"She left, never to return. I planted a tree and a seed each time I thought of her. I grew a small forest and a large garden and had no one to give the orchids to."
- Darnell Lamont Walker
You know how they say you don't know what you've got till it's gone, truth is, I always knew what I had, I just never thought I'd lose it, not when I just got it. Now I know it's true, perfection is an illusion, a gruesome, manipulative and well, a perfect one and when they say something is too good to be true then probably is. How do I know all this? Like everything else in life, I learnt- I learnt from a ruthless, unforgiving teacher called life and the worst part of it all is that the lesson was a bit too late, you only need that much time to lose yourself.
I don't know if I believe in love at first sight but that night was something like it. I remember the first day I met her, it felt exactly like the last, the adrenaline, the nerves, the despicable feeling of my stomach churning in such a way I'd never experienced before. She was standing under the illuminated florescent light in our family room, leaning casually on the TV set with her eyes transfixed to the ground shyly, like she knew I was watching her. Her long, thick, dusky hair flowed down her shoulders to her back and her over-grown fringe hid her eyes. An angel I thought. She reluctantly twirled a silver bracelet around her wrist, anticipating, she was waiting for something to happen.
"Hey," my voice was calm and subtle almost like I didn't want to be heard.
She didn't move.
I wore my heart on my sleeve.
"Hey," I looped like a broken record.
This time she raised her head and revealed the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen. They were big and brown with a certain shine in them that I could not comprehend. Thick, dark lashes and an immaculate honey brown complexion. I remember her unreadable expression when she looked at me with this odd sense of familiarity, like she'd known me all her life.
"Hey. Oh my God! I'm so sorry. I didn't hear you."
She pulled out the earphones from under her hair and smiled with her eyes an expensive smile, one I'll never forget.
"No it's my fault. I hope I didn't startle you though." I was humble and apologetic.
"No, not at all. And it's not your fault, really. I'm the intruder." She chuckled.
She tucked her tendril behind her ear, she didn't go about avoiding eye contact, she stared at my sharply in the eye. I was intimidated.
"I'm waiting for Gina, who I'm guessing is your sister," she said, "If...you were wondering."
"No, actually I was wondering whether they are not missing one of their angels in heaven."
"Hmm...How original!" was the sarcastic remark. "Actually, I was just trying to finish up this assignment if you must know. So why don't you tell them she's doing her homework."
"Homework." I echoed in disbelief. Astonished by the way I carried myself, by the way I talked to her so serenely like we'd always known each other.
"Why, is that so hard to believe?"
"No, I'm just thinking...its Sunday evening and you..."
"Some of us don't have it all figured out like you, you know," she interrupted. Her cheeks were drained, she was getting nervous.
"And the earphones?"
"People learn differently. Music helps me concentrate, it's easier to remember this way." I snickered. "In my perspective, this right here is the future of education."
"Wow, look at you living ten years ahead of everyone."
She chuckled.
"I don't really tell people this. It's kinda my secret," she said, "And I know it's ridiculous," she was trying to read my expression.
"It's not."
"You don't have to say that."
"Seriously, getting in the way of an angel trying to do her literature homework, now that's ridiculous." I teased.
"Well actually, I'm on a top secret mission so mess with me all you want."
"Really."
"Yeah," she sniggered and pulled out her hand from a black leather glove, stretching it out towards me, "Francesca."
I indulgently took her warm hand into mine, "Roman."
"Oh, like the natives of Rome, Roman?" she teased.
"No, more like The Days of Our Lives, Roman. Or Julius Caesar, Roman, you know."
I let go of her hand.
"Actually, I' pretty sure there wasn't a Roman in Days of Our Lives."
"No, but there should've been."
"Point taken." she chuckled. That's when I saw that dimple on her left cheek. Although my mother taught me to never judge a book by its cover, in my head, she was already perfect. "So, what's your deal?" she was cool and sleek, with that vigor busting out of her again.
"My deal?"
"Yeah, you know. What makes Roman, Roman? What is it that a complete stranger can come up to you and be like, hey, it's Roman," she said, "or days of our lives Roman in this case?"
