Secret Lucidity(26)

He stands, and when she follows his lead, she stumbles into him. He grabs ahold of her before she falls.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I passed on lunch, and I’m a little light-headed.”

He helps steady her on her feet, well aware of the terrible liar she pretends not to be.

“Why don’t you sit down then? I can see myself out.”

“It was really nice meeting you,” she tells him, taking her seat back on the couch.

“Nice meeting you too, Diane.”

He catches my eye and nods for me to follow him. When we’re far enough away from my mom’s ear, he asks, “Are you okay?”

What a stupid question for him to ask. My mother is drunk, talking like a socialite while slurring every other word.

“I’m fine.”

“Cam, this doesn’t seem like a fine situation for you to be in.”

“She had a hard day today, that’s all. Cut her a little slack,” I lie, defending what little reputation she has at this point.

“Does she even know you haven’t been at school this week?”

“Of course she does. We live in the same house.” I wonder if I’m a crappy liar just like she is.

A loud racket from the living room catches our focus, and when he looks over my shoulder, I die a little bit more inside. “Please, just go.”

“Is she—”

“She’s fine. Just . . .” I can’t even look him in the eyes, and he delivers mercy when he opens the front door to leave.

“Cam—”

“I’ll see you on Monday.” Closing the door, I rush back into the living room to find my mother picking up a few of the decorative pieces she knocked over.

She looks up at me from her hands and knees, griping, “Well, are you going to help me or just stand there?”

I shake my head in disbelief with how far she’s drifted away, with how unrecognizable she’s become to me.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Not another one of your childish lectures, Camellia. I’m not in the mood, and they’re juvenile at best.” Half her words come out in garble as she pulls herself off the floor, stumbling in her footing.

“You know he saw right through you.”

“What are you rambling about?”

“You’re a sloppy drunk.”

Her lips tighten as she walks over to me, and when she’s right up in my face, she lashes out, “And you’re an ungrateful daughter.”

I ignore her words. They mean nothing anyway. “Did you even bother looking in the mirror before you came down here to make a fool of yourself in front of my teacher? Or do you just not care that you look like a washed-up drunk?”

Her hand comes fast and hard, stinging my skin in fiery heat. Quickly cupping my cheek, I glare at her through watery eyes, shocked that she actually just slapped me across my face.

“I hate you,” I seethe before turning my back on her and running up to my room. I can’t bear to look at her for one more second without returning her violence.

Minutes turn into hours, and after a handful of them pass, I’m no better. The anger sat in me for so long that it spun into sadness. I’ve spent the past thirty minutes reading and rereading the same page, hungry for a distraction, but my emotions won’t grant me escape. I feel like a hostage in my own skin, but I don’t have to be a hostage to this house.

Under the metallic glow of the moon, I drive to where happy memories reside. With my father’s key I’ve never let go of, I walk into the school’s natatorium, change into my suit, and dive into what has now become my solace. Being here, under the water’s edge, away from everyone, deprived of air, sound, gravity, I feel closer to my father than anywhere else.

With my world falling to pieces, I have nothing to hold on to, and I crave comfort. So I take the pressure of the water and let it snuff out the emotions colliding inside me, lulling me into a moment of peace.

I don’t swim fast, and I don’t push myself too much. I simply glide through the water while nursing my shoulder.

When wounds scream their presence, I grant respite and sit on the edge of the pool deck with my legs dangling in the water.

I’m not ready to say goodbye to solace just yet.

There’s no disillusion to the fact that I’m needy for comfort and affection. And even though Kroy is more than willing to offer me just that, it’s not his support I want. Somehow, it seems weak coming from him, as if it lacks relevancy. As if adulthood is the key ingredient that feeds power into what I’m missing that will allow it to actually mean something.

You wouldn’t treat a bullet wound with a Band-Aid. And when wounds run as deeply as mine, you need more than just sound bites of encouragement and hugs from your peers.

I want someone strong enough so that I don’t have to romanticize my demons for fear they won’t know what to do with them.

My dad had a way of giving me all of that, and he did it so easily. He took the weight of the world off my shoulders and carried it upon his. And when he did this, I was granted freedom. Freedom from the expectations to be everything to someone or something to everyone—I could just be.

These reflections carve into the tender tissue of my heart, and the first silent tear falls from my lashes. My crying is eerily silent as I stare down into the pool, into the passion that was my father’s.