The You I've Never Known(35)

coming through the front door.

Most likely it was his feet.

But when he yelled, Goddamn it, Ariel! I quickly promised Monica I’d see her today, and hung up to go see what was wrong.

I found Dad trying to sit

up from his recent sprawl

across the threshold. “God, Dad, what did you do? And did you

really drive yourself home?”

Even from ten feet away,

the stink of alcohol almost

knocked me onto my butt.

Still, he denied being wasted.

I’m fucking fine. Don’t you dare talk down to me. Why the hell did you leave your shoes in front of the door? Trying to kill me?

You lazy bitch. I’m gonna kick the shit out of you. Come here.

Instead, I quickstepped backward a couple of paces. My father was drunk the few times he actually hit me, and probably no more so than

he was last night. “Dad, I took off my shoes, just like you want me to, and put them where I always do, which is not right in front of the door. I leave them under the coatrack.” I wouldn’t dare do anything else, and I’ve had years of practice. “In fact, I specifically remember . . .” My mouth snaps shut. I don’t want to mention Gabe coming in and leaving

his Vans beside my Nikes. Anyway, it’s not totally out of the question that he might have accidentally moved my shoes when he left.

“Never mind. I’m sorry you fell.”

Goddamn straight. Better be more careful. I can’t afford to crack my skull open, you know.

He pushed himself up onto his

feet. You get to bed now, hear?





That Was That


And I’m grateful. Those post-alcohol-soaked night encounters can end worse. Thankfully that’s mostly the anomaly. Dad’s only a vicious drunk once in a while and last night was not one of those occasions.

Of course everything feels more logical when you can gain a little perspective on it. Last night I experienced a few apprehensive seconds. But all is well in the bright spotlight of day. And in a short while I’ll spend time with my best friend. I need to see if kissing Gabe changed anything between Monica and me, not that I mentioned it to her. That does bother me. I feel like I two-timed.

Does kissing person-on-the-left count as cheating when person-on-the-right has never even offered, though you’re sure she’s wanted to?

Relationships are weird. You can believe you understand them

when in fact you haven’t got a clue.





So Far


I’ve spent seventeen years

clueless. It’s past time to start figuring stuff out. I told Monica I’d meet her at the hospital.

I want to check on Hillary,

which is also strange. Not like I cared one bit about her until now. Why should possibly

saving her from freezing to

death change anything at all?

I just have to convince Dad

to drive me into town, which

accomplishes a couple of things.

One, he’ll know for sure I was telling the truth about why Gabe got back to Zelda’s so late. And, two, I’ll have the transportation I require.

It shouldn’t be too hard. He and Zelda usually hang out on Sunday.

Now that I know how, I put a filter, coffee, and water into the pot, turn it on, hoping the smell will convince Dad to get out of bed. He can doctor it any way he wants. Don’t want to repeat the Zelda episode, which reminds me again of last night’s shoe tirade. They never tripped him at all. At least, I’m pretty sure not.





As I Work


To seduce my father’s consciousness,

I think about a couple of times when

he convinced me something happened

when I knew—or thought I did—he’d

fabricated the story. One time his then girlfriend, Rhonda, was at the grocery store. I was little enough not to think about right versus wrong, so I wandered into her bedroom. As women often do,

she kept her jewelry box on an end table beside her bed, and I decided to play

dress-up with some of it. I put a string of pearls around my neck and a ring

or two on fingers much too small

to hold them. Then I went into the closet and found a ridiculous black straw hat with shiny blue feathers and put that on before spinning circles. I didn’t see Dad come into the room until he snatched

the hat off my head. Stop that! he yelled.

I remember crying from the shock of his reaction, which even at such

a young age seemed over the top.

“But . . . but . . .” I tried to articulate something I knew was right, but his

demeanor silenced my mouth, my brain.

Don’t you ever come in here again!

he yelled, flipping the pearls over

my neck and yanking the rings off

my fingers. I ran from the room, crying.

Why was Daddy so mad? He was the one

who told me it would be all right

to play dress-up with Rhonda’s things.

When I finally emerged, still confused, Dad and Rhonda were in the kitchen

talking about nothing in particular.

I let myself forget the awful experience, at least until Rhonda later came screaming about her emerald ring gone missing.

I denied. Dad denied. I swore I never saw the darn thing, knowing Dad had taken it from me. But neither of us mentioned that, and somehow Dad convinced her