and I'd say fine. Playing the game until I was let go.
"Heather's outside if you want to play with her."
I bolted out the back screen door letting it slam shut. The dirty blond closes the back door and I hear the lock snap as I run up to Heather sitting in her plastic house. I look back at the small white house, it's not as pretty as ours, and heather's mom isn't as pretty as mine. The dirty blond and my dad say they are gonna talk while we play outside but the blond closes the blinds in the kitchen so we can't see in the house.
Heather looks like her mom, like how I look like my dad. She's wearing jeans and standing at the fake oven with the fake microwave. She opens the plastic box and pulls out a plastic purple plate with plastic bread on it. She turns to me with her dirty blond hair.
"Do you wanna play house?"
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