Chapter 4
Mike pulls up to what I assume is his house. As soon as we had gotten in the car, he had blasted the heat, but I am still dripping and shivering uncontrollably. He appears to be soaking wet; water droplets are lingering on his perfect waves and sliding down his temples. His shirt looks as if it had absorbed every rain drop, and it clings to his chiseled torso. It is extremely difficult for me not to stare.
His house is made of wooden logs. It looks like one of those cabins in the woods, but instead it’s right off a road with little landscaping. It’s beautiful and looks welcoming. I retrieve my bag from the cramped back seat of his pickup and he leads me to his house.
Inside, I smell something indescribably delicious coming from what I assume is the kitchen. Mike takes his shoes off, and I do the same before he links his fingers between mine and takes me closer to where that aroma is coming from.
“Mama,” he says.
I look up to see his genuine, beautiful smile on his face.
“This is Shilah; Shilah, this is my mom. You can call her Dayna.”
“Hi,” I say shyly, and reach for her hand.
She takes it in hers and smiles at me. Mike’s smile resembles hers exactly. She has the same coppery skin as his also. Her shiny black hair is swept off her neck in a lazy bun. She is very small and short but her grip on my hand had been firm. She is wearing baggy cargo pants and a floral top that hugs her small torso, along with a white apron that has multiple stains splattered across it.
“Very nice to meet you,” she says in a heavy Italian accent.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” I say quietly, and let her get back to cooking whatever deliciousness she had on the stove.
Mike lets go of my hand to reach down and give his mom a hug. She appears so miniature in his arms. He kisses the top of her head.
“What are we going to eat?” He asks.
“Pasta and bread; is good, no?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect.”
She smiles at him, and her eyes sparkle the way I had seen his so many times before.
“Eh, Michael, go put some new clothes on! You’re guest is all wet!”
Mike laughs under his breath. “Ok, mama. Love you.”
She bends over the oven and as she’s placing a steaming loaf of bread on the stove top, she replies, “I love you too, my son.”
Mike smiles and returns to me, taking my hand again and leading me up the stairs.
“So now you’ve met my mom,”
“She seems so…nice,” I say slowly, trying to describe her the best way possible, but my thoughts of her coming out short.
Mike grins. “Yeah, she is. My dad says it’s her Italian blood that makes her the way she is, but sometimes I think it’s just her. I was born in Italy; I don’t know if you knew that.”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t. When did you move to America?”
“When I was four; right before I started school. My dad was studying abroad in Italy when he met my mom, and it was his idea to move back to the states, where his family was.”
“It must have been so hard for your mom to leave her family behind.”
“Not too hard,” he smirks, “She only had a mother, and she wasn’t as loving as my mom is, if you know what I mean. But anyways…,”
He smiles and leads me to an empty bedroom.
“You can change in here. Sorry I kept you in wet clothes for so long.”
I laugh. “It’s fine. I can barely notice it anymore.”
Once the door is shut behind me, I practically rip off my clothing. I had lied; I really had noticed the freezing wet fabric sticking to my body. Being free from the discomfort, I hesitantly set my bag down on the fixed bed, and tip toe around the room as I pull on my clothes. Even though I love the feeling of warm, stretchy cotton against my skin, I can’t help the anxiety and nervousness running through me. This is Mike’s family. I’m going to be eating with Mike’s family.
I stand in front of the mirror dresser and frown at my ruined curls. I use the elastic on my wrist to pull my soggy waves back into a ponytail. I wonder why I’m not extremely disappointed with my appearance, since I usually am when I’m wearing no makeup and my hair is messy. I shrug and grin at myself before stuffing the soaking clothes back into my bag and exiting the room.
I hear Mike’s smooth voice mumbling to his mom when I reach the top of the stairs. I walk down them slowly, as if I’m scared of making them creak, and hesitantly arrive in the kitchen. Mike is setting the table, and his mom is stirring something in a large pot on the stove. He looks up at me and smiles. He has changed his clothes too; he is wearing a dry pair of blue jeans and a navy blue t-shirt. His mom turns around to carry the pot to the table and looks at me longer than I expect her to. I feel blood rushing to my cheeks as she continues to stare at me with her deep, beautiful eyes. Once she sets the steaming pot on a trivet she looks up at me and squeezes my arms.
“My,” she says, “You are a very pretty girl. My son better treat you well.”
I grin and laugh under my breath, “I’ll let you know how he does.”
She smiles and leads me to the table, where I begin to feel more welcome and comfortable than I ever thought I would have here.
The dinner is incredible; I try to eat as slow as I possibly can. I count to 50 as I chew quietly and make sure my fork never scratches the plate or my teeth. I keep my napkin glued to my lap and my elbows off the table, much to my discomfort. I hear the front door swing open and I turn around to see a tall, built man shrugging out of his trench coat and shaking out a sopping umbrella.
“Hey, dad!” Mike says and begins to fill a plate with pasta and garlic bread.
“Hey guys,” the man who I now know is Mike’s dad replies.
He shuffles quickly into his seat at the table and leans over to kiss his wife. I’m nearly embarrassed to be in their presence when I see the way she gazes at him. I had never seen my parents look at each other the way I had just witnessed. Mike seems not to be phased, and instead introduces me.
