Something Missing
Something Missing
I was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening. As I carefully took note of every crack, every crevice, every imperfection in the white space above me, I tried to block out the harsh sounds that played on my ears.
They were fighting again. Shouting and cursing at each other. Just like always.
At first the words were muffled. Only incomprehensible, indistinguishable gibberish, just voice inflections, mostly. A soft, feminine voice that sounded pleading was overpowered by an accusatory masculine voice. Then, suddenly, there was silence. A door was thrown open.
With stunning clarity, the weak female voice cried, "I can't believe you would do something like that!" The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but didn't quite recognize it. It sounded like Mom, but Mom was stronger than this incarnation of a woman, who sounded quiet and delicate, as if she would break if only rocked slightly by the gentle wind.
Unfortunately, gale force winds were racing towards here. "You were asking for it!" roared a deep male voice, exasperated and impatient. I recognized this voice, albeit a little reluctantly. I knew it was my father, or, rather, more accurately, a mutated form of the man who looked like Daddy, only with his temper raging.
"I did nothing!" cried the weak, cracking voice. "This is a marriage, Jake. That means we share things. We compromise!" She paused to gather strength. "You don't just go around and do whatever you want. You should have discussed this with me first."
"We're discussing it now!" The deep voice sounded frustrated.
"We should have discussed it before!"
My attention drifted to the argument against my will. I tried with all my strength to focus on the blemishes on my ceiling, but it was to no avail.
"Well, I'm sorry, Alice," said the male voice at last, quietly, calmly, but not quite sincerely. "I'm sorry. I had to seize the opportunity. You understand."
"I don't. I can't. You do this too often. You take, Jake, you never give. That's not a relationship. This is not a marriage. And I just can't give anymore."
"What are you saying, Alice?" The frustrated, deep voice sounded genuinely worried. I was too. I was worried that at any minute my parents would walk past my bedroom and realize that I wasn't asleep yet, that I had heard everything. I was worried that they were arguing over something I had done. But most of all, I was worried about the words that I somehow knew would fall out of Mom's mouth.
"I can't do this anymore, Jake. I can't give anymore. I can't fight anymore. I want a divorce."
"What?!" I'm not sure who said that. It might have been me. It might have been Daddy. It might have been both of us.
"I want a divorce," Mom said more firmly. "I want out. I can't handle this anymore."
A foreign, but distinctly unpleasant feeling crept up my insides, playing malevolent games with stomach. I rolled over in bed and pulled the pillow over my head. Maybe if I blocked it out, the feeling would go away.
It didn't. I rolled back over and closed my eyes. It was silent and still for a long time. Maybe I had dreamed the fight. Hope teased my brain for a little while, but was soon defeated by the uneasiness that had now spread through my body like a rapidly metastasizing cancer.
The house was quiet, and I think that's what disturbed me most of all.
*****
That was ten years ago. The rest of that year is sort of a blur. I faintly remember packing up all of my worldly possessions into cardboard boxes and hastily throwing them in the trunk of Mom's old blue Buick. Mom and I were packed in the car tightly, fighting to breathe among the boxes, a lifetime's worth of bitter memories. The car made rickety noises as it creaked slowly down the street, both because of its overwhelming weight and its age. My mother drove with a look of conviction such as I have never seen on her before nor since.
She brought me to this apartment that I'd never been to before, and expected me to accept it unconditionally as my new home.
"But what happened to our old house?" I remember asking. I don't think I ever got a satisfactory reply.
I remember Daddy calling us that very first night at the apartment. He tried to explain in simple terms that I wouldn't be living in the same house as him anymore. I asked him why. Again, no satisfactory reply.
And my questions go unanswered to this day, as I sit in front of the mirror, gazing absently at my reflection. I don't remember what I'm getting ready for. If I had to guess, based on the absent look on my face, I'd think I was getting ready for a funeral. Yeah, that's it; I'm going to my funeral.
"Elise, are you almost ready?" calls Mom from her bedroom.
"Almost, Mom," I reply.
"That's good, dear. We have to be at the school in twenty minutes."
That's right! I'm going to school! Tonight's that awards assembly. I'm receiving an award for excellence in academics. Seems I've managed to make the honor role for eight consecutive semesters. That is, if I don't blow it this semester. Wouldn't that be ironic?
I've worked hard over the last four years. I've surpassed all expectations. Daddy always told me that it didn't matter if I got straight A's. The most important thing was that I always tried my hardest. So I always have. I always put in the maximum effort for my Daddy.
