Parental Split

They were always the same. My parents would face off in the kitchen, standing only inches away from each other. The screaming slowly escalated to the point that I thought the windows would shatter. A few things were thrown from time to time. My father would eventually leave in a huff, slamming the door and firing up his diesel truck before squealing out of the driveway, leaving behind a cloud of dust. My mother would then stomp up the stairs and spend the rest of the evening watching T.V. or reading a book. My younger sister, still a baby, was usually already fast asleep in her crib. Even after the screaming stopped and the house was quiet, I would continue to hide behind the couch, clutching my teddy bear. But this argument was different. It would change my life forever.

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“Mommy! Mommy! Let’s watch this!” I yelled from the top of the stairs. Clutching the video to my chest so I didn’t drop it, I jumped down the stairs two at a time.

My mother was finishing her dinner in the kitchen. I bolted through the doorway at full speed, skidding across the hardwood floor in my fuzzy socks. I thrust out my arms and shoved the video in her face, wiggling it back and forth from side to side.

I watched and cringed backwards as my mother calmly set her fork down on the plate in front of her. I heard not even the faintest sound of metal on glass. She was annoyed with me. She was always calm when she was angry or annoyed. I lowered the video, hanging it down by my side.

“Carlie, what did Mommy say about interrupting her when she’s busy?” she asked me. Her voice was quiet but had a distinct bite to it.

“Not to do it,” I muttered. I hung my head and looked at the grooves in the floor.

My mother smiled victoriously, happy that one of her lessons actually got through to me for once. “Good. Now go into the living room, and wait for me to finish eating.”

Smiling, I skipped into the living room. Anticipating watching the movie curled up in my mother’s lap, I hopped up into the armchair. I was gazing intently at the cover design of “Cinderella” when I noticed for the first time since entering the room that the T.V. was on. I looked over at the couch, the only other place in the room to sit, and sighed sadly.

My father was there, nestled comfortably into the corner of the couch. He had a beer bottle in his left hand and the remote in his right. The channels were rapidly being changed, my father mumbling something about too many commercials. Looking up at his face, I took notice of his eyes. They were bloodshot, unfocused.

“Daddy, why are you always drunk?” I asked. My voice cracked on the last word. I regretted it instantly. It was always like walking around on glass with my father. One misstep and your foot was bleeding. I’d just pierced my foot, and I knew it. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply for a few seconds before opening them again.

I searched his eyes for an answer to my question. He looked up at me. “What are you looking at?” he asked me. He acted as though he hadn’t heard me. He probably hadn’t.

I was young, stubborn. I knew that what he was doing wasn’t good for him. And I cared about my father. So I continued on. “I’m looking at your eyes, Daddy. I wish they didn’t look like that. They’re scary.”

I watched in slow motion as his arm arched back and came forward, releasing the beer bottle from his hand. I cringed into the chair as it flew toward me, expecting it to hit me directly in the face. Instead, it hit the wall above the chair. It shattered into tiny glass pieces that rained down on my head, the chair, and the floor with little tinkling sounds. The liquid that had been left in the bottle splashed everywhere. My head, my lap, the chair, and the floor were soaked. The foul stench of beer hit me like a slap in the face. I gagged and grabbed for the nearest pillow that hadn’t been soaked. I pulled it tightly against my face, blocking my nose, but leaving a little space over my mouth so I could breathe.

“Shut up! You don’t know anything! You’re just a stupid little child!” my father yelled. He was standing now, like he wanted to move. But he didn’t care about me or what he had just done. He wanted another beer from the kitchen.

Sure enough, he turned towards the doorway into the kitchen and walked towards the refrigerator. He grabbed the handle and began opening the door, but my mother slammed it shut, ripping it out of his hand. The refrigerator rocked a little as my mother and father stared each other down.

“What was that noise?” she demanded. She took a step past him and looked into the living room. I hadn’t moved. I looked up at her, too dazed to do much of anything except stare at her. I couldn’t even cry. That was when the yelling started,

As the tears began to form in my eyes, I searched around frantically for my teddy bear, the only comfort I had in this kind of situation. I found him laying face-down in the carpet next to the T.V., right where I had thrown him that morning. I grabbed him and ran to the couch, squeezing behind it. I hugged my bear tightly, cramped in the small space. I sobbed and screamed into his stomach. I clenched my eyes shut and cupped my hands to my ears, trying to block out the yelling.

No matter how hard I tried, the words still managed to reach me. They traveled through my ears and sunk into my brain. I’d heard most of them before. There were the usual complaints from my mother about my father and his actions, followed by the nasty name calling by my father. But there was a sentence at the end that stopped me dead in my tracks, not the typical sentence that I heard at the end of their arguments.

“Fine, the kids and I will leave. We’ll just go. My lawyer will be in touch,” I heard my mother say. Then all was quiet. Cue slamming of doors and stomping of feet.

Peaking around the corner of the couch, I saw my father come through the doorway first. He stomped towards the door to the garage and yanked it open, slamming it behind him. I heard the red and white diesel truck fire up and peel out of the driveway. Daddy was off to the bar for the night.

My mother came through next. She had tears in her eyes. Her face was red. Her cheeks were streaked with black marks from her eye makeup. She went up the stairs. Movement was heard above my head. She was in her bedroom. I heard thumping noises, like stuff was being thrown onto the floor.

I wiggled out from behind the couch and shuffled my way up the stairs. I cautiously made my way to my parents’ bedroom. My mother had several duffel bags and suitcases out on the bed. She had every drawer in her dresses open and was throwing things out of them onto the bed. She shoved the clothes into one of the suitcases and then began grabbing her things off of the dressers and from the bathroom. She put those things into a duffel bag and zipped it up, placing it and the suitcase near the top of the stairs. She proceeded to do the same with my room and then with my sister’s, with me trailing behind her, watching her every move.

I remember falling asleep in my sister’s room that night on the floor. I woke up the next morning in my bed, probably put there by my mom. As I walked out of my bedroom, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I saw my uncles carrying a dresser down the stairs. They carried it out the door to a big truck that was sitting in the driveway.

“Let’s go, Carlie,” my mother said from behind me. I jumped and turned around.

“But what about Daddy?” I asked.

“You probably won’t see him for a while. But it’s ok. Just go to the car. I have to get your sister,” she said, walking down the hallways toward my sister’s room.

Confused, I walked down the steps and out to the car. On the way through the house, I noticed how empty it was. All the pretty furniture my mother had bought was gone. I waved hello to my family members as I passed them. I got into the car.

Driving down the driveway that day, little did I know that it was the last time I would ever see that house. My parents’ divorce eventually went through and they haven’t seen each other since the last court date. My father got visitation rights for my sister and I. He is supposed to pick us up every other weekend and spend time with us at his house. But the only time we get to see him or spend time with him is in the truck ride to my grandmother’s house. We’re dropped off there on Friday and then picked back up on Sunday to be driven home. I see him a total of 90 minutes every other weekend; the 45 minute drive to my grandmother’s and then the 45 minute trip back. Talk between us is limited, brief, awkward, and at times, cold.

I came to realize that my father disliked my sister and I simply because we were girls. He had wanted a boy or two. I always used to spend my days thinking about how it could have been different. Would my parents still be together if my sister and I had been boys? Would they be happy? Would my sister and I be happy? Would it have made a difference? Sometimes, I wish it would’ve been different. Then other times, I’m not so sure..........