Photo by Ameen Fahmy on Unsplash
I would seldom accompany my mother on her errands—like going to the dry cleaner or grocery store, I mean. This became even less frequent after entering middle school and falling in love with Star Trek. However, all that changed by the time I got my driving permit years later, in the summer following my sophomore year.
That Friday morning, as she starts her classic two-door sedan, I realize that I’m due for a new pair of casual shoes. I flump into the passenger seat, grim-faced, sweat dripping down my temples. She can drop me off at the shoe shop on our way back from the grocery store.
I love watching her drive now. I love it when she finds herself in a rush to get cash from the ATM—how she zigzags through traffic, her foot darting back and forth from the gas to the brake pedals. She handles herself well, without risking anyone’s safety. And dare I say, unlike her, my father liked to curse at other drivers honking at him or changing lanes without signaling. At least, that’s how I remember it being when he used to live with us, before leaving my mother with what looks like the letter s on the upper right side of her neck. From my angle, the ugly scar can be mistaken for a poorly drawn number 5, like the work of a mediocre tattoo artist.
The fine-ass seats of the buff-colored BMW are still soft as velvet after so many decades, but they do little to lessen my discomfort. I have no particular reason to be in such a sullen mood except that I am. Still, I can’t help but wonder: Is it because of the constant heat originating from the Treasure Coast? I’d be in denial if I said that I haven’t gotten used to it since we’ve moved down here to Palm Beach from New Jersey almost a decade ago. Or maybe, my pout is because I haven’t been practicing my driving enough. At sixteen years of age, I should be a pro by now. Maybe, I just miss a nice home-cooked meal since my mother has been busy at work. Who knows? One thing’s for sure, I know it has nothing to do with the way my father turned his back on my mother and me half a decade ago. I don’t understand how my mother found the courage to do what she did—forgive him—after he struck her so many times. Finally, the coward fell in love with another woman and took off. This issue is way behind us, or so we’ve told ourselves again and again.
First, my mother jokes about how I could take the wheel if I wanted to. How she knows already I’ve been messing around with Skinny Shaun’s muscle car now and then around the neighborhood is anyone’s guess. Then, nudging her seatbelt further away from her slender neck, she expresses a heartfelt remorse, not being able to make enough time for the both of us to facilitate these driving lessons she has long promised me.
Halfway to the supermarket, my mother wants to know if I’m in the mood for some R&B music because I still haven’t said a word. The next thing I know, she offers me her right hand. I take it, but I’m still unsure why she did it. Maybe it’s all part of her plan to force a big smile onto my face. She takes my silence as a no. “A cigarette, then?” she asks. “Beer? How about a beer?”
I scoff at her.
“Oh, so you’re actually telling me you haven’t been drinking, then? Okay. That’s good to know.” She laughs at her own silly questions, drumming her thumbs against the wheel in an anxious rhythm. “Just trying to cheer you up, young man.” She smacks her lips together. She knows I won’t ignore her for long. What can I say? She has her ways.
“Okay. Whatever you say, Debbie,” I say with a half-smile on my face. She laughs again when I call her Debbie. How happy she is to see that side of me emerge out of the blue! Debbie is the nickname I gave her when I was ten. My father was gone by then. I’m the only one who calls her Debbie. I keep doing so because she smiles every time. In moments like these, I can’t help but wonder how much we’ll miss each other once I’m off to college in two years’ time. I feel better the moment she hints at what we will have for dinner. My favorite casserole—enchiladas filled with cheese, black beans, tomatoes, and sorts with broccoli, with shrimp alfredo on the side.
Splendid! I feel like myself again until she says, “Missed your dad yet?”
Hell no!
For a moment, my hands clench into iron fists. I feel a sharp shooting pain across my chest before finding my voice again.
“Is there something I should know?” I ask her when she stops at the next traffic light, knowing there must be a reason for her to be talking and thinking about him now. I squint at her while she undoes her collar; she has probably forgotten that I am waiting for her answer, something that I believe I deserve. I watch her drop her gaze to the dashboard. She keeps her eyes there until I say, “The light is green.” Whatever happened to our little secret—that we were better off without the stupid bastard? She then glances at me in a way that I’ve grown accustomed to, like she’s going to make a big decision about our lives, one that I would disapprove of. “How bad is it?” I ask.
Not one bit surprised by the bitterness in my voice, she says, “Your father is coming back home in a few weeks, honey.”
***
About two hours later, I wake up at St. Mary’s Medical Center after a massive dose of anesthesia. I find my right arm wrapped in a rigid white splint. It feels numb. First, I try to wiggle my toes and move my legs a bit. (Yay! They seem to work so far!) The absence of various tubes connecting to my arms gives me hope that I won’t be here for long. I have a feeling my ankles and knees bear no significant damage, maybe just a few bruises. But I may be wrong. I turn my head to the left. I don’t see a soul. On my right, the cream window blinds remain closed, but that doesn’t prevent the intense rays of the sun from penetrating the room. The last thing I remember was lying to my mother about how much I supported her grand decision. That I’ve dreamed about their big reunion, she and her husband welcoming each other with open arms like he’s some astronaut returning home from a long trip to the International Space Station.
Soon, my mother hurries into the room, her crocodile purse in one hand, the other extending to caress my “poor” face. “Oh, honey. Thank God. You’re awake.” She then responds to my puzzled gaze, saying that I suffered a fracture after panicking and jumping out of the car when she was going about thirty miles an hour.
