by Amanda Hurt
The cool breeze pushes my hair back and I feel like I’m flying. My feet dangle in the air. “Higher, Dad!” I shout. I hear his deep chuckle as I close my eyes. I can feel the warmth. I’m getting closer to the sun. I’m almost there. I’m flying away.
Dad holds my hand tightly as we walk home from the park.
“You can’t leave, okay?” His voice is weird.
“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I wanted to touch the sun.” He’s not mad; he’s smiling. “What are we doing next?” It’s midday, and the sun is shining.
“We're getting ready for tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Wednesday.”
“What happens on Wednesday?”
“I go to school, and you go to work.” He grins as I giggle.
“You mixed it up, Dad!” I jump across a rain puddle.
“I guess you’re right,” he laughs. Dad grabs the mail then keeps walking toward the front door. “It hasn’t rained in weeks,” he sighs. “The grass is going to die.” His voice falters at the last word and he squints at me.
“Everything okay?” I ask. He nods and enters the house.
“It’s pretty late in the evening,” Dad states. I settle in on the living room couch. Dad gets two glasses of chocolate milk and oreo cookies. “My favorite,” I cheer. I’m quiet for a moment. “I miss mommy.” Dad stops moving and stares at me.
“I know.” His voice cracks so he tries again. “I know. I miss her too. But I’ll find her. She’ll come home. In fact, that’s what I’m going to do this weekend.”
“You’ll bring her home?”
“I’ll bring her home tomorrow.”
I smile contentedly. He yawns. “I think it’s time to go to sleep.” He grabs the oreos and the one glass he got out of the cupboard and puts them away.
“I’m so tired,” he says once he’s returned to me. “But there’s no sleeping allowed.” I shake my drowsy head from dozing off. It's cold so Dad cuddles me close to him. He turns on the TV and the bright light illuminates the darkness. “This will keep us awake.”
It’s a show about a mom, a dad and their kids. The parents are happy, and the kids are happy. The dad loves his children, and he keeps telling the girl what a good big sister she is. The mom is having issues, though. She’s sad all the time and she’s overwhelmed. She loves her family, but she’s in pain. The dad tries to fix her but it doesn’t seem to be working. The show takes a sinister turn. I want to change the channel. Something’s hurting me. I’m becoming a little less me. I have to tell Dad my secret.
I don’t want to tell him, but I love him. I look over and find Dad staring at the screen mesmerized. I tug on his sleeve. “Dad,” I whisper. He doesn’t respond. “Dad!” His eyes finally meet mine, and I see small puddles of tears beginning to form. I breath a shaky breath and open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Tears rush down my face. I can’t stop them. My stomach turns and my chest burns with a stabbing pain. I don’t want to hurt him. “Dad.” My voice wobbles. It sounds like a plea. I’m choking on my words. I can’t get it out; I’ll never be able to tell him.
“I’m not real.”
His welling tears begin to spill out. I put one hand on his cheek, and he holds my hand in his.
“No.” He shakes his head violently as he begins to weep. “No,” he repeats. “You came home. You came home after the car accident. Your mother didn’t wreck the car on purpose.”
“What about my baby brothers?” I cry.
“You don’t have brothers.”
“Don’t you remember holding them before they put the black sheets over their cold bodies?" “No.” His body shakes and he rocks back and forth.
“Don’t you remember mom saying she didn’t feel okay? Don’t you remember leaving for work anyway and saying goodbye to us? Don’t you remember seeing what she did to herself, what she did to us?”
“No!”
“Don’t you remember unplugging me from the machines and taking me off of life support?” By now he’s dropped my hand and he’s slamming his fists against his head. “You don’t remember holding my hand and kissing me goodbye?”
“You’re my baby,” he moans. "My little girl.” He clings to me. "I see you. You're here. Stay. Please stay."
"If you saw her I could have stayed." The TV shows my mom's pained eyes silently pleading for a savior. With wet cheeks, I give him a kiss on the forehead. “I love you,” I murmur. The TV cuts to static and my Dad is left holding air.
This writing is part of a collection featured in the 2020 Celebrate the Arts Writing Contest, an annual contest hosted by The Arts Council of Westerville, Westerville Public Library and the ThisWeek Westerville News & Public Opinion as one of many events organized by the Arts Council to mark April as “Celebrate the Arts” month in Westerville.
