^ There's the contest, in case you're interested. It's a fun one.
Hope you enjoy the story. Feel free to be harsh in your review
XxxDo
----------------------------------
My stress does not contribute to the well-being of my house, I can tell you that in all seriousness. I am capable of single-handedly knocking quite some economic value off the property. Not due to my place being a mess for a lack of cleaning time, but rather because I have two left feet as it is. Stress makes it feel as though I have three.
As adrenaline joyrides through my veins, wreaking havoc on any and all attempts I make at calming myself, I snatch my keys off the marble surface of the hallway cabinet. I rush towards the front door, yanking it open with such vigor that it slips from my grasp and crashes into the adjacent wall. The rebound hits me, and I curse with heartfelt frustration as I turn and reach blindly for the doorknob. Purse in hand, I hobble onto the creaking floorboards of my front porch. The flanking window vibrates with a dull hum when I slam the door into its frame, my blood almost boiling.
Fumbling with my keys, I miss a splendid five times before finding the lock, then draw in a deep breath to squelch the raw, bitter panic that lingers at the back of my throat. I know, rationally, that Alicia is fine; but when it comes to my daughter’s safety I do not accept anyone's word as the truth. Not until I see her with my own eyes. Parents don't necessarily base all their judgment on reason. We're not above human flaws.
I take a single step backwards, my foot striking something I cannot readily identify. As my leg slides out from underneath me, I flail, finding myself momentarily spinning in mid-air.
As everyone knows; what goes up, must come down.
In this case, down onto the solid pavement of my garden path. With a grunt I hit the ground, my arms extended to receive the brunt of the impact. Even so, my face isn’t free from harm, and I feel the scrape welling with blood almost instantly.
God. Damn. It.
I grind my teeth, lying otherwise motionless on my stomach, dazed by the shock and pain that lace their way through my system. My heart throws itself against my strong cage of ribs, frenzied, in a futile attempt at escape. To be frank, I don't blame it. I'm certain I must have the heart of a rhinoceros by now, with all the strain I've put it through lately. Escape appears to be its best option - as opposed to staying with me and being pushed to a premature heart-attack in the not-too-distant future.
The rapid rhythm is perceptible deep inside my aching head, and I close my eyes as I twist onto my back with a slightly exaggerated sigh. Green rectangles of paper drift slowly to the ground, as elegant as the lightest of snowflakes on a midwinter day. Narrowing my eyes against the midday sunlight, I watch them fall, confusion taking root in my mind. Why the hell is there money raining down on me?
I sit up ever so slowly, my limbs heavy as lead, then examine the scrapes that line my forearms. Not a second later the burning sensation kicks in, and I set my jaw as my eyes tear up. Why is it that things begin to ache the moment you see them?
Drifting leisurely in circles, Benjamin Franklin’s portrait watches me with his pouty expression - oddly reminding me of a child who has been denied a fiftieth piggyback ride because their father's joints are acting up. The thought provokes a fleeting smile.
The bill spins the final coil of its rail-free rollercoaster ride, settling on my thigh. I stare at it for a moment, then lift my gaze to what once was a neat stack of money. It has since been transformed to a downright pandemonium of bills, which lie scattered across the rough floorboards of the porch.
The coin drops, so to speak, and my stomach wrenches while I connect all of the dots, linking the money to the events that are ruining my morning. This revelation triggers my second Goddamn of the day. As reality sinks in I realize that I should probably shovel all of the cash into my foyer before I take off. Despite this knowledge, I cannot find the strength to move. The thought of my daughter eggs me on, and I straighten up, brushing the grime off my clothes, the late Benjamin Franklin crumpled to a pulp in the palm of my tightly clenched hand.
Closing my eyes I wait for my inner hurricane to lose its verve.
Jesus Christ, Daniel. Why?
* * *
Weaving through the noontime traffic, my heart racing faster than the tires of my BMW, I grip the steering wheel so firmly that my knuckles grow devoid of colour. How many times, Daniel? How many times do we have to go through this before you stop?
