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Danny and I were always testing each other—not in the way one usually thinks siblings test each other’s nerves. But rather, there was a push and pull between us, testing the other and challenging the other’s capabilities.
We often walked together by the creek bed. I would walk by the edge looking for a flat rock that might make a nice canvas, something to paint on when I got home. He would entertain himself by trying to catch minnows and crawdads. “You know, I think you should try to publish your poetry eventually,” I said as I examined a rock and placed it back by the stream. He was squatted down, ankle deep in water and rolled his eyes without looking at me. “You know I just do that for myself. Not exactly the most practical career path.” I shrugged. “There are a lot of Kentucky poets. You could be our town’s next big thing.” He splashed me and I giggled as I turned away from him. I knew Danny was a talented writer. He never shared his writing with me, but I’d stolen his journals more times than I could remember. He’d always scold me, but I knew he didn’t really mind. I think he liked having his words read, having someone close to him who was able to take a glimpse at all that he was holding inside. I abandoned my search for the perfect rock, pulling off my sneakers and sitting on the bank with my feet in the water. “Maybe you’re our ticket out of here.” I watched his reflection in the water as he made his way over to sit by my side. “Or what if you’re our ticket out?” I often wondered what he saw in me. It seemed to me that if anyone had what it took to leave it was him. He was filled with a silent rage that was terrifying at times to witness, but when he harnessed it, it was a powerful thing. I felt certain in that moment that he would use it to transform his circumstances and find a better life. But not even his poetry allowed me to realize just how close he was to giving in to the pain instead of fighting through it. Or maybe it was there in his words all along and I refused to see it.
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The summer of ’08 was a summer of scandal. Like the summer before, there were the usual characters. Sophia, with her permed out hair and crusty white dog Sebastian whose brown streaks around his eyes and chin had always been off-putting but were growing more-so with every passing summer. Richard, who had a tendency to watch himself in every mirror he passed, combing in fingers through his hair and pouting as though someone might sneak up behind him and capture his vogue pose on camera. And then there was Angelica. As an heiress and the owner of the house we all stayed in, she commanded the room with an arrogance that was at once infuriating and impressive. Even in the most mundane moment, she somehow found a way to draw attention to herself. For years, she had ruled the Hamptons house, her reign of terror known across the beach.
However, that changed in ’08. Those who have heard the story may have heard one of several versions floating about, but I know the truth. Half of you won’t believe it, but that won’t stop me from telling the tale. I brought up the invitation carefully, reluctantly. I wasn’t looking forward to spoiling her mood and the good day we’d both been having.
Our tomatoes, kale and carnations sat in a bag at her feet. She looked radiant, sipping her iced coffee with her hair falling toward her face and the shadows from the tree above us dancing across her freckles. I didn’t want to watch her face drop, but I knew I’d put it off long enough. “So, my mom’s birthday is coming up next week. I think she’s hosting a dinner on Saturday that she’d love us to join.” She shifted in her chair a bit and stared down at her fingers to pick at a hangnail. “Yeah, sure we can go,” she said. But all the lightness she had carried in her voice that day had slipped away, her grey words thudded on the table. I knew her relationship with her mother had frayed over the years, but it wasn’t quite realistic to pretend that mine didn’t exist. It was made particularly difficult by my mom’s insistence on inviting her to things. She had never forgiven her own mother for how she’d reacted when she came out. While mine was calling us on our anniversary and asking me what Veronica might like for her Christmas gift this year, hers simply pretended I didn’t exist. I was the first women V had introduced to her parents. Her mother was warm, welcoming and lovely when I met her, but as soon as the nature of our relationship was revealed, her entire disposition altered. I had hoped my mother could be a stand-in for hers, giving her the loving approval that she was denied by her own, but instead it only served as a constant reminder of what she wished she had with the woman who brought her into the world. I gently placed my hand on hers as a drop of blood swelled by her cuticle. She finally met my eyes. “We could go visit your mother if you’d like? I know it’s been a while.” Pulling up to the house it wasn’t quite as I remembered it, but it was close. It was natural that she would have made changes to the home, but in my mind it had remained untouched.
I could see myself in the tree in the yard, feet swinging giddily as I reveled in my own genius hiding spot, spying to my heart’s content and merrily watching as Mamaw’s dog, Buster, puttered about. I saw myself splashing in the creek bed, picking berried on the mountain behind her house, tossing a ball with all my might and watching Buster dutifully bring it back; rolling lemons on her kitchen counter to soften them so she could squeeze them into her lemonade. My stomach turned. I felt embittered toward myself, thinking of all the times she had phoned and written, asking me to visit. Why was it only in her death that I returned? Walking through the front door of the home, felt like visiting a museum—a very crowded museum. Only a retired art teacher could manage to accumulate so much stuff in one space. No shelf, wall or countertop remained unused. She had photos of family, art she’d made and art she’d purchased. A sewing machine was huddled in the corner with fabric still laid out on the table. I picked it up, rubbing it between my fingers and wondering when it was that her hands too had touched this piece. As I walked into another room, I noticed it was filled with art created by her grandchildren. I’d always felt incapable in her presence—my own talents never quite measuring up to her own. So, it was with much surprise that I noticed several photos I’d taken, framed upon her wall. I may not have had her touch when holding a paintbrush but had managed to find my own safe space behind the lens of camera. I never thought she considered my work “real art.” I could only remember my own misshapen trees as we painted together and how her brush strokes amounted to much more than mine ever could. What else did she in me? What else did I miss in her? How did I get so good at dulling my senses? Ignoring the smallest of things?
When I was younger, I saw everything. I felt everything. But somewhere along the way I learned to shut it all down. I saw the way he spoke to others. The way he created no room for anyone but himself. I saw the air he carried when he walked into a room. He floated above the world, never caring to settle into it. He called himself a feminist, but I saw how he responded when I first told him no. So how did I find myself here? How was I blind to all the reasons I should have stayed away? We were lying in bed together and I wanted nothing more than to get out from under the weight of his arm. |
A note about these entries:These writings are fiction. First person narration should not be interpreted as my own thoughts or experiences. Some passages are also in response to a prompt. Where applicable those prompts will be mentioned. |