“Very nice to meet you, Shilah! You can call me Jim,” he says warmly.
Later that night, Mike takes my hand and leads me outside. It is humid from the storm, but there is a cooling breeze that flows through my now dry waves.
“Your family is…incredible,” I say as we begin to walk down a long, paved road.
“Aren’t they like any other family? Well, aside from the fantastic food…”
I laugh. “Well, compared to my family, yours is incredible.”
“Wow, why?”
I sigh. My guard is falling faster than I had ever thought it would, and this makes me nervous. I want to tell Mike everything and let him into my life, but I don’t know how he will take it. He seems understanding, but I can’t know for sure yet.
I breathe in deeply and hold it in. I know I will stutter uncontrollably if I go into detail about my childhood, so I start off very broad.”
“My dad wasn’t very supportive…of anything.”
“What do you mean?”
I should know Mike was going to ask questions. Who wouldn’t? However I am still very scared to tell him everything because he seems as if he comes from a strong, supportive, perfect family. I’m not sure if he’s going to accept me. This thought makes a dull, lonely feeling arise in my stomach.
“Well, my mom was an aspiring model when he met her, and he never really took her job seriously. He always thought that once they got married, she was going to suddenly give up her dream and become super mom of a million kids. He thought she would cook and clean and obey his every command. That’s not my mom. So when she became really involved in the modeling industry, my dad wasn’t very happy. And when she told him she was done having kids after I was born, he wasn’t happy about that either.”
“So what happened? Did he just learn to deal with it?”
I look up at Mike and see innocent curiosity displayed on his perfect face. I allow myself, with great risk, to think back to the day my dad knelt in front of me and pushed a strand of my hair behind my tiny ear.
“Sweetheart,” he had said, wrinkles carved into his forehead, “Mommy’s going to take care of you now. Daddy can’t be here anymore.”
I remember feeling so confused because I didn’t know why he needed to leave. My mom hadn’t explained anything; every time I had asked she said that we weren’t going to talk about it. Then I got older and understood completely. My father had left my mother and me. I hadn’t seen or talked to him since he left me at my front door, young, vulnerable, and filled with sadness.
“He left,” I whisper, and try my hardest to hold in the tears that are ready to spill out. I convince myself I will not cry in front of Mike Fyler. He will not see me like this. He will not see me being plain old, helpless, not confident me.
Mike stops walking, and looks down at me. “Your dad left you?”
I nod and look away. “I was four.”
I don’t see Mike’s facial expression since I’m hiding behind my hair, but I hear sorrow and anger in his voice.
“Your dad left you and your mom when you were four?”
I am silent and can’t believe myself when tears start to escape my eyes. It was as if they are purposely pushing their way out so Mike will see every side of me. I try to make it look like I’m scratching my cheek as I wipe them away and continue to explain, ignoring the lump in my throat.
“My mom had just gotten into a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, and he was angry. She refused to give up her dream and just wanted him to support her, but he refused. So one day he packed his things and left us. Just like that.”
“Just like that,” Mike repeats me and tilts my head up to meet his eyes.
He cups my face in his hands and I hold my breath.
“Your dad didn’t realize how blessed he was.”
Every word that escapes Mike’s mouth seems to make the tears come faster. I don’t want him to see me cry. I don’t want him to see me like my dad had seen me: vulnerable, sad, and helpless.
I give up on holding back and let tears slip out of my eyes and down my cheeks. Mike gently wipes them away with his soft fingertips and smiles with his mouth closed. The moonlight is reflecting off his eyes and spilling over his radiant skin.
“Thank you,” I whisper through my tight throat.
His hands fall from my face back to his sides and we continue to walk down the winding road back to his house, letting the perfect night envelope us and make everything that we want to forget in our pasts melt away.
Chapter 5
I look down at myself and I’m dressed in a pink leotard, pink tutu, and white tights. I look smaller than normal. People surround me. The people are much taller than me and dressed in beautiful clothing. The women are wearing long, silky dresses that sparkle under the fancy chandeliers above me. The men are dressed in tuxes. I wonder why I’m here and why everyone seems like giants.
Then the people part and I see a familiar figure across the room from me. He clinks glasses with a woman and smiles. His teeth are shiny and white, his skin is smooth and he has a five O’clock shadow that I know I have touched before. I can nearly feel the familiar tingle of the rough facial hair on my tiny hands. He turns to look at me after pecking the woman gently on her cheek. Suddenly I know who the man is when his eyes meet mine.
“Daddy?” I say.
My voice sounds as if it’s coming from a little girl.
“Sweetheart,” he whispers as he walks toward me.
He squats down to reach my eye level and pushes a strand of my hair behind my ear. He is so real. I can feel his warm breath against my skin. I search his eyes. They’re just as I remember them.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his eyebrows curving, “I don’t want you here.”
“But Daddy—,”
His face flashes an expression of disgust that causes me to stop talking. He presses his fingertips hard against my cheeks and frowns.
“Why do you have freckles? I don’t like your freckles,” he takes his hands down from my face and bunches my tutu in both his fists.