It felt like that question you are asked in a beauty pageant – a life or death question that required the perfect answer.
"What are you, a cop?" I teased.
"Maybe," she mused.
"Well," I chucked nervously, "my deal?"
I stood quiet interrogating myself. My mind fired nothing but blanks.
"It's your hair isn't it? You have really good hair by the way." She broke the ice looking at my hair like she was assessing me.
"I was not going to say that but I guess that's good enough." I said, "And you?"
"If I told you, I'm afraid I'd have to kill you." Perfect answer. "Top secret mission, remember."
"Right." I sighed, "But that's a little unfair isn't it?"
"What can I say, life isn't fair, Roman. It just isn't."
"I see you got this mysterious thing going on."
"Yeah. A lot of guys dig it."
"A lot of guys." I exclaimed.
"Uh-hm. unless they are called Roman, those are really hard to please."
She was now leaning on the arm-rest of the sofa.
"What were you listening to?"
"Fallout Boy." She gave me one earphone and I put it in my ear. It was just loud, a voice trying to yell over even louder, uncoordinated instruments.
"How do you even concentrate over this?" I was yelling.
"I don't. That's the point," she said, "Literature makes zero sense anyway."
"Why don't you just try reading the book without the music, like a normal person?" I jerked the earphone out.
She let out a loud sign. "See, that's the thing, Roman, I'm not normal."
And she wasn't.
"You're telling me," I mused, "if ever you consider being normal, take my advice."
"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind but don't get your hopes up. Like I said, not normal."
We both smiled.
"You know when Gina talked about you I expected this really nerdy geek from out of this world. But here you are, just a plain old ordinary boy called Roman." Her tone was delicate she wasn't smiling or acting silly, she was being plain perfect, beautiful and I knew at that moment I was in love with her. She gave me butterflies even without talking. I had this feeling, this inexplicable feeling you get just before winning. And just like a bird learning to fly, I was learning to love and this girl, this beautiful brunette standing less than a meter away from me was my mentor.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know... you're kinda the best case scenario in this situation." She smiled. I was her best case scenario.
"Sorry I kept you waiting so long, I was trying to get these curls out of my hair." Gina walked into the living room whining and like a magnet entering the coils of a solenoid, cutting the magnetic field lines that existed, Gina broke up the somewhat tension that had developed between Francesca and I.
"Throw over or no. I wanna look cool but expensive like something in Macy' display," she lifted up her head. "Oh, I see you've met the devil."
"You're too funny, Gina," I mused.
"Throw-over," Francie said decisively.
"And I wasn't even trying," replied Gina.
"You know, he's actually quite interesting," said Francie.
"Don't be fooled. It's just a matter of time till he bores you to death or something," mused Gina. "So I guess it's without." She dropped the hot pink throw-over on the sofa.
"We're going for a birthday party. I won't be back later than nine," said Gina, "Just in case I am, tell mom for me."
She walked away tucking her hair behind her ear shyly and twirling the bracelet around her wrist. I was torn.
"Bye," I whispered as she walked past me.
"Bye. And err...Roman, Google it."
"I will."
And I did, all night. Green Day. A rock band. I tried to listen to their music, I hated it but I loved the reminiscence of it, still feeling like she was here with me so I kept my headphones on till I slept.
That's how we met. It was kind of like the encounter of Bonnie and Clyde, a lethal yet phenomenal one. But the thing about us people is we like trouble, maybe that's how we are designed work but we lack the gazelle mentality and we fall back into some damn trap every time, it gives us a thrill but that only makes us human.
I saw her again. She came to the house frequently for Gina. She even slept over once on a weekend. She and Gina braided each other's hair, watched chic flicks in the family room in their pajamas. Later, I could hear them from my bedroom giggling and singing along to musicals in Gina's room. I fell in love with her voice.
The fumes of the acrylic paint were making my head ache so I went to the bathroom. I closed the chamber lid and sat on it. I could hear them clearly from here, it felt like being backstage at a Beatles concert, if you were madly in love with Paul McCartney. The music stopped and suddenly, the bathroom door swung open.