I can remember back to when I was six. My mother was a housewife then, so she would always be around during the day; we would bake cookies and watch movies and play with my dolls. That my mother was always around was something I took for granted to a certain degree, because I knew that she would always be there to take care of me. My father, on the other hand, worked long hours, and some days I didn't see him at all. But I can remember sitting on the floor of the living room with my collection of dolls strewn about on the floor and the day fading fast outside my window when Daddy would come home. The first thing he would do would be to throw his briefcase on the little table in the foyer, and then run at me and scoop me into his arms. Sometimes he would have presents for me, usually small things - a new brush, a key chain, a barrette. I used to cherish the time we spent together.
When he got remarried, I saw much less of him. He had to devote his time to his new family, which is understandable. After all, that family is all his, and I am only his every other weekend.
His wife is an intelligent woman. She graduated from the University of Wisconsin, or Michigan, or one of those big Midwestern schools, summa cum laude, and her framed diploma is still hanging on the wall near the master bedroom of their house. She has a Ph.D. in biology. Daddy's got a Ph.D., too. Maybe that's why their son, Anthony, is so bright. He gets A's just by existing. My mother pales in comparison; she has an English degree and has done mostly secretarial work. I guess that is why I am so dumb. Bad genes, I guess, but what can you do? I have to work hard for everything.
The phone is ringing. Maybe I should answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Elise! It's Dad."
"Hi, Daddy! What's up? How was the Cub Scout camp-out last weekend?"
"Oh, it was great. Tony had a blast. Geez, that kid is really wearing me out. He had soccer practice the next morning. I had to drive him there on two hours of sleep. I've been such a zombie since then. I think I fell asleep during his tee-ball game yesterday."
I laugh. Tony's a handful, all right. He plays three sports, is just completing his third year in Cub Scouts, and takes swimming lessons every Saturday morning. Daddy and Marie make sure that at least one of them is at every one of his events.
"So why are you calling, Daddy? You're coming to the awards assembly, right?"
There is a long pause. That uneasy feeling, now a common occurrence, seizes control of my stomach.
As it continues to conquer other internal organs, Daddy says, "Well, honey, I'm real sorry, but I don't think I'll be able to come tonight."
My heart falls to my feet. I'm disappointed, but not really surprised. This is becoming routine. Daddy says, "Sorry, Ellie, I can't come to ______ tonight, because ______. I'm real sorry. I'll come to the next thing. I promise."
I don't even know why I put the effort into forming the word, "why." But I waste my energy anyway, and I get the usual generic response.
"Marie had to work late, so I have to take care of Anthony. And the assembly probably wouldn't end until nine. If I drive home afterwards, it'll be ten-thirty before I get Tony to bed. That's too late on a school night."
I roll my eyes and reply with an equally generic, unemotional response.
"It's okay. I understand. You have no control over it."
Daddy sighs with relief without realizing I can hear him. "So, no hard feelings, Ellie?"
I turn my face from the phone, and sigh, letting my emotions drip out, so that he won't be able to hear the disappointment in my voice. "No hard feelings," I say at last.
"Oh, thank God. I was worried you'd be disappointed. And I'm really sorry I missed your piano recital last month. But I promise I'll come to the next thing."
"I know dad. I'll give you a call later, okay. I have to finish getting ready."
"'Kay. Later. I love you, sweetie."
"I know you do, Dad."
I place the phone back in its cradle. I let my hand sit there for a long time. I just sort of stare at it, allowing my gaze to shift from my newly manicured nails to my arm and back into the mirror.
"Dad's not coming!" I shout to Mom.
"That's what I thought," she replies dryly. "Are you ready, Ellie?"
"As I'll ever be."
I run a brush through my hair one last time, then sit back in my chair. Why do I bother? Who am I trying to impress? Mom would be just as happy with me if I made C's. No one ever said I had to get A's. Just try my hardest. Daddy doesn't even care. He never shows up for anything. I think he's been to three piano recitals out of the last eight. He didn't come to the last awards assembly. He probably won't even come to graduation.
By myself. I did all of this by myself. But for who? For what?
I still search for an answer to any one of these questions as I get into Mom's car and we drive to school. I sit in the back of the auditorium with Mom. I spent an hour doing my hair and makeup so that I would look nice when I received my award. And I do, as I glide across the stage and accept the certificate with a hollow smile. I see a flash, and know that it is Mom, taking my picture, so she can mail it to everyone in her family, to show how impressed they should all be with me.
As we drive home, Mom turns to me and smiles genuinely. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart."
"Thanks, Mom."
"So how does it feel to have this award. What's it say? 'This award is presented to Elise Robinson, for outstanding academic achievement.' Well, that certainly sounds impressive. How does it feel, Ellie?"
"It feels great, Mom. It really does."
"Then why are you so glum?"
I search for an answer for a long time. As usual, nothing satisfactory comes to mind. "I don't know, Mom," I say at last. "I guess that... well, I guess there's just... something missing."
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