On any other day, when laws are abided by and speed limits are respected, it takes me ten minutes to reach Alicia’s preschool from our driveway. Today, I manage to clock it in five. When I round the corner into the parking lot, tires squealing, my mouth has gone dry with exasperation. Reckless driving is hardly as easy as the countless Hollywood car chases in movies seem to suggest. With not a hair out of place, the hero cruises through New York during the worst of rush hour, three armed men in a black pickup truck chasing him as they fire their AK-47's. Three car crashes later he remains unscathed - and with no bead of sweat, crumpled garment, or displaced strand of hair.
In other words, dream on. Driving really isn't that easy.
I maneuver into a parking space, my method nowhere near within the realm of acceptable parking, I notice Mrs. Webb standing at the entrance of the single-storey, red-brick building. It dawns on me, as I slide out of the drivers seat, that her hair is almost indiscernible against the background of wall. The dark copper shade resembles the bricks so closely that I cannot help but question whether it qualifies as a plausible coincidence. Who knows where people find the inspiration to dye their hair?
I slam the car door, pressing my thumb against the electronic lock button on my keychain as I pace towards her. Approaching, I can see that the lines around her unusually stern grey eyes have deepened with concern, etched into her skin like canyons. Her mouth is set in a straight line, her lips tightly pressed together; a straight channel drawn across the unruly network of ravines.
I shake my head, clearing it from the countless useless comparisons that I collect whilst I go about my daily business. All kidding aside - I fully understand the apprehension that radiates off her, for she is the adult in charge of Alicia’s welfare during my daughters half-day stays at the preschool. This responsibility should not be as strenuous a burden as it has become over the past seven months. Ever since Daniel found himself going for the bottom of several bottles at a time, alcohol clawing its way into our lives at an unnerving pace, she has had an increasingly complex task to cope with.
Really, it all happened too fast for any of us to grasp it, until it was already beyond our control. It’s been almost a year – three months of which were spent with us living like a somewhat normal family. Those three months of tending to him as though he was a child were nerve-wrecking, and out of self-preservation I drew the line, walked his drunk ass to the car and brought him to a rehab centre.
Sensing some pent-up frustration? You're very much correct.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t impossible to walk out of there – and so he did, a week into his treatment. Since that day, when I received that dreadful "M'am, I'm afraid your husband has left the premises, along with another member of our AA rehab group," phone call, it has all been going in a downward spiral. That was when the kidnapping threats started.
I acknowledge that keeping him away from his own daughter may have been a mistake on my part; but the initial fault lies with him.
My bewildered state doesn’t do much to enhance the teacher's sense of comfort, for the abrasions on my arms standing out sharply against my pale skin, the untreated scrape that lines my jaw equally as visible. To her, they probably appear to be the result of domestic violence, for the leap from a father who drinks himself halfway to a coma and then attempts to kidnap his own child, to a husband who knocks his spouse around when he gets down some isn’t unimaginable.
On this account, almost everyone is mistaken; they judge the situation too eagerly. Daniel is many things – a liar, a thief, an alcoholic, and a desperately lost man – but he isn’t, and will never be, a man who beats his wife or child.
“Mrs. Thomas…” Webb reaches out, resting her hand on my shoulder in a gesture that is filled to the brim with compassion. I glance at her, then brush past. Pushing open the glass doors that lead into the lightwood foyer of the preschool, I walk in with as much dignity in my composure as I can muster. She gently presses her thick-rimmed glasses higher up on her nose, then follows in my wake without a word. Tightening my grip on my handbag, I grant her a smile as kind and calm as I can manage.
“Where is Alicia?”
The tension seems to dissapate slowly from her features, smoothening them out, allowing her to once again look her own age - as opposed to some seven years her own senior. Smiling back, her eyes lose their austerity. “In the playroom.”
I don’t linger to thank her, or even so much as grant her a nod of appreciation, for a single thought courses through my mind. All I want is to see my daughter, so I can be certain that she’s safe.