"Oh my God!" she leaped backwards. "I'm sorry."
"No. It's okay. You can come in. I was going out."
Her hair was
"We're going to have to put a bell on you if you keep startling me like this," she said, giggling.
I left without saying another word, I regretted it.
I sat across from her at the dinner table. I could hardly eat. Could you blame me? My stomach was full of butterflies, pleading to break out.
"I clearly don't know what's wrong with her but if you ask me she needs a check-up from the neck up," Gina giggled. She was seated across from me at the dining room table talking to her on the phone, that's all she did these days.
Her shoulder length auburn hair was tied messily above her head. Gina had a small rounded, frame bound pretty face with cold, sharp brown eyes. She barely looks her age most people would say. She mirrored most of my mother's features, petite, agile and organized. She was the kind of girl who liked following, enforcing and even making rules. Ten years old, mom would leave me home alone with eight year old Gina, not to babysit her but simply as a formality. She did dishes, operated the washing machine, paid bus fares and pretty much everything else eight year olds couldn't and shouldn't be able to do. We never really needed each other. Estranged would be a bad way to put it but that's the most accurate word to describe our peculiar relationship.
I had a pencil in my hand, trying vainly to apply kinematics equations vexing Physics problems. I couldn't concentrate, I never could get anything done anymore. I listened to her voice on the other end of the line until Gina hung up. She placed the telephone head on the table, unreplaced.
"Who was that?" Like I didn't know.
"Francie."
I wanted to say; did she ask about me. Tell her I love her.
But instead:
"Oh."
"Yeah," Gina paused, "I invited her for the barbeque this weekend."
"Yeah?" I was cold and emotionless.
Now was the time to ask Gina all the questions that had been boiling up in my head.
"How do you know her anyway?"
"Church." She started fumbling with her books.
"Oh, I've never seen her at church before."
"They just moved into town so they're still settling. You're not going to them every Sunday."
"Where does she learn?"
"Some private school uptown, why?" She wasn't paying attention anymore. Her eyes were now glued on her books.
"Just curious."
"Well, you know what they say about curiosity."
Her focus remained razor sharp. That was more of a statement and less of a joke.
"How old is she?"
"I don't know. Fifteen, sixteen. What's it to you anyway?" Her annoyance was starting to show.
I didn't say a word.
"Don't tell me you..." she lifted her head, "Oh my God! Ro?" Gina was irritated, her attention shifted back to me.
I kept my composure.
"What?" my tone was serene.
"You like her."
I knew better than to take the bait.
"Does it matter?"
"Like hell it does! She's my friend, Roman. My friend and I want it to stay like that." Exasperation leaked in her tone.
"That's a little immature for a fifteen year old, don't you think?" I mocked.
"Roman, I swear to God if you do anything stupid, I will never forgive you."
"Hey, you two keep it down I'm trying to get Jonah to sleep," my mom walked into the kitchen looking drenched and annoyed. Her face was weary, she wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm. She overworked herself and ever since she had Jonah, she hardly slept.
We both felt sympathetic and crawled back into or shells, apologetic. Gina grabbed her books and took off in a rage. Mom watched her leave.
"What's going on?" She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall.
I was ashamed, I don't know what for.
"Roman!"
"It's nothing, it was just a stupid misunderstanding."
"Roman," she warned again.
"Mom, you know how Gina is like sometimes."
"Yeah, but you're the older one, I expect you to know better." There was a hint of anger in her tone, "I cannot work my butt off every day for twelve hours and come home to baby an eighteen year old."
She was right.
"Sorry."
Her nature was low, "You better be, now finish up your homework and go get some rest," she paused. "Gosh! That damn baby won't stop crying!" She chuckled.
Francesca never did show up for the barbeque. It was a held as a fundraiser for the church to donate the money to less fortunate child institutes to fundraise for school aids like book, pencils, satchels, etcetera. I remember the countless hours I spent watching the driveway waiting for her to show up.
There were mostly people from my mom's work and Simon who was Jonah's father and our stepdad, he was never home, always chasing his job, a few congregators from church, one or two of Gina's friends and Douglas, the boy from next door who always found a way of inviting himself to our family gatherings and I was always the one to keep him company since everyone else was too busy with their own friends.
