When Reality Crushes the Imaginary
Once I’ve calmed down, I sneak out of my room to let Maxie out to potty and make sure he has food. Jackson must be in his room, as the door is shut. The house is so quiet, and it scares me a little because I’m haunted by the sounds of the fight earlier. My mind keeps replaying Jackson saying “humping posts” over and over again. I can’t get that awful phrase out of my head. I want to wash the words away with vinegar, scratch them off my brain with sandpaper. That’s all I’m good for. My tears don’t know when to quit. They spring out like the juice from a freshly cut ripe tomato. Maxie runs back up to the sliding glass door, and I let him into the house. A light dusting of snow has fallen since the fight. I stare out at the glittery moonlit snow, wishing Mom were here right now. I feel so brittle, like new-puddle-ice-in-the-street brittle. I need her. If only …
Jackson clears his throat from behind me. I whip around. Damn. He heard me come out of my room. I wish I didn’t have to face him. I look at the ground, then raise my eyes because I have no choice. He’s not moving.
With his hands raised, palms toward me, he says, “Landra, I’m so sorry. I imagined him … hurting you, and … well, you know, forcing … ” He shakes his head, shrugs. He doesn’t say it. “And I totally went ballistic. Just can’t stand guys like that.” He steps toward me, hugs me. I can count on one hand how many times in my life I remember Jackson hugging me. This is number four.
He holds my head to his massive chest and strokes my hair. “You deserve way better, Landra. Way better.” He stops. “You don’t have to tell me, just let me know if you are OK or not. Are you?”
I nod against his chest and my tears wet his shirt. I step back. “Still have that grilled cheese in the fridge, or did you eat it?”
“It’s there, but can I make you a fresh one? It will taste better. I’ll eat the old one.” He smiles.
I nod and try a half smile. It sort of works. I sit at the table as my brother makes me a hot grilled cheese, the smell of which makes me hungrier than I’ve felt in years.
“Jenna’s coming over. Why don’t the three of us watch a movie or play Uno or something?”
“Maybe,” I say. He sets the gooey sandwich in front of me. I take a bite, and it’s amazingly good. It makes me cry harder.
“That bad?” he asks.
“No, it’s amazing.” I smile. A real one. And I finish the entire sandwich in no time flat. I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, so it tastes like heaven. The sandwich makes me super sleepy. “I think I just need to go to bed. But thanks for the offer, and tell Jenna I said hey.”
Jackson is washing the frying pan at the sink. “I will. And if you change your mind, we will be here. OK?”
“Yep. OK.” I walk out of the kitchen but stop and turn back. “Thank you, Jackson. Thanks for everything.”
In my room I sit on my bed. I pet Maxie, and he takes a turn giving me licks. Then I cuddle into my pillows, putting some on both sides of me, and I fall asleep in record time.
I wake up to some sun coming in around the edges of my blinds. The images of Jackson and Hunter fighting outside my window, or rather Jackson hitting Hunter, immediately flood my head. I can’t believe yesterday happened. I can’t believe I ever believed Hunter would like me for me.
It’s Sunday, and Dad is coming home today. Maybe his surprise will cheer me up. I could use a trip to Florida or somewhere hot. I grab my phone from my bedside drawer. I put it there last night because I was tired of hearing it buzz from Hunter’s texts. I scroll through them. He’s sent me twenty-one texts. I set my phone down—not gonna read them. A fresh text comes in. It’s from Becca.
Becca: U up?
Allandra: Yep.
Becca: Sorry, did I wake U?
Allandra: No. I was up.
Becca: U doing OK?
Allandra: No. Jackson and Hunter had a fight in my front yard yesterday. Jackson smashed Hunter’s face into a bloody pulp. Hunter has texted me like 45 times since and I’m ignoring them all.
Becca: Wait! What? I’m calling you right effing now.
My phone buzzes with her call.
“Hello,” I say.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am totally serious. Jackson punched Hunter in the face and kicked him in the gut.”
“No fucking way. Holy shit!”
“I know, right?”
“Wow.”
“Yes, and you know how big my brother is. One punch, and Hunter was on the ground.”
I touch my stomach, hoping it will calm down and not spew last night’s grilled cheese all over my bed.
“I can imagine, with your brother’s muscles. Hol-y crap. Wait, but you told Jackson he didn’t do anything to you, right?”
“He knows. Hunter yelled it. But clearly Jackson didn’t believe him. Hunter claims he was just going to let his friends think he was going to ‘F and F’ me, but he was never going to do it.”
“You believe him?”
“I want to, but I don’t know that I do.” I sigh. “It was so awful to watch them, Becca. I can’t even tell you.” Fresh tears. Damn.
“I bet.”
“I never expected Jackson to stand up for me like that.”
“Right. Big bro is growing up, I guess.”
“Guess so. He even made me a grilled cheese yesterday,” I say.