Daniel would never intentionally hurt her, but it's a commonly known fact that alcohol has the nasty tendency to lower one’s opinions as to what is acceptable behaviour. Driving under the influence may suddenly appear to be a dandy idea, for one. On the contrary, it can be deadly.
I stride into the naturally lit room - the walls lined by tall windows - where Alicia and her peers spend most of their leisure hours. Half a dozen pairs of curious eyes whisk my way, lingering for a mere moment before their attention is claimed by a more fascinating feat. Parents aren't an unordinary sight around here. One pair remains; bright blue crystals shining with joy. Her face splits into a wide smile, her rosy cheeks glowing with bliss.
“Mommy!” she calls, raising her arms in the air. I cross the room in three steps, kneeling beside my daughter as I carefully avoid striking any of the multicoloured Dinky Toy cars that she has surrounded herself with. They are strewn about the carpet in various intensities of car crashes and street races, several overturned - others halfway there.
I lean forward, and she wraps her chubby arms around my neck; her cheek hot against my own as I hold her tight. This is the third time that she almost slips from my web of protection, and just as I did on the previous two occasions, I pull my daughter close enough to feel her heartbeat and breathe in her familiar scent. Experiencing a rather rare sense of devotion, I thank God for keeping her safe.
Mrs. Webb comes up beside us, and I rise to my feet – knees cracking – as I lift Alicia onto my hip. She clings to me the way a newborn monkey attaches itself to its mother's fur, toy cars having lost her interest entirely.
“Where’s Daniel?” I ask, my weary gaze meeting Webbs. Behind her, the young intern watches with open curiosity, then quickly busies herself with the other children. My words provoke a slightly late, and astoundingly delighted, squeal from my daughter, who bounds up and down with enthusiasm at the mention of her father's name.
“Daddy!” she calls, pulling at my shirt to get my attention.
I smile at her lightly. “Yes, Baby, Mommy is looking for Daddy.” She envelops me in such a tight hug that I am left temporarily breathless. There’s nothing more beautiful than making your child happy, if you ask me; which is one of the various reasons that fuel my reluctance towards giving up on Daniel.
She loves him, and not seeing him again would be devastating to her. Resting her small head against my shoulder her arms untwine from their place around my neck, her hands moving to her face to wipe away loose strands of hair. Coiling her light blond hair around her fingers with one hand, the thumb of the other finds her mouth, and then she is still, watching us adults go about our business calmly.
She’s four, and her childlike habits are at their full flourish – especially when she’s tired, or senses that a situation is somehow tense and troubling to the people involved. She’s got a well-developed sense of empathy. I furrow my brow at the preschool teacher, wordlessly demanding an answer to my near-forgotten query.
“He left. To be quite frank… we were far more concerned about Alicia’s wellbeing than the whereabouts of your-”
“Did you speak to him?” I ask, gently rocking Alicia as she looks up at me with wide, uncomprehending eyes. She’s clearly picked up on the negative tone with which we discuss the man she lovingly refers to as Daddy. Confusion plays across her brows, and when her lower lip begins to tremble the slightest bit I set her down beside the toy cars. Tucking her hair behind her ears, I kiss her on the forehead.
“Mommy will be right back, okay? Play with your cars for a bit.”
Alicia doesn’t reply, but stares down at the scattered toys, reaching out for the bright yellow Hot Wheels truck that sits to her right. Satisfied that she’ll be fine for the time being, I pace out of the room, Webb on my heels. I’d rather leave her alone to play, slightly confused, than keep her with me to let her overhear all sorts of discussions about the man I so desperately want her to sustain a good connection with. Yes, he became a terrible husband, and his alcoholism has transformed him into a person who is incapable of caring for himself – let alone a child. But despite his problems he isn’t a bad person.
He’s lost, not evil.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I let the door close slowly behind us, and she doles out a curt nod. Gesturing towards the glass double doors, she starts. “He walked in as though he belonged here, and addressed me, asking to see Alicia. The scent of alcohol was unmistakable, Mrs. Thomas, he was clearly-” she pauses. “It was evident that he’d been drinking. Plenty.”