Douglas had long since given up on life, his lifestyle centered with drugs, alcohol and rule breaking was evident but according to him, he lived out loud. Doug maintained short spiky hay hair and a full grown unkempt beard that looked like something lived in it. He was chunky, shorter than I (although I was taller than most boys my age) and dressed casually in baggy denim jeans and a star wars t-shirt or something with the slogan: live fast, die young. He wasn't necessarily my friend but he had a big heart so he taught me all I knew, from hot wiring a motor cycle to unlocking a door with a credit card and a bobby pin and most recently, on my eighteenth, drinking alcohol. That night was a haze, I only remember my head pounding the next day when I woke up and my mother hollering and since then, I swore I'd never drink again.
Douglas seemed very smart but never made it to college ever since left high school, God knows when. His parents said he was too lazy to do so but in his defense, university was for under-achievers, he had a brighter, bigger destiny.
Looking for Francie was like looking for a ghost, I knew all the wrong places to find her. I even tried searching for her on Facebook. Francesca – that's all I knew so altogether, that was a dead end. But I guess our fate was already written out because when I least expected it, she found me.
It was a Friday afternoon, the wind had been blowing hard all day. It was almost sundown and I was in my bedroom with laid out read magazines across the floor and in front of me was my A-Level exam project I had been working on for days now, a huge canvas resting on a wooden framework, it had different shades of blue smeared on it, at the moment it looked like the sky threw up on it but it was bound to be a masterpiece. The theme was weather elements. I was going to do ice on ice with a vicious downpour of rain on even more ice. I held a palette where I had mixed blue paint with white, black and green paint with the butt of my brush to make other, unique shades of blue- an abstract technique I had learnt from my grandmother. Vanessa Carlton was playing loudly but delicately on repeat on my radio, a thousand miles. I had been at this painting for hours since I returned home from school, I needed a distraction.
And there she was - a vague figure approaching the house. I watched her from my window walking with a fast paced gait in through the small fenced gate, across the driveway, to the porch. Her hair was being violently blown by the wind, covering her face. Before I even heard her knock, I hurried out to the door with paint stains all over my sweatshirt.
I remember seeing the terror on her face when I opened the door. She was even more beautiful than the first day I saw her and even in blue skinny jeans and a hoodie and I still believed she was an angel.
"Roman," her voice was low and she sounded terrified. I just stood at the door perplexed. She remembered my name!
"Gina is not yet back." I panicked and flushed.
But then she said exactly what I wanted her to say.
"I know, I was actually hoping to talk to you,"
My heart leaped to my throat.
"Yes?"
"Look, I got into some trouble with the police."
"What?"
"I was driving my mom's car in town. One minute I'm in the lane the next I drove straight up the curb..." she paused trying to fight back the tears, "I knocked a road sign through the glass of a café. I...I don't know what to do," at this point she began to snuffle hastily "the police are after me and if my mom finds out, I'd just die." She paused wiping her eyes. "Look, I don't really ask for this kind of favor but I didn't know anywhere else to go. Roman.... please you have to help me," her eyes were filled with tears and emotion.
This was the universe giving me a shot at love.
I remember the color draining from my cheeks as if I was the guilty offender.
"Okay, what do you want me to do?"
"You have your license right?"
"Yeah."
"Take the blame."
"What?"
"Please. If the car was being driven by a licensed driver, I'm sure the police will drop the charges and I swear my parents will pay for the damage."
"Francie....I don't know,"
"Roman, you're my only hope please, I'm begging you."
I remember her resting her head on my chest, holding her cold trembling body in my arms and the way she shook when she cried against my tainted sweatshirt. I watched the darkness silhouette around her. She had chosen me to be her knight in shining armor all I had to do was advance in battle. In my head it was all done, I was going to take the bullet, all for love's sake.
Suddenly: "Oh my God!" Francesca was hysterical. "You should see the look on your face."
She broke away from my grip. I was muddled. She still had tears in her eyes but the euphoria on her face was impenetrable.
