The Boy in the Gray Hoodie

4...

4…

There was nothing but trees beyond the passenger side window. The glass was rolled up and low hanging branches left scratches on its surface as they passed by. I stared at the trees, wishing they would disappear. I wanted to go back to the city. Where there were no trees.

            “I hate trees.” I grunted under my breath.

            My father glanced away from the gravel road to give me that look. The one that always seemed to say: be reasonable, Lisa. It’s not all about you.

            Only this time it was about me. Or at least that’s the impression I got from overhearing my parent’s phone conversation last week.

            “Lisa is having trouble, James. She isn’t…coping.”

Mom’s voice was so tight when she spoke to dad that day, like she was admitting to some sort of personal flaw. Does divorce count as a personal flaw? Or is it more of a joint embarrassment, like a shared wart?

            “I know you’re busy, and I said that I could handle things with her,” she hesitated to say more. Admitting defeat had always been hard for mom. She didn’t like to say when she couldn’t deal with something—something that usually had to do with credit card bills or which tax form to send where. This time it was me that she couldn’t deal with.

            “I was just thinking it might be best if she spent some time with you, away from the house. There are a lot of memories here. It’s painful for her.” Mom was projecting at that point. It wasn’t hard for me to stay in the house. It was hard for her to have me there. Everywhere she looked there was something to remind her of the past sixteen years and of the once happy marriage that they had both tossed away. I was one of those reminders and she couldn’t stand to have me around anymore.

            I could have stayed at the house. Those memories weren’t painful to me, they were aggravating. Passing by my parent’s half-empty room every morning before school and seeing the empty spaces on the wall where their wedding photos used to hang did bother me. But those things made me angry, not sad. It didn’t hurt—not any more than it hurts to fall down in front of strangers at the mall, or bite your cheek when you’re chewing gum. Sure, there was pain. But it was the irritating kind of pain; the kind that grates on your nerves more than anything else.

            “Did you bring your retainer?” dad asked. His eyes were back on the road.

            I loosened my jaw, realizing I had been grinding my teeth—a recent side effect of the divorce. “Yes,” I answered stiffly.

            He nodded briefly and gripped the steering wheel harder. “I’m not going to baby you. This decision was hard for everyone. You can stop pretending you were the only one affected by it.” He lectured. The polished silver Subaru Forester slowed down as the tires passed over a deep rut. I bounced in my seat, maintaining my steady glare out the windshield.

            “It’s not as though Meredith and I didn’t give this ample thought and consideration.” He continued, keeping his nose pointed directly ahead. His eyes wandered in my direction once or twice, but his head didn’t move. “We did think of you.”

            “We didn’t think of me enough.” I retorted.

            He sighed. “No man is an island, Lisa. Meredith and I caused waves. Unfortunately, you have to face them too.”