“Self-absorbed Hulk of a pretty boy Jackson cooked for you? Sorry, sweets, but your bro, he is mega hot, and him taking care of you makes him even hotter. That boy’s like NFL-pro-gone-movie-star hot … ” She pauses.
“Ugh, Becca.” I cover my left eye with my left palm.
“Sorry—got lost in thoughts of him in front of a stove.” She laughs. “But really? Wow. He cooked for you. And you ate it?”
“Yep. He made me two of them. One I ate, and the other he ended up eating.”
“Shock me the fuck up!”
I laugh.
She says, “But hey, seriously, strong work eating it, my love. Landra, you can do this.”
“I know I can. Especially with your help.”
“I’m here for you any day, any fucking time, my tiny luscious babe of a friend.”
“Since when do you think about Jackson like that?” I ask.
“Since pretty boy is showing his maternal side,” Becca says with a laugh.
“Ew.”
She just laughs. “Gotta go. Text ya later.”
“Yep, bye.”
I’m working on homework when there is a knock on my door.
Dad comes into my room. “Hi,” he says.
I jump up and run to give him a hug, like I used to when I was eight. “Hi, Dad,” I say.
“Wow, wish I could get that kind of a reaction every time I come home.” He smiles. I don’t know how I missed that the skin around his eyes is wrinkling so much.
“How was the trip?” I ask.
“Good. Got a lot accomplished I’d been working on for a long time.” He pets Maxie. “Hi, Maxie, how’s my doggie?” Maxie gives him about a hundred licks on the face, and Dad lets him like he always does. “Don’t need to wash my face now!” Dad laughs, his blue-green eyes sizzling with love for our furry little family member.
I smile. “I’m glad you are home.”
“How did things go here? Anything wild and crazy happen? Jackson throw any massive parties I don’t want to know about?”
“Nope. Nothing. Been super dull. School. Ya know. Homework.” I smile through my whole lie. I’m a damn good liar—not my proudest talent.
“Hmm … not sure I believe you.” He smirks. “How did your date go? I really wish I’d been here to meet him. Next time.”
“No next time, Dad. It’s over.”
“Oh? So quickly?” he asks. “Everything OK there?”
“Yep. He just wasn’t who I thought he was, so I’m done.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK.” Even though, really, it’s not.
“Come upstairs. I have that surprise I told you about.”
Yay! Mom will love to find out about this. Key West or Costa Rica, here we come! I hope. Always wanted to go both those places. As I follow Dad upstairs, I hear kitchen sounds, which is odd. Jackson is cooking again?
“Allandra, I want you to meet Christine.” Dad waves at her like she’s a miraculous new prize.
Jackson is at the table eating a three-high-stacked pile of chocolate chip cookies, grinning like a four-year-old. He has a giant glass of milk in the other hand.
I come to a dead stop. Please don’t tell me she is the surprise? I hold my breath for three seconds. “Hi,” I say, barely audible. Can’t believe he dared to bring her into our home. Her smile might be pretty to Dad—to me it looks like it belongs to a hungry cobra, emanating from a face with a complexion too perfect to be real. Her blush in the exact right spots on her cheeks and not a single dark-blond hair is out of place. A fake woman, like a computer animation.
“It’s so nice to meet you! Both of you. Seth has told me so much about you two. I’m super excited to finally meet you.” Her smile is too cheerleader-ish. It makes me sick to my stomach. I think I might just vomit right here in front of her sickening smile.
Queasy, I hold my gut. Shit. I might really throw up. Like, for real. As Becca says, I just need a carrot.
“I’d like to make us all dinner tonight, if that’s OK with you two?” She smiles, revealing perfectly white teeth. Perfect for biting. “Right now, I’m whipping up a brunch, Allandra. You hungry?”
“I’m in,” Jackson says with a broad smile. Any mention of food bribes Jackson, so he’s easily convinced. Damn, he likes her already.
“Allandra?” Dad asks.
“I don’t care,” I say. I’m trying to keep my jaw from dropping.
“Great!” she says with way too much perk.
Puke. Acid rising up my throat, I rush off to the bathroom. I think it’s coming, but I haven’t eaten anything since the grilled cheese, and I so don’t want to see it in the toilet. The bathroom smells bad, which makes me feel worse. The rotten smell says “Jackson was here and took a dump.” I flip on the fan, hoping it will lift the stink fast. I sit on the fluffy sage rug in front of the toilet and rummage for air freshener under the sink to cut the stink. I already don’t like this Christine. She’s a force in our house, and she’s only been here five minutes.
Besides, imaginary moms are so much easier to control. I throw up nothing in the toilet but a tiny speck of what looks like the remains of grilled cheese. It’s more of a rot-gut painful retch than much solidness with chunks. Thank goodness no major chunks. At least that’s something positive.
I hear a knock at the door. “You OK in there?” It’s Dad.