"God! You should see the look on your face right now," she repeated, guffawing but still mopping her eyes with her palms.
"What? What was that?"
"That, my friend is called good acting."
Friend? She called me her friend.
I laughed at myself allowing my mind to settle.
"So you're telling me you came all the way just to make a gag of me?"
"Yeah." She nodded fervently, giggling like a school child. "That and to say thank you. I did that thing, you know reading the book, whatever," she paused, "it makes much more sense now, I even got a C for that assignment, not too shabby, right?"
I smiled.
"You should come inside its cold out."
"Actually, I'm not staying for long, my parents don't know where I am and they're probably freaking out right now." She was still laughing.
The wind brushed hard against her soft cheeks. She tried to control her hair against the brutal force of the wind.
"Yeah, I really wish you could."
She chuckled, "Yeah," she paused. And then hesitantly, "You're not doing anything this weekend are you?" She sounded unnatural like she had been rehearsing that line her whole life. I flushed.
"No, why."
We both sounded like nervous wrecks.
"There's this thing....." She pulled out a flyer from her hoodie pocket and handed it to me. "It's this ball we're hosting as fundraising for our school. Yeah, I don't really know that many guys yet and so I thought maybe you'd want to go. If you want to." She faced the ground coyly.
I felt those butterflies trying to escape from inside me.
"Sure, I'd love to."
She smiled.
"Cool." There was an awkward silence. "You paint?"
She had realized my tainted hands and shirt.
"A little."
I lied, I painted a lot. I did sculptures, canvases, sketches, everything to oil paintings and crafts. My mother said it came from her mother, she was just as passionate about art as myself although she never did much anymore due to her chronic wrist arthritis. Her youth was the prime of her artistic life. At only twenty-three, she had the leading portrait going by: L.B Campbell, a Warhol inspired pastel in one of the best galleries in the country. Females could not use their first names for anything important back then so she just initialed her names to avoid biased sexist influenced judgement. It gained her recognition from far and wide but she quickly fizzled out because of her fear of adventure, all the responsibilities that came with being a mother and the sacrifices for family to put bread and butter on the table.
"You should show me sometime."
"Sure."
"You don't have to wear a tie or anything fancy for the ball. They call it a ball but trust me it's not that big of a deal."
"So do I come pick you up or...?"
"Fancy too, huh?" she chuckled, "Seven, sharp. I'll have you know, I'm a pretty impatient girl, Roman." She said retreating, "I don't like to be kept waiting."
My mother's corolla pulled up the driveway. I watched her walk away, waving at my mom and Gina who were in the car and then looking back at me with a smile drawn on her face. I noticed how much she liked to smile. She was more beautiful that way and she knew it.
That night, sleep evaded. I lay on my bed facing the bare white ceiling, painting it all sorts of abstract, blue designs in my head, reading the flyer for the third time and placing it back on the chest. I still had paint on my hands and shirt. I found myself smiling at a void. My paintings on the wall glared at me with their gigantic, menacing bright colors illuminating under the light of my headlamp seeming to say this is it.
I heard footsteps in the hallway. They approached closer and closer, my door was lightly swung open and my mom's insipid blonde head and icy blue eyes peered from the opening.
"You're still up?" She walked in.
I couldn't help but notice the sharp blades protruding below her neck, her hip bones jutting out from her slacks and her gaunt face that was now lacking that youthful glow and charm that she used to possess, she cared less for herself. She didn't apply makeup anymore, not even mascara or eyeliner – which I learnt were an essential for every female from my fifteen year old sister, she had dark rims around her eyes with the bottom part sagging, this made her look tired at any time of the day. Instead, her handbag rattled with loose keys, parking tickets and emergency portable diapers whether she was with Jonah or not. Her hair was stiff and coarse, you didn't even need to feel it to know. My mother was getting old and I hated to admit or even think about it but ignoring something doesn't make it go away. She had become awfully thin since she had Jonah and with Simon always away, Jonah was her burden alone. Sometimes I wondered why she even had Jonah, Was it to proclaim her love for Simon? Or did she need someone to keep her company and make her smile when Gina and I finally leave for university? I felt guilty just by the thought of it, although the second one made much more sense. My very close age gap with Gina meant we would leave home around the same time. She used to talk about how horribly lonely she was going to get if we were both to leave even when Daniel was still around, she talked about having another baby but back then, Gina and I were still so young and Daniel wouldn't have any of it. She gradually changed her clothe sizes to an extent where she had to amend most of her skirts on her own. Being a full time mother, role model and taking responsibility of carrying out the duties owed to us by our father was a superhero's job but my mother was only human.
