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I wasn’t stupid, I knew they didn’t like my dad or his job—and by extension they hated me, and the fact that Cal and I were an item. More than an item, the two of us were dead serious. We had plans for our future and were set on staying together come hell or high water.
“It’s not just you, Cal. I’d do it to whoever brought her home.” My dad slapped Cal on the back in camaraderie. “I like all those zeros I see.” He could joke and be congenial as soon as he knew he didn’t have to arrest Calvin for underage drinking or even worse, a DUI.
“How’s my girl? Any dizzy spells? I hope I can trust that you weren’t drinking, Bonnie Lass.” My dad’s nickname for me since I was two. He was Irish. It was embarrassing.
“Not a dizzy moment. You know I’d bring her home if she showed any signs,” Calvin offered. He’d been schooled by both of my parents. Like sit-down-in-the-living-room-and drilled-schooled about my breakthrough seizures. Or as I liked to call it, my checking out when the going got rough. It was funny, it was emotion that made me crumble when I should have stood strong. Most people couldn’t stand the sight of blood. On the contrary, I loved looking at my own blood, but emotions and stress always pushed me over the edge.
“Oh my God, Daddy. Leave the poor guy alone. It’s bad enough you’re a cop, but do you have to make him be my keeper too? I have enough of those at home. Cal and I just want to have fun.”
My dad never liked my talking back. He liked complete control and obedience. That’s why my cutting freaked him out so much, because it was something he couldn’t control, another glitch in his perfect daughter that was out of his hands, out of even the doctor’s hands. He’d told me once it tested his faith in God.
“Go inside, Bonnie, I want to have a word with Calvin.”
I slipped my heels off one after the other and pouted.
“Okay, but you promised,” I said quietly, barely a squeak. I didn’t want to call any unnecessary attention to the subject. Cal had never asked me about my scars and I never talked about them. I liked to keep the past and not drag him into my own drama. He had enough going on at home, more than any teenager should have to deal with.
Less than a week after we’d started dating, I made my parents promise me one night at the dinner table to never speak of the cutting around my new boyfriend.
“And what, you plan on wearing long sleeves all summer?” my mother asked. She glanced at my father, a grave look in her eyes. I knew what she was thinking. She’d told me a million times. Those marks will leave scars, honey. Permanent scars. You won’t be able to hide them and it’s just a fact of life that people judge.
Those conversations stung because it always seemed like Mom was more concerned about appearances than she was about my well-being. Like what other people thought mattered more than my own ability to be kind to myself.
I love you, that's all, Ellie. And I want what’s best for you.
I was in-patient then, against my own will. All my parents ever did was apologize. They could come see me on Saturdays just to cry and tell me how sorry they were when I wanted to have a picnic and play badminton with the staff and the other patients.
“Promise me, Dad,” I drilled him as I walked backwards up to the garage toward the house, shoes in hand, tiny purse with the gold chain flung over my shoulder.
I love you. Calvin mouthed me the words over my father’s shoulder.
Life had been lonely after my brother Adler was gone. Lonely and unbearable, my home life had become a quicksand trap. It was empty and unbearable, until Calvin showed up and fought harder for me than anyone ever had.
Dad waved me away and continued talking to my boyfriend in the driveway, who was probably exhausted and only wanted to go home and crash. But he let my dad give him the third degree because he knew it was a necessary part of keeping me in his life.
My mom flicked on the porch light as I neared the door. She was waiting inside watching, ever vigilant like Dad, but just hiding it more.
“Hi Honey!” She pulled me into a hug and kissed the top of my head.
Two assholes across the street revved their bikes, probably just to piss off my dad. In an otherwise sleepy neighborhood, their presence wasn’t the norm and was tolerated only because the Montgomerys had been here first. Before this neighborhood subdivided and before the prefab houses went up. The Montgomerys were tied to South Vale, the city and the land, and no one dared to question their stewardship or their loud drinking parties, motorcycles, and occasional target practice, also known as shootouts. My dad took his flashlight out of his pocket and shined it on the two bikers as they roared off down the street. My father begrudgingly tolerated it, mostly because my mother had become close with Calvin’s mom.
