The Halo Effect

30 | serotonin

"Chandler, can you open the door please?"

Dad's gentle voice came from directly behind my very much locked bedroom door. I sat against the headboard of my bed with my knees pulled up to my chest, refusing to verbally respond. My silence was a pretty definitive answer to his request.

After I'd opened the front door and saw Mom for the first time since August, I did what any mature 16-year-old girl feuding with her lying mother would do: I slammed it shut and locked it. I'd then marched back into the kitchen and casually informed Dad, "You should text your girlfriend that your ex-wife is here."

That one-way conversation transpired approximately thirty minutes ago, and I didn't need to ask Dad if Dr Teá Daley was still coming to the townhouse for brunch. He'd obviously warned her before she unknowingly stepped into a war zone, and automatically become a target for the opposition.

Brunch itself was predictably the first casualty following Mom's invasion. The thought of Dad's vegan French toast still sitting out on the island triggered my stomach to grumble in mourning. In retrospect, I should've snatched up a slice before launching a full-scale retreat into my bedroom. If I made it out unscathed, I'd celebrate by microwaving the French toast and some of the vegan bacon.

"Well, now that the legendary Chandler Whisperer has tried and failed to negotiate, I'm going to go get the spare key."

Mom's designer heels clicked on the hardwood floor as she retreated down the hallway. The sound was foreign yet hauntingly familiar. I wished I could be mad at Dad for letting her inside, but I couldn't. That wasn't rational, and even though I was definitely mad at the way Saturday was unfolding, I couldn't be mad at him.

I wiped my stupid runny nose on the sleeve of my new sweater, an innocent victim, and glanced over at my phone. It sat face-up and unlocked on the duvet beside me, with my messages open to Trip McKenna's contact.

TRIP MCKENNA, 10:30 PM: that's tough, but there's a solid chance you'll see them again in playoffs when you can play the full 50 minutes 💙

I stared at the text for a beat before deciding that addressing the lacrosse game again seemed unimportant. Besides, Trip's message was from last night when I assumed he'd finished his essay and it was, as he'd phrased it in his message, no longer bothering him.

CHANDLER ENGLAND, 9:24 AM: my mother showed up at my house and i'm probably 1 brain cell away being clinically insane

CHANDLER ENGLAND, 9:25 AM: can i call you?

"You don't know where the spare key is anymore," Dad stated, sucking me back into my parents' conversation.

There wasn't a single trace of hostility or snarkiness in his voice, but I knew that was the whole damn point. Outward diplomacy was his MO, with pointed hostility laced far beneath his words. You had to really know him in order to decipher it, and Mom certainly did.

Dad: 1, Mom: 0.

Mom's heels stopped clicking, and the abrupt silence was jarring. I imagined her pausing to absorb the blow before slowly turning back around, hands on her hips and masquerading as entirely unbothered.

"Never lead with your insecurities," she'd ingrained into me as a young girl. That was nearly an insurmountable task these days, but I knew it would always stick with me.

"Then you go get it unless Chandler decides to act her age and unlock the door so she can have a mature conversation with her parents," Mom said, the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. Obviously, she'd directed the latter half of her response at me, but I was still entirely committed to remaining behind my locked bedroom door.