I sat up against my headboard. "Yeah."
"Good, I've been wanting to talk to you."
She put down the laundry basket she had in her arms and sat on my bed folding the laundry into neat piles. We talked mostly about my schoolwork, my art project and then probably the whole subject of the conversation began:
"You know, ever since you met that girl, you've changed."
"Changed?"
"Yeah. Gina told me. Son, you know you can tell me anything, right?"
"There's nothing to tell. Mom, I..."
"Liking a girl is never a bad thing." She interjected. "It's natural. It happens to everyone."
"What? You read minds now," I humored.
"Roman."
"Look, I don't know it's complicated."
"Nothing isn't."
I sighed.
"How did you make that abstract painting in the corner there?" she asked.
"Well, it's..."
"Complicated, right? I don't know much about art but I'm sure you had to put every color carefully and systematically, waiting for one paint to dry and then putting the other. You didn't just throw in everything all at once, did you?"
"No."
"And that's the same with relationships, sweetie you've got to give them space, let them grow and when the time is right, honey, they will turn into something beautiful." that sounded tacky, and she knew it.
"What do I know about love, right?"
"What does anyone know?"
I sighed loudly, pulling the duvet to cover my legs.
"It's nerve racking, mom."
"Love is."
Silence hung from the ceiling.
"How did you know that Simon was the one?"
"I didn't. But I know I'm happy and that's good enough."
"And dad?" I was hesitant and I meant to say Daniel.
Her aura shifted, to something more sticky and hostile.
"Well, he wasn't and that's why he's not here anymore, is he?" That statement was sacred, we never spoke of him, and it was an unspoken oath we made.
My father had been the monster that lived in my house. I was terrified of him especially when he was drunk, so it was pretty much every time he came home at night. He and my mom were worlds apart, two pieces of a puzzle that were never meant to fit. Daniel was his name. Bold, muscular, handsome, the proper picture of a man but not so much of a father. I remember wishing him dead eight years ago that night he beat up my mother. My mother, Gina and I had just returned home from the Christmas Eve mas at which Gina had received her confirmation. It was a big deal for our devout, Catholic family. My grandparents, from my mother's side had even attended. It had been a long, hectic night like I remembered. We had a celebration dinner at my grandparent's and then finally went home. It was almost morning when we arrived. Gina had fallen asleep in the car so mom had to carry her to her bedroom. We found Daniel laying on the sofa with a half empty bottle of gin almost falling from his hands and an ashtray on the coffee table full of cigarette butts. The air was saturated with a pungent smell of cigarettes and alcohol.
"Go to bed Roman," my mother instructed, looking almost unsurprised at the sight of him. She took Gina to her bedroom and when she returned, she started clearing the coffee table. It was when she got hold of the bottle of alcohol that she woke the beast.
"Where've you been," he roared, seizing the bottle back.
"Dan, please let's talk about this in the morning. I'm exhausted," she pleaded looking more worn out than she sounded.
"Talk about it? There is nothing to talk about here. You know very well what you've been doing!" his voice was loud and menacing, "I stayed up all night worried sick about you guys."
"Daniel, please. Let's just go to bed." Her tone was low and timid.
"I know you are cheating on me," he burst, "what I cannot believe is that.... I cannot believe you have the audacity to take my children out there with you. Tell me, what the bastard's name...is," each word, a slowly dragged, poorly enunciated staccato.
"Daniel you're talking crazy, you are drunk, you need to get some rest." At this point, I felt a chill down my spine, sort of an ominous feeling. She tried to hold his arm to help him walk.