The fact that she rephrased her sentence in an attempt to make the words less confronting and harsh makes the information almost more difficult to swallow. Daniel has clearly not been able to abide by the ‘clean and sober’ clause that I set for him several months ago. Back when I had a grain of hope that he might just pull through by himself.
“I requested that he leave,” Webb adds, her gaze consciously avoiding me. “Naturally, he didn’t; not until I threatened to call the police.”
I regard her with an expression that is intended to egg her on, but seems to be having the opposite effect. She falls silent, and I sigh. A thought crosses my mind, and I straigten up slightly - tense.
“Did you see if he was driving?”
She shakes her head; my relief palpable as she speaks. “He walked out and crossed the parking lot; it didn’t look as though he was planning to drive.”
Thank God.
The sound of a wailing child dawns on us, and we turn in unison – Webb out of obligation, myself out of motherly instinct. I can recognize Alicia’s crying from miles away.
My mind jumps to premature conclusions when the scream of a young woman echoes through the hall, and I throw open the door. Immediatly, I stop in my tracks, meeting Daniel's eyes. Alicia lies in his arms, sobbing, stretching her arms in my direction as her face goes red with displeasure.
She's just a child, but she can tell that her Daddy isn't himself right now. Even a four-year old can notice his unusually shaky stance, and pick up on his slurring words - especially because he's carrying her with less confidence than he normally does. I wonder if she's afraid that he might drop her. I know I am.
The intern stands several meters to the right, hands clasped over her mouth in shock. I wonder if she has any idea what she's getting herself into; working in the place that supervises my child. We should hang a warning notice on the front door of the preschool.
He wobbles, his knees weak, and smiles a lopsided, watery smile aimed solely for me. “Heya, Babe,” he grins, lifting our screeching daughter slightly higher into the air without any sign of reckognition for her sobs. “I got my daughter.”
He doesn't mean to do this. He can't possibly have intended to hurt me or Alicia.
“Put her down, Daniel. Now.” My tone is severe as I take a step towards them. “You don’t want to hurt her, do you? Put her down. Please.”
Webb pushes past me, her expression somewhere between disdain and fright as she makes her way to the child nearest to Daniel. It’s a little boy whose eyes are almost as blue as Alicia’s, his hair equally as blond – if I wouldn’t have known better, I could have easily assumed that they were twins. In fact, the pair of them would look far from bad on the front one of those idyllic Hallmark postcards.
Sometimes I wish my brain would stop comparing everything in sight. I've often considered whether I'm somewhat A.D.D. I shake my head to clear it.
Webb coerces him to his feet, holding his hand as his lower lip trembles with confusion, a toy car clutched tightly in his miniature fist. She walks him over to the next child, gesturing at the intern to round up the children on the opposite side of the room. Not for a second does she stop to catch her breath amidst the cascade of soothing words that flows from her mouth.
A minute later, they leave the room, the kids chatting and shoving each other in the flailing manner only children can achieve. Webb raises a single eyebrow at me, in question. I shake my head; I know damn well what she’s asking. I do not need her to call the police on him, no matter how much she may want to.
It won’t help any of us along if Alicia watches her father get arrested, nor will it do Daniel much good to sit in a prison cell going through withdrawal that has the ability to make him sick as a dog. The withdrawal can be more adequately, and humanely, dealt with in a rehab centre, I'm sure. I'd hate to see him suffer more than is absolutely necessary for overcoming his problem.
“Daniel,” I address him like a youngster who is being reprimanded, for I assume that may have more effect on him than any stern, no-nonsense approach could possibly have. He regards me with red-rimmed, shifty eyes as Alicia falls silent to draw air into her lungs. The image is heartbreaking.
“Daniel, put her down,” I say, my tone friendly and coercing. He wavers visibly, then begins to lower her to the ground. I hold my breath, praying he won’t let her fall. Every possible scenario of disaster passes through my mind's eye in an instant. He wouldn't ever do it intentionally, but I know that accidents can happen in an instant. "Please."