“What happens after the anesthesia wears off?” I ask her because I still don’t feel any pain.
“Well, I suppose you’ll experience some . . . minor pain. But you’re gonna be okay. I just spoke to the doctor.”
What? Yeah, whatever. My condition and the sadness that takes hold of me makes her face twist. Far away from the side of the bed, she curls up in a cushioned chair—a deliberate act to avoid any unnecessary eye contact with me.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” she says. “God, what was I thinking? I . . . your father’s not dropping by to see you or anything like that because I didn’t call him.”
I don’t utter a word.
“You do believe me, right? I didn’t call him. At least haven’t done so yet.”
My silence hangs in the air like the horrible smell of rotten meat while my mouth goes dry.
She gasps. “Would you say something, David? Please?”
Her eyes travel past me, past the blinds, and then halt on the black TV screen hanging on the wall. “Do you want me to wait outside?”
***
I wanted to get out of the hospital more than anything. However, once back at home, it takes me only minutes to realize how deficient I’ve become because of my injured arm. The stupid thing leaves me feeling like an old cripple—unable to act purely on instinct. My clumsiness grows from day to day—I struggle with even closing my zipper and brushing my teeth. The pain in my arm returns now and then, a constant reminder of my very own vulnerability.
A pounding on the front door jolts me off the bed. It’s nice to know I still have some friends in this world!
It takes Skinny Shaun more than two days to visit me. Nonetheless, when he drops by, I am happy because he is with his new girlfriend, Sonya. Their presence helps me focus my disoriented mind, which has so far been rambling from one thought to another—the shoes I was supposed to buy, other places I wanted to go to, and so on. Sonya and I will soon be juniors, unlike Skinny Shaun, who is already a year ahead of us. We are the same height, and she has short black hair like Halle Berry. It surprises me to see how gorgeous she is up close. It’s as if I never noticed her all those times when I walked past her in the school hallways.
***
Later in the afternoon, we drive to the beach with the rest of the snacks we had for lunch. Only Skinny Shaun wears sunglasses, concealing his almond-shaped eyes. Sonya has left hers at home, while mine were missing a frame. As we cruise down east, Tupac’s “Brenda’s Got a Baby” fills the car. It has never sounded or felt so good, even after seventeen years. Even Sonya, who I believe is more into pop, feels compelled to spit a few rhymes. When we get there, we find many of our peers from school playing and making out in the soft breeze in the section of sand reserved for only kids like us. It sucks that I can’t join them. Before my exasperation can get the best of me—making me punch the living hell out of the splint, I don’t know—Sonya approaches me, while Skinny Shaun joins a party of five with his surfboard and sails away. Sonya laughs her ass off as my weak attempt to yank off my t-shirt falls through, temporarily blinding me.
“Shit. I feel like a complete idiot,” I say, reaching out with my free hand for something to hold on to, unaware that Sonya has just striped to her cornflower bikini. I feel it the second I make contact with her warm flesh. My hand soon slips off across her shoulder along with her bra strap. “I messed up. Didn’t I?”
“Yeah, man, you did.”
“Sorry. So sorry.”
At that moment, Sonya yanks off my t-shirt and throws it onto the wet sand. “How did you get that scorpion on your shoulder?” she asks as she reaches for her sunscreen but soon puts it away. “I don’t need it. It isn’t that sunny,” she says. By scorpion, she means the triangle-shaped, one-and-a-half-inch scar with a segmented, curved tail across my shoulder. What else could she have been referring to?
My body bears many other scars, some just too small to notice. Has Skinny Shaun told her about my scars? I sit. My face turns pale, wondering how much she already knows. Shit! Just what should I tell her? How do I start?
“People talk, you know,” she says a minute later. “Just dying to know your version of it. The correct version.”
My heart thumps.
“All right, then. Is it true your father did this to you?”
My heart thumps louder and louder until Sonya sinks onto the sand beside me and kisses me on the cheek, assuring me that I don’t need to talk about it if I don’t want to. She takes my left hand as if to lift her chin, asking me if I see anything peculiar. I waste no time and nod after spotting the half-inch, circular mark under her chin.
“Cigarette burns. Mom’s fabulous method of discipline,” she says, her voice growing disheartened. “There’s more. Believe me.” She points at two more identical marks on the left side of her upper thigh, which have failed to fade even after four long years. I watch her tilt her head away from me, suppressing the tears that soon flood her eyes. It is as though she has promised herself never to shed another tear.
All I can do now is think about the scars. Maybe, one day, I’ll have more courage to talk about them openly. I don’t know. So I think of the scars, all the invisible ones, the ones that will never heal because they cannot be healed. After a while, our somber eyes shift further down the beach to follow the laughter of children playing in the sand with their parents. It’s a beautiful day. There’s no fear of shark attacks today, and the breeze continues to blow just right, caressing Sonya’s hair. No one seems to be fighting or out of control. Skinny Shaun is farther away in the ocean now with the other surfers, all of whom are crashing and battling the blue waves like they have something to prove to each other. We smile a little and remain silent long after we wave at them—hoping they will keep at it a little while, just a bit longer before we have to head back home.
Soidenet Gue is a writer based in Florida with a penchant for writing about families. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dillydoun Review, Bridge Eight, Maudlin House, Drunk Monkeys, Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, among other publications. Currently, he’s working on a story collection. Find him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/soide.fred