Passing the Torch

VIII

Being back at the cottage was like living in a cloud of smoke. The things you see and hear are hazy and unclear until the smoke dissipates, and you're forced to acknowledge that, indeed, you are experiencing reality.

That was the case when Dad had explained why it was important that anything that happened at the cottage stayed at the cottage. He had held me against his dirt-caked chest, looked down into my eyes, and brushed the back of his slender fingers across my cheek as if sweeping away a fleck of settled ash.

"It's you and me, kid. In a beam of sunshine or in the eye of a roaring storm, it'll always be you and me," he had said.

I'd nodded against his fingers. "Yes, Daddy."

As unclear as I was about what we had done and why, I knew he was right. No matter what predicament we were forced to face—abandonment, poverty, trials of being responsible for a blossoming daughter, a slaving father, and an elderly grandmother—we always fought through it together.

I listened to the chirps of the desert bats through my window as I swung my legs over the edge of my bed. No matter how much I demanded sleep, my body wouldn't cooperate. I stood, stretched, and made my way to Dad's bedroom, careful to walk around the tacked-down mat at my door.

Dad's room door was closed, which was unusual given he liked to keep an ear out for any unexpected noises while we slept. The trait of a protective father.

With a knuckle, I tapped on the door.

"Come in, honey." His voice wasn't as groggy as I expected from being woken up.

The door creaked like a symphony of a thousand desert frogs as I pushed it open. The dim light on the nightstand illuminated the room, revealing Dad in bed. He lay comfortably staring at the ceiling with the thick comforter bundled up to his chest, and his hands resting on the pillow on his lap.

He smiled when I walked in and patted the bed bedside him. "Sit."

I did so, staring down at my fidgeting fingers. "I can't sleep. I keep thinking about ... about—" I tucked my hands between my thighs to stop them from trembling.

"It's normal to relive something so ... traumatic." He absentmindedly tugged my ponytail. Another lazy attempt to comfort me? "Thoughts of your mother constantly batter my brain no matter what I try. Her leaving still haunts me."

"Me too." I sniffed. "Did she even love me, Dad?"

"She did." His voice was tired but gentle. "That's what makes it hurt much worse. She loved me and I loved her too. I still love—ow!"

I stood. "What's wrong?"

He shifted; anger flashed across his face for a moment, the kind of look you get when you stub your toe, then it was quickly replaced with a forced smile. "Damn teeth. It's nothing."

I sat back down. "You should make a dentist appointment."

"I will." He continued to play with my ponytail. "Don't worry about me. I'm more worried about you."

I pressed my palms to my temples. "I just wish I understood everything."

"Listen," he let out a stunted, reluctant groan and cleared his throat. "The one thing I hate is an unstable variable. Our lives require a constant and the only constant in our lives are you and me. Your mom was unstable, physically, mentally, emotionally, figuratively ... This was why she left us. She wasn't strong enough, she wasn't determined, and she wasn't a fighter. She gave up."

I nodded, not sure I understood completely. "But—"

"Life became too hard for her. Motherhood was too much, loyalty was too tough, and she embraced weakness."

"But—"

His voice raised an octave. "In her marriage vows she promised that in a beam of sunshine or in the eye of a roaring storm, it'll always be me and her. She lied."

I shifted on the bed and finally looked up into his eyes. "She made that promise to you?"

"To you, too." The anger in his eyes was apparent. "When she held you in her arms after twenty-two hours of labor, she looked into your eyes and said, 'It's me and you, kid.' Then five years later she looked into those same beautiful eyes and said, 'It's you and Daddy now' right before she placed you in my arms and walked away."

A warm tear tickled my cheek and I slapped it away, probably leaving a mark. "I hate her." Like a withered weed, an incomplete puzzle, ash leftover from a once warm and inviting fire, I was discarded, ignored and forgotten. Never to be missed. Never to have existed. Nothing more than an inconvenience, a burden, a waste. "I fucking hate her. I hate her!"

Dad closed his eyes and sighed. His chest heaved, rising and falling like the ocean waves in a stormy sea. He stretched and moaned, fisting the pillow on his lap.

I stood and inched away from the bed, not sure what was happening or what I was witnessing. My eye cut to the dresser and the pair of black panty hose hanging from it, and down at the pair of lacy pink panties on the floor.

He arched his back and groaned so deeply his pleasure couldn't be mistaken.

"She broke her promises," he said through heavy breathing. "I wanted to break her neck." He lay motionless and the suddenly apparent hump under the blankets shifted. He slipped his hands under. "I never got the chance so I found other ways to fulfill my need."

He jerked and the abrupt crack lingered in the room for what seemed like forever. My heart thumped so fast and hard my body throbbed from the aftershocks, and the realization of what I had just experienced sent sharp heat to my extremities. Moisture and heat pooled in my groin, and a bolt of reluctant gratification overpowered the stench of urine coming from me.

His head dropped to the side, eyes locked onto mine.

"I hate her too."

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