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Aveena
T H E N
My daddy once told me some things in life happen in slow motion. Like that short moment where you make eye contact with your soul mate for the first time. Or that split second before you cross the street too soon and someone holds you back.
He’d go and on about how rare it was.
He said he hoped I’d get to experience the legendary “slow-mo” for myself one day. Same way he had when he’d won his first car race—better yet, when he’d seen Mommy walk down the aisle on their wedding day.
My dad’s “slow motions” were amazing.
Mine, on the other hand…
Throw in a tall glass of grape juice, my sister’s favorite white dress, a television show set to air all over the country, and there you have it.
An invisible, seven-year-old girl’s nightmare.
I can still hear my mother’s screams when I tripped over my own feet and the glass slipped out of my hands. Visualize the stain as purple liquid bled right through Ashley’s dress. Feel the sting of pain when I cut my finger trying to pick up the glass—it’s almost as though my child brain thought cleaning up my mess would unruin the thousand-dollar dress.
It all happened in slow motion, yes, but it’s the resentment in my mom’s eyes, the disappointment, the shame of having a world-class klutz for a daughter that lasted forever. The hatred in her voice when she’d insinuated I’d done it on purpose.
“I didn’t mean to, I swear,” I croaked after thirty minutes of Mommy dearest raining hell down on me, and rushed out of the house in tears.
I was barefoot, but I couldn’t feel a thing as my little feet thumped toward the red maple tree behind the shed in the backyard. Not the wet grass under my toes. Not the open cut. Not the blood trickling down my hand.
Nothing.
I liked to go there—correction: I liked to hide there—whenever Mom put me through the wringer for being anything less than perfect. The old tree was my safe haven. It was a place to cry in peace, a sanctuary where Mom never found me.
Where no one ever would.
Or so I thought.
“Love?” My father’s voice sounded far at first, until I heard the branches crackling on my right and realized my hiding spot wasn’t as infallible as I’d thought. I tried silencing my erratic breathing so that he wouldn’t find me, puffy eyes burning with unshed emotions.
“Love? Chérie, où es-tu?” he called again, this time in his native language. I loved when Dad spoke French. I never understood why Mom insisted he kept it to a minimum in public. Looking back, I realize she was probably scared it would make him stand out. And everybody knows Silver Springs, North Carolina, is a judgmental, cookie-cutter town filled with cookie-cutter people.
I didn’t answer him, nuzzling my head into the crook between my legs to muffle my breakdown. Branches and leaves ruffled next to me. And while I never saw him sit down by my side, I knew he was there.
I felt him.
Felt his warm, loving presence.
One touch and the tightness in my chest exploded. All he did was place a comforting hand on my back, but it blew the water gates wide open and left me sobbing pathetically.
“I’m so sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to stain her dress. You have to believe me,” I barely said through my snot and dared to look in his direction. He was smiling.
Smiling.
It was a real smile, too, but it was sprinkled with distant sadness. I’d seen my dad fake smile before—like when he had to explain to ignorant people why he wanted to spend the rest of his life driving fast cars around a loop. Only his real smiles could cause the wrinkles near his green eyes.
It made no sense to me.
What was there to smile about?
“I believe you’re telling the truth,” was all he said, and an outpour of relief seeped through my bones.
Until he added, “About being sorry, that is.”
