Stop Him

Mom was driving us to our new house. She had to drive or I swore I wouldn’t get into the vehicle. Since making a scene would rile up dad, she didn’t argue with me, just taking the keys as if she’d planned on driving all along. He complained a bit but fell asleep pretty quick in the passenger seat. We’d listened to nothing but his snoring for nearly twenty minutes before mom got the good sense to turn on the radio. Classical music. Definitely not my genre of choice but mom says it's calming. Pressing my face against the glass, I kept fogging the window, watching other people do weird stuff in their cars as they drove. Some pick their nose, some jam out to the music, but one lady in particular stood out from the rest. She was crying as she drove. I watched the pain in her expression, the way she didn’t even bother wiping at her face, eyes overflowing with emotion—when she turned, I faced front, pretending I hadn’t seen anything. It made me think of the word “sonder”. My biology teacher Ms. Roth had brought the term up. Everybody else is living their own life and it’s just as complex as yours. They have their own experiences, ideas, and emotions. Their own set of issues. She’d given this spiel after we lost one of our seniors wound up in a coma because of a recent drunk driver incident. We all need to consider others when making decisions because one bad one can cause harm to somebody else, even if just residually. Glancing over at my mom, eyes focused forward, hands tightened on the wheel and then at my father, passed out in the passenger seat, an opened can of Miller Light tucked in the center console on his side—I thought about the tears of the stranger and wondered what reasons she had to cry about. . . . The house is . . . well, it’s a house, I guess. It was squat and tucked between two other houses similar in build but with different coloring. The blue porch paint was chipping a bit but the entire exterior house was white, the roof black, and the inside looked like it came straight out of the 50’s. All the wallpaper was tacky, carpeting that ugly moss green—I tried not to cringe at the smell of moth balls wafting through the place. It seemed like the center of stagnation which seemed fitting considering my family was moving into it. “It’s not too bad,” mom said, setting down one of the boxes in the doorway. Dad just grunted, moving to bring the rest of the stuff in. It was pretty bad. I rolled my eyes, walking through the place, feeling like it was something out of an “I Love Lucy” sitcom. With my suitcase in hand, I wandered over toward the guest room and was surprised to find a normal room. A bed with yellow sheets with a black bureau and night stand near the bed. It looked . . . normal. The walls were this really light gray, giving it a really clean vibe. Not bad. Actually, I kind of liked it. At least it doesn’t smell like moth balls in here. Taking a seat on the bed, I looked around my new room, frowning, somber—when my eyes landed on something black on the wall by my headboard. It looked like a really swirly cursive “L” that wasn’t attached in the corner. I frowned. What does that mean? Or maybe it was just a doodle? Reaching out, I went to touch the marker strokes—“Gigi!” mom called, making me jump. “Come help!” Oh, right. Annoyed, I forced myself to go help set up the house before dad threw a fit. . . . “Now Gertrude,” Dad started. “Gigi,” I corrected automatically, moving the spaghetti-o’s around in my bowl. We’re on what mom likes to call the “Ramen diet”. Everything is microwaveable and can be ready to serve in fifteen minutes flat. Mom used to cook—she was such a good cook—but that was before. This is now. “Your name is Gertrude,” he reminded me. I could feel him glaring at me but I didn’t bother looking up until after he cleared his throat pointedly. Forcing my eyes to him, I tried to maintain a neutral expression as I took in his bleary eyed state. Drunk. Again. There’s no point in arguing with somebody this intoxicated. He won’t remember my complaints in the morning anyway. “You have school tomorrow. You’ll be alright getting there, right?” “Hun, I can—“ “I need the truck in the morning,” he went on with a sniff, cutting off my mother. She just ducked her head, going back to her own bowl of sodium and carbs. “I have Google maps,” I offered with a shrug, hoping to cut this conversation short. I was accustomed to finding my own way to places. This wasn’t a first for me. “There,” he said, waving his hand in my general direction, “see?” He turned to my mother, raising an eyebrow. “She’s grown; she’ll manage.” Mom glanced over at me before forcing her eyes to dad, offering a small smile and nod, before focusing back on her own food. I thought about the woman crying in her car on the way here, her expression one of pure misery and felt my interest in dinner dwindle. How many times has mom cried alone in a car? The sound of spoons hitting bowls was the only sound to be heard and the more I listened, the more tense it felt. “May I be excused?” I wondered, suddenly wanting to get away from this stifling atmosphere always surrounding my parents. “Yes,” mom said at the same time as dad said, “No.” I glanced between them, taking in mom’s confused expression, and Dad’s tightened jaw. “No, you may not,” he went on, wiping at his face. “Eat your food.” “My stomach hurts,” I lied, glaring down at the table. “Hun, her stomach—“ Dad slammed his hands on the table loudly, jostling it. “We are not wasting food in this house! What, do we look like we’re made of money?!” I kept my head ducked, eyes away from him. He was looking for a fight—he gets like that when he drinks, confrontational, starting up over nothing. Tightening my jaw, I dug my nails into my knees, glaring down at the bowl as I bit back a snarky remark reminding my father of why money is so tight for us in the first place. It’s not mom’s fault, that’s for sure. “Now go on and eat,” he went on, words a tad more slurred, less biting. I glanced nervously at mom who just tipped her chin, gesturing for me to go on and eat. The scrape of spoons on bowls resumed and, gnawing on my cheek, I lifted my spoon. The sooner I could scarf this down, the sooner I could leave. . . . The design was kind of weird. Written in sharpie on a wall which was kind of random. I thought maybe it had a meaning, some relic from olden times. So after minimal deliberation, I Googled it on my phone. It took a little bit of searching but apparently it’s the Celtic symbol for “friendship” which is admittedly way better than what I was originally thinking. New house with an old school vibe to it out next to some dense woods—it could easily have been some demon call sign or something creepy like that. Friendship isn’t creepy at all. A creak on the floorboards across the room caught my attention and I turned to find my mom standing in the doorway, a familiar expression on her face. “Sorry about him, you know how he gets,” she whispered, rolling her eyes as if my father’s antics were just childish, not fueled by a destructive addiction. She always apologizes for him. Shrugging, I offered a small nervous smile, not sure what to say to her. She always chooses to stay. Even now, having to move away from everything we know because of yet another one of dad’s bad habits—her we are, together. One big “happy” family. “Um,” she said, voice soft, shifting her feet. “I should go to sleep. I have a big job search to start tomorrow.” She smiled and I took in the worry lines on her face, the bags under her eyes. All of this stress was taking a toll on her young body. “Goodnight mom,” I muttered. She shifted on her feet, searching, hesitant, before finally giving a small nod, leaving my new room. When she shut the door, I just stared at it, thinking about that long hesitation, feeling my chest tighten. Did she want a hug? Is that what that was? Or was she trying to say something else? Glancing back at the symbol on the wall, I tried to imagine the kind of person who put it there and wondered vacantly if their parents hugged them on a regular basis.