“And why are you wearing this ridiculous outfit? Don’t you see that no one else matches you? You’re an outcast, Shilah. You can’t be my daughter. You’re just an outcast. You’re a nobody.”
The woman my dad had been talking to before appears behind him, looking over his hunched shoulder at me. Her eyes are filled with disappointment and horror as she examines me. I feel a lump rising in my throat, but tears fail to escape my eyes.
“Just look at yourself,” she says in a numb voice.
A hand mirror is placed in my small hands and I gasp when I see an unfamiliar face. A little girl looks back at me. I would guess her age is around four or five. She has my freckles, my eyes, and my hair, although it’s much thinner than usual. She has my thin lips and face structure. Yet she is young. And then heat rises inside me when I realize I am looking at myself, just a much younger version of myself.
“You and your mother both,” the woman and my father whisper in unison.
“What are you talking about, Daddy? You said you love us. You said we’re the best things that have ever happened to you. Didn’t you, Daddy? Didn’t you?”
He slaps me. His hand burns me. I am too shocked to bring my hands to my face.
“Don’t tell your mother,” he whispers with a devilish smirk.
I am about to say something, but he turns away and wraps his arms tightly around the woman’s waist. I watch helplessly as he and the woman slowly become small specks against the blackness.
The people slowly disappear and I am left alone in my crinkled tutu.
I awake in a cold sweat. My room is dim. My hairline is damp and my night shirt is sticky against my back. The clock reads 4:00am, but I could never feel more alert and jittery. I begin to kick and drag at the piles of clothes on my floor until there’s enough room for me to move around without tripping. I search for a CD until I find one that I think will suffice and place it in my CD player.
As “You are Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera plays softly out of the speakers I feel something building in my chest. I don’t know if it’s rage or sorrow or hate, but I know it’s something. And I know it’s for my father. I allow myself for the first time to think of him when I’m completely alone. I allow myself to remember every little detail, even the details I left out of the story when I told Mike.
I sit down in the middle of my room and pull my knees to my chest. “Every day is so wonderful. And suddenly, I saw debris. Now and then I get insecure from all the pain. I’m so ashamed.”
And I am ashamed. I am so ashamed I want to disappear into the blackness of my dreams and never return. I remember the first time I witnessed him hit my mom. I was in the living room, watching cartoons, trying to ignore their arguing. I didn’t know why they were yelling, but I knew something was wrong when I heard a plate shatter against the floor. I had gotten up from the couch quickly and tiptoed to the door that lead into the kitchen. I pressed my ear against it. Silence. I opened it and, to my advantage, it didn’t creak.
“I am beautiful, no matter what they say. Words can’t bring me down…so don’t you bring me down today.”
He had my mom pressed against the wall with his hands gripping her neck. She looked up at him with pleading eyes. She saw me. She saw me and tears began to slip down her cheeks. I was so confused. I didn’t know what my dad was doing, but I wanted my mom to stop crying.
“Daddy?” I said.
He turned around quickly and his eyes fell to the floor.
“Mommy and Daddy are just having a disagreement, sweetheart. Go to bed.”
I nodded and walked out. But I didn’t go to bed. I kept the door open a crack and kept my innocent eyes glued through it. He slapped her and then pulled her hair so hard she fell to the floor. She shrieked and I felt my eyes widen. But he looked so scary. I didn’t want to go back in there to save her. I felt like a coward, but he looked so scary.
He kicked her and she yelled.
“Mark, stop. Please, stop.” She whimpered.
“I’ll stop if you stop,” he said.
I didn’t know what that meant. But now I do.
I bury my head in my hands as I remember the first time he hit me. We were in the car, driving who knows where.
“Daddy,” I had said hesitantly, not knowing if I should bring it up again. But he didn’t look scary anymore. And I thought he wouldn’t be able to do anything to me in the car, since he was focused on driving.
“Yeah, Shilah?”
“Why’d you pull Mommy’s hair? What did she do?”
He turned his head and his glare burned through me.
“What are you talking about, Sweetheart?”
“In the kitchen last night you pulled Mommy’s hair. Then you…you kicked her. Why’d you do that, Daddy?”
He bit his lip.
“I didn’t do that sweetie. Did you have a nightmare? Are you making things up? Stop making things up, Shilah, it’s not funny.”
“I’m not--,”
“No, you know what? I don’t want to hear your voice anymore, especially if you’re asking me questions like ‘why’d you pull mommy’s hair’. You little rat, that’s none of your business.”
“No matter what we do, no matter what they say, w hen the sun is shining through, then the clouds won't stay.”
“I’m sor--,”
“Don’t apologize to me, God damn it!”
He swung his arm and hit me with the back of his hand. I felt my nose turn numb and tears fall from my eyes.
“Stop crying, Shilah. Stop.”
But I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t help the tears constantly slipping out of my eyes and down my stinging cheeks and nose.
“Don’t tell your mother,” he whispered.
Shivers run up my spine as I realize where my brain had gotten that sentence to put into my dream.
“And everywhere we go the sun won't always shine. But tomorrow will find a way
all the other times.”
I look up at my CD player and smile as Mike enters my mind.
