The house is quiet. Unnaturally so. I never understood the phrase, “silence is deafening,” before. Logically it never made sense to me. Silence is the absence of noise what could be more peaceful than that. I wish I could go back to ten minutes ago when my naïve brain still thought that way. Before my parents dragged me into the living room. Before they dropped the major bomb on me.
My fingers grip the end of the charm on my necklace tightly as I slide it back and forth on the chain. With each movement, I accidentally rub my fingers against each other reminding me of the hangnail I have on my middle finger. I wince in pain, but it doesn’t stop my fidgeting.
When I can’t take the ticking of the clock on the wall behind me being the loudest noise in the room, I finally break the silence. “I don’t even know why we’re here or why you’re both being so dramatic. I already know what’s going on.”
My parents both look at each other and I really take a look at them. I’ve spent so much of our time here at the coast trying to avoid both of them. Dad’s face is a little sunken in and his skin has an ashy appearance to it. He’s lost at least twenty pounds since the last time I saw him. When was that? The disappearing act has been going on for so long now that I honestly can’t recall the last time we actually spent time together or even had a conversation. And Mom? Well, she doesn’t look much better. From her bloodshot eyes to her grease-stained sweatshirt that has the remnants of last night’s burger and fries that Dad had to practically force feed her with.
She wrings her fingers and croaks out, “What do you think is going on?”
I drum my fingers on the arm of the couch and say, “Obviously Dad cheated on you and he’s moving out. I’m not sure why we had to come all the way out here for you to tell us that, but since I’ve done your job for you…can I go now?”
My brother has been silent sitting next to me on the couch this entire time. He squeezes my hand and says, “Just tell us what’s going on. If Giselle is right, then we have the right to know our family is breaking apart.”
“I never cheated on your mother. I love her and would never do something like that to her ever. But we have been keeping something from you. The end of last summer I was diagnosed with cancer.”
Anything he says after the C-word doesn’t even register. Cancer? How could he have been diagnosed with cancer almost a year ago? My breathing slows down and my heart rate echoes in my head. “How could you?”
Mom’s head whips back at my accusatory tone and she says, “Giselle, baby girl, we love you. Never ever question the love that your father and I have for you. That is the main reason why we didn’t tell you what’s been going on the past year.”
The fact that it feels like there is something big going on that I don’t know about seems to escalate even further as my mom just talks in circles without even telling me anything.
“So, you’re saying because I added Converse, black eyeliner to my wardrobe, and changed my taste in music, I’m suddenly fragile and can’t handle knowing that my father almost died? Is that the gist of it?”
Tears fall down my mom’s face as she chokes on her words. She closes her eyes as she composes herself and says, “You are always so angry. We didn’t know if you could take it.”
“Let me think about that. You were both lying to me, of course, I was angry. Without having any idea of what was actually going on, I had to make up my own stories. Dad, I assumed you were cheating on mom and that’s why you were always gone, and she spent so much time curled up in her bed. I’m sorry for my language but you both really fucked up.”
My blood is boiling and my fists clench and unclench at my sides. I want to scream and never stop. Until my head spins and I pass out from the lack of oxygen. I want to go back and not enter this room and know the truth.
“Giselle—”
Dad reaches over and puts his hand down on Mom’s shoulder, stopping whatever excuse was about to spill from her mouth. “No, Kathleen, she’s right. We seriously screwed up.”
I know I’m right, but I didn’t expect my parents to agree with me on that. Or at least for my dad to agree.
My eyes drift to the medium size porcelain elephant statue sitting on the glass end table. It smiles up at me with a giant stripped ball balancing on its trunk. It reminds me of happier days in our lives when there were no secrets or lies between us. Like that summer when I was five years old and we all went to the circus. Simpler times. Happier times. Not the giant crazy messed up shit storm we currently find ourselves in. I want to scream. I want to pull my hair out. I want to hit somebody. But I don’t do any of that. I can hear my mom saying something to me, but I can’t process the words that are coming out of her mouth over the ringing in my ears. Instead, I smile as I continue focusing on that statue. As it mocks me in my current predicament.
All of the conversations around me halt as I stand up from my place on the couch and I take a step toward the table. Everything around me slips away as it’s just me and the trinket.
I don’t know what compels me to do it. One minute I’m standing there focusing on the African animal and the next the entire room echoes with the shatters of the glass against the wall. There’s a scream radiating throughout the room and I assume it’s coming from my mother, but at this point, it could be coming from me and I don’t even know it. I’ve never experienced an out of body experience before…until right now. I no longer feel attached to my body and it’s almost as if I’m watching everything happen to somebody else who isn’t me. Like it’s just another teen drama rolling on the screen in front of me. I’m so detached that I could lift up out of my body and float away like a feather to anywhere.
Anywhere but here.
How does something like this even happen? How do you completely lie to your children and your family? Pretend like there isn’t something major going on.
My emotions build up inside me like a volcano and I have no qualms about letting them explode. Turning away from the mess that I created on the opposite side of the room, I study my family members. Mom is sitting curled up into herself in the ugly floral recliner. Tears pour down her face and her frail hand is at her mouth attempting to stifle her sobs. Dad is standing to her left and he’s as white and stiff as a marble statue you would find in Rome. And Marek? I can’t tell what he’s feeling. Then again, he probably doesn’t know what he’s feeling either. My pain. My anger. My feelings have been building up over year. He’s been away at school and hasn’t had a single idea that anything has been going on at home.
Then there’s Anders. My eyes lock with his and a tiny thrill shoots through my body. He’s not actually in the room, but rather in the kitchen. I’m honestly not sure how long he’s been standing there, but he it’s obvious from the look of pity all over his face that he’s been standing there long enough.
My nostrils flare and I can no longer stand here pretending any longer. “You can sit here all day spewing your lies and excuses to me, but it still doesn’t change one thing.” I turn my attention specifically to my parents and really hit home with how I’m feeling. “It doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t believe I was important enough or that Marek was important enough to be involved or even know what was going on.”
Mom’s eyes finally lift to my own and I say, “What was your plan if he didn’t get better?”
She continues sobbing and even though words come out of her mouth they’re unintelligible over the sniffles and cries.
Turning toward my dad I ask, “What was your plan if you suddenly died? Did you think about how we would feel? What kind of mess you would have left behind? Because it would have come out. Were you waiting for the hospital visit or did you want to be completely gone from the picture? Let Mom try and explain it to us at your funeral?”
That really gets her going as the moans reach ear-shattering levels and her body shakes from her hysterics.
I’m done.
I hear my name. I hear yelling. What I don’t hear are footsteps behind me and that’s fine. I leave the room. I leave the house. I remove myself from the situation before things get worse besides me destroying a piece of the tacky décor.
My breathing comes out labored the harder and faster my feet pound the pavement. I’ve never been a runner. In fact, I’ve always believed that people who love running are masochists. Especially those who run on treadmills. What’s the point of wearing yourself out, drenching sweat through your pores to be staying in the same place the entire time? Yeah, I don’t get it. But right now? I have a reason to run and I am not holding anything back.