“Yeah, just feeling a little queasy.”
“Do you need anything?” he asks with a voice choked full of concern.
I sigh. “No, I’m good.”
“OK, let me know. I can help.”
Sure, now he can help. Like he’s just opened his eyes to the fact that I’m visible, in real need. Putting on a show for the cobra Christine.
If only you were real, Mom, you could help me. Young kids have an imaginary friend. I made you up, an imaginary Mom. So what? After your death, the days slipped into months, and months into years, and no one noticed me not eating, especially not you, fake Mom. No one noticed me alone. Not Dad. Not Jackson. No one, really, but Becca.
Sitting on the rug, I stare at my hands and wonder if mine look like my mom’s did. I don’t remember them. There aren’t any good pictures of her hands, so I will never get to know if my hands look like hers. My face looks a bit like her face, in the few pictures we framed. I don’t know what her hands liked to do other than cook. Dad used to tell me about her cooking. Maybe I wouldn’t have turned out like this if she had been here to cook for me all these years.
I stand, swish my mouth out with mouthwash. The mint tastes fake, like metal-flavored gum. Or maybe it’s just my mouth. It’s sort of dysfunctional in my life, because it won’t eat like everyone else. I stare at my face, searching for my mom inside me. You must be in me somewhere, right Mom? How else would I have imagined you so well for almost half my life? If only I could remember your touch or the joy I see on your face in the picture on Dad’s dresser. If I could remember your laugh or the sound of your voice, even. Do you have to go away now that Christine is here?
There’s another knock at the door.
“Allandra, are you OK in there?” It’s Dad again.
“Yes, Dad. I’m fine.” I pause. Sniff. Sigh. Smooth my shirt perfect as if that smooths all of me perfect, just wipes off all of the pain, the worry, and the hurt—everyone likes a good girl. Then I open the door.
“I’m worried about you,” Dad says. “Are you feeling sick?”
Yes, for about six years now, Dad, in case you haven’t noticed. “I’m fine.”
“Good. Come back in the kitchen and we can all enjoy a drink while Christine is cooking.”
Barf. That sounds horrible. All of it.
He puts his arm around my shoulders and guides me back into the kitchen.
“She’s all good now,” Dad says, smiling at Christine.
She beams a smile back at him. “Oh, good,” she says, still smiling. Who is this woman standing in our kitchen? She hands me a mug of hot chocolate with a peppermint stick in it. “Here you go, honey.” And she’s still smiling.
“Homemade by Christine.” Dad cannot stop smiling.
“Got any more?” Jackson asks. “I’m dry.”
“Oh, of course I do.” Christine almost runs as she goes over to grab his mug, holding our teapot in her hand.
She made hot chocolate in the teapot? Hope she washed it. I don’t think it’s been used in years and years. Probably bug legs and flour beetle body parts or poop, decayed and disgusting, rotting in the bottom of it. I search my steaming cup for floaties and shudder.
Dad pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit. We haven’t all sat at the table together in literally years. Can’t even remember when. This all feels so odd, like I just fell into someone else’s life. Jackson is to my left, Dad to my right. Christine is at the counter chopping some vegetables. I can’t even remember the last time all three of us sat down to enjoy anything together at this table. It was probably a mom-less holiday I’ve completely blocked out or the last time Mom made us all a meal. A meal I don’t even remember because I was only nine. I guess nine is not old enough to remember things like a mom’s hands or her laugh. How did I see her for nine years and not manage to hold on to those memories?
“Go on, try it,” Dad urges. “It’s amazing hot cocoa.”
This feels like a dream. Dad smiling at me at the table, asking me to try something. Like actually partake in a beverage.
I almost pinch myself awake. Take a tiny sip of the steaming brown stuff, hoping bug legs don’t tickle my throat. It tastes like chocolate, mint, and cream. It’s actually very delicious.
“Good, right?” Dad asks. He even claps his hands, game-show-host style. Hello, Twilight Zone.
“Yeah, it’s good.” I wish it weren’t.
Dad smiles, and even the creases around his eyes look happy.
“How was the last part of the school week?” Dad asks.
Hmmm … Dad seems so cheery, but it’s not making me feel good.
“Bad,” I say. “It was school.”
Dad laughs. Christine giggles.
I didn’t think what I said was in any way funny.
Jackson and I exchange a secret look, both of us tight-lipped.
“Do you kids like roasted vegetables?” Christine asks us, knife tip pointed toward the ceiling.
“Yes,” Jackson says. He seems to be enjoying this a little too much. Traitor.
“Sure,” I say.
“Well, you will love these. One of my specialties.” A curl falls forward off her shoulder as she begins to chop again, and the hair strand jiggles as she presses down the knife. “It’s the best marinade recipe.”
I take another sip from my mug. The creamy liquid warms my insides enough to maybe succeed in some real comfort—maybe I can smile and really mean it. So, I do. Success.