The Chord to my Heart

2: Tell Me Why

                                                                          2: Tell Me Why

           I woke up to the aroma of blueberry muffins. It must be Saturday. My mother always bakes blueberry muffins on Saturday mornings. I turned to check the time on the clock on my bedside table. I sat up, confused, when I realized the clock wasn’t there.

           I took in my surroundings for the first time, looking around the unfamiliar room. The sheets were a pale blue instead of the purple ones I was used to. The walls were bare, the color of steel. The familiar posters of my favorite bands were gone.

          I racked my brain for any clues of how I ended up here, still in the clothes I wore to school yesterday. And then, as if a ton of bricks came crashing down on my chest, I remembered yesterday. I struggled to breathe. A string of images played in my mind. Finding my mother. Reading her note. Going to the hospital. Seeing my father. Hearing the doctors’ words.

           My lungs refused to work. My mouth went dry as I clenched my fists to stop my hands from shaking. My mother, the only person I loved and trusted, was gone. The crippling pain I felt, with every heartbeat, was unbearable. How was I going to survive this? How was I going to fulfill my mother’s dying wish and be happy again?

          Silent tears were free falling from my eyes and down into my open hands. There was a knock at the door, but my voice was lost. My gaze was stuck on the little puddle of tears in my lap. I felt the bed dip next to me, a small hand on my shoulder.

          “I brought you some breakfast. You like muffins, right?” she asked, her voice soft. I turned my gaze to her, a woman with shiny blond hair and eyes the color of hazelnuts. My father’s wife: the woman he left my mother and me for.

          I flinched, jerking away from her. “I want to go home,” I said, barely above a whisper. There was a sad look in her eyes as she pulled her hand back, but remained sitting on the edge of the bed. Just then, my father walked in, a concerned look on his face. He ran a hand through his messy hair, sitting across from me.

          “Honey, I don’t know if you remember everything. But your mother-“ he began to say.

          “Of course I remember. I was the one who found her,” I said, through clenched teeth. I was the one who was there for her when he left. I was the one who heard her sobbing every night, not him. My vision became blurry as hot, angry tears were swelling up in my eyes and falling over.

          “I’m sorry it ended this way, Lyla. Believe me, if I knew she was this bad, I would have done something,” he said, his eyes pleading.

          “Like what, Dad? Would you have left your perfect little family here to come back and clean up the mess you left behind?” I said, in a voice so cold, so full of hate. It was in that moment that I realized I could survive on my own. I didn’t need him in the past seven years, and I wouldn’t need him now.

          He opened his mouth to speak again but I cut him off. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. What I want is for you to take me home,” I said, getting up and storming out of the room.

                                                                                        ***

          It was the summer I turned ten. I’d hear my mother and father arguing long after they thought I was in bed and asleep. At first, they had an argument here and there. But over the weeks, their arguments got more frequent. I shrugged it off, thinking other kids’ parents probably did the same thing. I never questioned it until it was too late. Until that one Sunday morning when things went too far.

          I woke up to the sound of yelling which was odd. My mother and father almost never fought in the mornings. I pulled my blanket over my head, trying to shut out the sound. Almost ten minutes later, I sighed. They were yelling even louder now.

          I got out of bed, leaving my room and walking down the hall. I reminded myself not to be scared, because this was just another fight. But then, when I stood at the top of the stairs, I saw them. My father gripped his hands on the tops of my mother’s arms as she cried and screamed, telling him to let go. One of his hands did just that. He let go, pulling his arm back as far as he could. The impact of the back of his hand against her cheek bone sounded with a loud crack as she fell to the ground at the bottom of the stairs. My father didn’t look up at me, not knowing I had just witnessed the whole scene.

           Time was frozen, iced over, as my brain told my body to move but I couldn’t even cry out. The muffled sounds of my mother crying was the only sound I heard. And a moment later, my father stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him, the hinges rattling. I forced my legs to move, rushing down the stairs. I saw a trickle of blood run down the side of my mother’s face. I quickly cradled her head in my lap, laying my cheek on her hair. We both sat like that for hours, crying and completely broken.