When she touches down to the ground she transforms into a burst of motion, scrambling to her feet and running straight for the safety of my presence. Wrapping her arms around my thigh, her little body pressed against my legs, she draws in a quivering breath and watches her father. I wonder what goes on inside that mind of hers; I bet it's more complex than any of us would assume. I bet she's picking up far more about the situation than I'd like her to.
“Al…” Daniel starts, trying to kneel to come eye-to-eye with our daughter. He sways, then falls sideways with slow, floundering movements, his expression one of pure surprise. If it had been anyone else, I would have laughed. Up close and personal, though, it isn't all that funny. Lo and behold; the reason why the drunk shouldn’t handle children. Their coordination is shot straight to hell by the liquor that runs through their system, leaving them with less cognitive and physical equilibrium than the child they are supposed to be caring for.
“What are you doing, Daniel?” I ask him matter-of-factly, reaching down to place a protective hand on my daughters back. Her breathing is rapid, like that of a cornered animal, and I rub my hand in soothing circles to calm her.
“I was just…” he tries to sit up, his words slurring. “Coming to see Licia?”
“You’re piss drunk. If you were sober I wouldn’t have a problem with you seeing her. If you sorted yourself out months ago you could have been living at home with us right now, seeing her daily. You know I love you, but I can’t let you hurt Alicia. That’s what you’re doing, Daniel; you’re hurting your own daughter.”
“No…” he lets out a wheezing sound, like the rugged breathing of a wounded animal, wiping his sweaty face with his sleeve.
“She loves me… I love her, Babe, I love you, please… I’m not a bad Daddy...” Despair seeps through his words, his eyes wide with an almost juvenile incomprehension. “I left the cashmoney, Babe… I’m not a bad husband, I left you the money!”
“You thought you could make a trade? Our daughter for a stack of bills?” My voice breaks as disbelief bubbles to the surface. “She’s the most important thing I have, Daniel, and you know that. You knew that. You’d realize if you stopped killing yourself with that booze of yours, damn it!”
Alicia lets out a sound that I recognize as the beginning of another sob, and I stroke her head, my gaze trained on Daniel – who still lies on the floor, curled up in a near fetal-position. One day, many years ago, I met his eyes across a crowded bar. However cliché it may be, it felt so right back then; we both sensed the spark. Now I look at the shadow of a man that is on the ground before me. His clothes are too large for his thinned-out body, a three-day old beard lining his jaw, his hair past its due date for a good wash by at least a week. I look, and find myself wondering how everything could possibly have gone this wrong.
Damn near choked by my emotions, I manage a tearful: “How the fuck far gone are you, Daniel?”
He doesn’t say a word, though his mouth is slightly open. My words are a bullet to the heart. He manages to push himself off the ground, sitting on his knees, hunching over. Minutes pass, the silence merely dissected by the rapid breathing of a family torn to shreds.
Pulling himself up to his feet, he leans heavily against the Winnie the Pooh decorated bookshelf that I would never have envisioned anywhere near a drunk, scruffy, twenty-nine-year old man such as himself. He is as out of place as he could ever be.
“I didn’t mean to…” he tells me, his voice filled with remorse, his eyes pleading with me.
“How did you get here?”
“Paulie… he dropped me off?” it came out sounding like a question more than a statement, and I cannot help but wonder whether he is actually clear on the details as to what he’s been up to today.
“Paulie, huh? And who was it that left the money?”
“Me… It was my cash… money. Yea, it was mine, but Paulie left it.” he rubs the bridge of his nose, appearing rather confused with his own memory. I don't blame him; anyone would be confused after the amounts of alcohol I assume he's had today. The simple motion is familiar, and jolts my memory gently. The first time I saw him use this specific nervous tick was when he asked me to prom in our Senior year, the bridge of his nose red from rubbing.
“Right.” I lift Alicia onto my hip, holding her tight. She pats my shoulder, and I rest my gaze on her tear-streaked face. She continues to pat, then fidgets with the neckline of my shirt. I can see the question in her eyes, and wait for her to speak.
“What’s wrong with Daddy?”