"Get your freaking hands off me, woman!" he bellowed, pushing her against the coffee table. The ash tray she held fell on the carpet and the ashes rose into a cloud of smoke and spread all across the room. Daniel stumbled across the carpet and cold-heartedly took a sip of his Cîroc. It was only then that she noticed I was still in the room.
"Go to your bedroom, honey."
"Mom, are you okay?" I whispered with a finger in my mouth. She picked herself up and wore somewhat a smile. This was the smile I became familiar with over the years. The smile that masquerades the pain. But she staged it so perfectly I believed her so I left, although I never slept. I heard them coming up to their bedroom, their feet creaking across the wooden tiles. It was just across the hall to mine. It was quite for a while but later on, the quarrelsome tone resurfaced.
The dent on her forehead makes it impossible to forget: the pain, the torture of his powerful, clenched fists tearing through her ribs, the broken glass shattered on the floor, her faint cries, her pleading him to close the door so I wouldn't see.
"Go to your room Roman!" he'd shout. I was only ten years old then and I just stood there, mesmerized with tears running down my face. I couldn't make much of it then but I knew what it meant.
"You little brat!" he'd scream, shoving me out forcefully with his bloody hands and then he'd bang the door. "I've done too much for this family and this is how you thank me!" He beat her till she turned blue and that was the last day I saw him. He remorselessly left her vulnerable body lying on the bedroom floor. He picked up his brown canvas bag, his bottle of Cîroc, started the engine of the jeep, left and never looked back. He slept at a pub and then a string of motels afterwards. Mom's friends would always tell her that their husbands saw him at this pub and the other. Eventually, he skipped town. He doesn't live far now, maybe just a two hours' drive away but he's stopped living in my world altogether.
She never reported the case – at least I don't think she did because no one ever really went out looking for him. Even now we still have a closet in the passage where my mother stacked all the remainders of his belongings – his ties, his jackets, shoes and his collection of his genuine Italian leather brief cases. My mother is too nice for her own good – my grandmother agreed.
Then she met Simon. He was lost, suffering a loveless, childless marriage, at the verge of divorce and bitter. So was she. For my mother, finding Simon was like a rare species finally meeting its significant other. They met while he was in town for business, marketing research in small towns. What was meant to be a two week trip turned into months. At first he stayed at a lodge somewhere in town. Visiting on the weekends, alternating and taking turns with mom. Sometimes they would dine in the small, expensive foreign restaurants. The ones with the velvet covered menus, crystal chandeliers and pre-date bookings and the fancy seafood that mom would tell us all about. Sometimes they would take us along with them. We had to dress formally. In shirts and trousers. Ushered to our tables, use forks and knives and wipe our fingers with soft cloth napkins.
I liked Simon. He never tried to strain a conversation about sports cars or football out of me like most men do.
Daniel always used to say,
"Muriel, I think the doctors made a mistake on this one. Gina is more of a man than he will ever be."
Simon talked more about current affairs. He made clean sophisticated conversations about politics, theatre, and business – the stock exchange. All the things I was comfortable with.
And then all of a sudden my mother fell pregnant. He decided to make it official and move in with us. It was a bit awkward at first. I was unaccustomed with the sight of having another man who was not my father wake up in beige pajama pants, exiting my parent's room. Watching him shave almost every morning in the same bathroom at the same basin where Daniel used to. His car driving in and out of the garage every morning and planting a kiss on my mother's cheek, with so much affection and sincerity I never knew could be displayed so publicly. Having him call us kids and us Simon.
He began feeling like family too quickly. He would buy us presents from his trips – flashlights or keychains. Video chat with us when he was away. Tell us he missed us. I would occasionally call him dad, even though I knew he wasn't my father, he felt more like him than Daniel ever did. My mother too was smitten. She started shopping more, going to hair salons, spending much more time in the bathroom, making herself beautiful for him. Doing all the things she never did for Daniel. All the things he never cared to notice. They would cook together on the weekends. Sipping wine and singing along to Kenny Rogers on the CD stereo. Giggling like school children. My mother was happy. Daniel had been the dark cloud hanging over our family for a long time. But they say every cloud has a silver lining and Simon was ours.