The Contradiction of Solitude(73)

Not at all.

But that night Daddy came up to my room and sat down on my bed. I covered my face with my pillow, worried he would be angry.

“Layna,” he said softly, pulling the pillow away.

I was crying. I didn’t want to get into trouble. Riley deserved it!

“Do you want to tell me what happened today?” he asked. I loved looking at my daddy. He was handsome. Like a prince in a movie. Mommy said I looked like him. I liked when she said that.

“I had to come home early,” I mumbled, kicking my feet back and forth over the edge of the bed.

“Why?” he prompted.

“Because I pulled Riley’s hair.” I wouldn’t tell him all of it. Then I’d really get into trouble.

“That’s not all, is it, Lay?” How did he know? Mommy didn’t even know. Riley was crying too much to say anything.

I shook my head.

“What else did you do?” His voice was so quiet. He smiled. Encouraging. I scooted closer to him and he pulled me onto his lap. His strong arms hugging me.

I snuggled down into his chest and felt good. Daddy wasn’t mad at all. But he might be when I told him the rest.

“Tell me, Layna,” he ordered, his voice hard.

“I cut her,” I whispered.

“You did?” he whispered back, his eyes bright. Brighter than the sun.

“I took a pair of scissors and I cut her arm. She bled a lot. Then I pulled her hair.”

Daddy hugged me even tighter and he kissed the top of my head.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Because I wanted to,” I admitted to Daddy the real reason.

“And how did that make you feel, Layna?”

I looked up at my big, strong daddy and I smiled. “I felt good, Daddy. Really good.” My face fell. “That’s wrong though. I shouldn’t feel good because I made Riley cry. Even though she’s mean and won’t let me play with her.”

I started to cry because I felt bad. So, so bad. I wanted to throw up.

“Shh, Lay, stop crying. She’s not worth your tears,” he scolded and I stopped, hiccupping and struggling to calm down.

“Mommy says—”

“Mommy doesn’t know everything, Lay. And sometimes people can do things because they feel good. And you shouldn’t be made to feel bad because of that. There’s nothing wrong with being who you are.” He sounded angry.

I was confused. I was always told hurting others and putting your hands on people in a mean way was wrong.

“But it’s not nice to make someone cry.”

Daddy pulled back slightly and wiped the tears from my face with his thumbs. “Did she make you cry?” he asked, and I nodded.

“Then you make them cry, Lay. You cut them. You make them bleed. And smile when it feels good. Don’t ever feel like who you are is wrong,” he told me. And I believed him.

He rested his chin on top of my head and started to rock me. “Now no more tears for silly, stupid girls. Let me tell you a story.”

“A story?” I perked up. Daddy had never told me a story before.

“A story about a star named Stella…”

“My sweet, sweet Layna.” His voice unfurled, spread out. Taking up all the space in my heart.

“Daddy,” I choked out. On a sob. On a sigh.

He looked so much older. Deep lines cut into his forehead. His once straight nose was now crooked and off center and I knew at some point it had been broken. His black hair was streaked with grey.

But his eyes were the same.

Bottomless.

Empty.

But when they sparkled. It was just for me.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he rasped, lifting his hand and pressing it to the glass wall between us.

I didn’t lift my hand. I kept it tight. In a fist. Away. Far away.

“It’s been twelve years, baby girl. Twelve years,” he remarked, partially in wonder. Partially in bitter accusation.

How could he blame me for staying away? How could he expect anything else?

I opened and closed my mouth several times. Wanting to say…something.

Wanting to say…nothing.

“You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Lay. I hardly recognize you.” I flushed under his scrutiny. Embarrassed. Delighted.

He stared at me. I squirmed. Why was I here?

Why had I come?

What did I hope to accomplish?

“Why?”

My father sat up straighter and blinked in surprise. The sound of my voice startling him.

“Excuse me?” he asked, frowning. He scratched at his chin. I recognized the tell. He was uncomfortable.

Around me.

“Why?” I said a little bit louder. A little bit stronger.

Daddy cleared his throat and scratched his chin again.

“What are you asking me, Layna? Why I’m in here? Why I did what I did?” His voice was hard. Giving nothing away.

But giving me everything.

“You told me once that if it made me feel good, I should never apologize. I should never feel bad for being myself. Was that it? Were you just being yourself?” I asked him.

I had to know.

I had to know.

My father leaned in closer to the glass that separated us. He looked at me. He looked in me. He looked through me.