“Daddy will be okay, baby. Daddy just isn’t feeling so well,” I promise, my heart aching. I shouldn't have to lie to my daughter, it's not right. It's disturbing that my lying to her is in her own best interests.
“Sarah… please, please take me home,” he begs, his breathing strained with the effort it’s costing him to stay on his feet. Deep inside of me, beneath all the anger, hurt, and disappointment, there is a part of me that loves him dearly. I have seen the man he can be; the humourous and good-times father, the considerate and caring husband… I cannot abandon all hope and give up on him. Not yet.
I have faith that one day he’ll become that man again, and that with enough effort his troubles can turn into an issue of the past. It has to be possible.
“Where are you staying right now?” I can't show him that my mind is wavering, questioning my past decisions, until I am certain that I'm ready to reconsider them.
He shrugs, swaying, his eyes unmistakably wet. I feel my body go cold. “You do have a place to stay, right? Paulie’s, maybe?”
Shaking his head, he gestures vaguely with his arm. It dawns on me that Alicia is patiently tugging at my shirt, and glance down. She tilts her head to look up at me. “Mommy, can I go play?”
Her innocent remark slices through the tension, tearing down the drapes of frustration that had come up between Daniel and I. Lowering her to the parquet, I smile. “Go play, Baby, but stay near Mommy, okay?”
She nods, wandering only slightly to my right, appearing hesitant to allow a distance to fall. I wave her on, and she takes the last few steps towards the toy-filled crate that caught her eye. When I look up I find that Daniel's expression has crossed the line between confusion and hurt, as he realizes what the words I spoke to our daughter implied.
“I won’t do it again,” he says, his speech still slurring. When he repeats his words, though, I cannot say I'm sure whether he's trying to convince me, or himself. Silence falls, though it is not necessarily the dense, tongue-tied quiet that smothers you. It’s oddly comfortable.
I watch Daniel as he, in turn, watches our daughter dig through the contents of the crate, his grimy face serene, his body language open and calm.
My husband, living on the streets. The thought, even after seven months, is surreal. Did he not eat to save up the money that he left on my doorstep? How long has he been homeless to fund this kidnapping attempt?
How many hours, in the past week, has he actually been sober?
It dawns on me that kicked him out with nothing more than the clothing on his back.... and his wallet. I frown lightly. He had all his cards right there with him, the security codes stored in his memory. Did he take the money from our joined bank account? Or fromhis personal funds, maybe?
Judging by his tone I assume the latter is true. He wouldn’t imagine stealing such an amount from our financial plan – especially not with the intention to pass it off as his own. He’s not that kind of man. He's also largely incapable of holding any kind of job under his current condition.
“Daniel.” I say. He faces me, pained, his hands, the nails black-rimmed, clawing at his stained shirt nervously. I don’t know what to say to him, my mind filled to the brim with far too many options. Really, there is only one that works for all of us. I know his reasons for his current state, and I don't blame him. I blame myself, partly, for letting it get this far. For not noticing. For not being there enough.
“Let’s go home,” I tell him, hardly believing my own words. His breath catches, and he doesn’t move a muscle. Alicia drops her Dinky Toy into the crate. “Going home?” She asks, looking at the two of us with youthful optimism.
“Yes, Baby, we’re going home. All of us.” I say, as a smile breaks through on Daniels face. Shimmering through the sluggish influence of the alcohol is the man that I love.
“I love you.” He tells me, taking a steady step forwards - in more ways than one.
His arms come around me, strong and comforting, and I bury my head where his shoulder meets his neck, my chin resting on his collar bone. It's an embrace I've been craving for months.
I love you.” He whispers again, his breath warm against my skin. “I never meant to lay our love on the line, Sarah. I promise, We’ll move past all this.”
Through the smell of sweat, liquor and grime, the familiar scent of his skin is perceptible. Closing my eyes, I feel warm tears trace a path down my cheeks, and hope that this time he truly is sincere, and that his words are not merely a figment of a drunken mind.
So you CAN say that in English?! You just made my day.
Gender:
Points: 1090
Reviews: 145