Gaslight

Chapter Two

Anxiety keeps me awake half the night. I give up on sleeping and sit up in bed, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. My eyes strain against the brightness of the neon blue light. It's not even five, but my heart is still pounding like a drum in my chest, convinced that I've woken up late.

Dad hated lateness. If you were late, it meant you thought your time was more valuable than his, and he'd give you the silent treatment. Out of all of the weapons he had in his arsenal, this was the one I hated most. You never knew how long it would last, so you'd tiptoe around, breath held, waiting for the moment he acknowledged you again—the moment you could finally exhale.

It's strange, most would see silence as a good thing—a prerequisite to peace—but Dad saw it as a weapon. Silence became a punishment, and he was our judge, jury, and executioner.

The photos on the nightstand slowly come into focus. I hadn't brought much in the way of possessions—there was only so much I could fit in two cases—but as I fretted over what to pack, I found myself tearing them from the Goodwright family album.

The first is my favorite, a polaroid of Mom in her senior year. She's leaning against an old red truck, her high school boyfriend on one side and her best friend on the other as they prepare for their precollege road trip.

She's always hated the picture—she claims she wasn't ready—but it's my favorite because it's so candid. She's clutching the camera she'd spent months saving up for—a graduation present to herself—and for once she isn't posing, she's looking up, mouth open, on the brink of an almighty laugh.

My mother had to sacrifice a lot of her teenhood when Grandma got sick with cancer. She says it's like they went from living comfortably to drowning in medical bills overnight. Grandpa had to sell his café to help pay for it all, and Mom and Lilly got part-time jobs while trying to survive high school. Thankfully, Grandma made a full recovery, but their savings didn't until many years later. It's why, when my mother got accepted to Cornell with full financial aid, she said it had felt like a miracle.

Gently, I brush my thumb over her face. There's always this strange sense of sorrow when I hold it, like I'm looking at a ghost. This version of my mother—smiling, happy, warm—was taken by a version of him.

She met my father a year later, at a frat party of all places. She'd been lining up for the bathroom with her friends when she saw this handsome boy in a toga. He noticed her, too, walked over, said something unmemorable. But, according to my mother, that's all it took. Six months later, she got pregnant with me and dropped out of college to move in with Dad. The rest, as they say, is history.

The photo behind it is my least favorite. It's of Mom, Minnie Mouse, and me during a trip to Times Square. I'm standing between them, one hand in Minnie's, one hand in Mom's as I grin at Dad behind the camera. Mom is smiling, too, but it's not her bright, the world is my oyster smile—it's her fake one.

We'd spent the day pretending to be tourists. It was my first ever visit to the touristy heart of New York, so of course I was immediately bewitched. It felt like I'd stepped onto another planet, one where screens lit the sky and people swarmed together like bees, moving and acting as one. I stopped and tilted my head at the buildings, suddenly feeling insignificant.

"Don't stop," Dad said, squeezing my hand, "or you'll be gobbled up by the crowd."

I clutched his hand tighter and quickened my pace. We walked a little farther, and when Spider-Man and Minnie Mouse greeted me, I nearly combusted with excitement. "Can I take a picture with one?"

"Of course you can," Dad said. He gently pulled us through the crowd and over to Minnie. Mom and I got into our positions, and afterward, Dad tipped Minnie and led us down the street toward the Disney Store.