Family
By al.white
- 475 reads
My family is broken. Usually we eat dinner in the dining room, all of us together. Mom and Dad talk about their days, and try to force my brothers to share about theirs. They usually don’t want to - giving short responses and trying to rush through their meat and mashed potatoes. Andrew hates potatoes. When he thinks Mom isn’t looking, he gives them to me.
Today there is silence, and someone is missing. Dad isn’t home yet and I don’t know why - nobody tells me anything anymore. It wasn’t always this way. My brothers and I used to play soccer after dinner, then walk down the road to the little corner store owned by the Chinese man, to get chips. I am the cutest and sometimes he gives me a treat. Mom used to take me with her when she went to the store, and Dad would sit me on his lap when we got home, to watch the game. Now, everybody keeps to themselves. I don’t know what to make of it.
The room is nearly silent while everybody eats. I look down at my food and am disappointed to see that it is cold, but I don’t complain. The sound of forks scraping on porcelain fills the room and sends a shiver down my spine. Maybe it is the cold - across the room the sliding door is half open, allowing a gust of autumn air to sweep through the parlour and chill us. It seems appropriate, considering the stony silence that envelops the family. Mom gets up to clear the table and I notice she has barely touched her food.
When my brothers are done they go their separate ways. I hesitate, unsure of whether to follow Marcus through the front door, or venture upstairs to visit Andrew. Marcus grabs his hockey stick which leans against the wall in the foyer, next to the shoe rack. He barely spares me a second glance as he pulls open the door and steps outside to join his friends. I feel a pang of hurt, but try not to take it personally. Maybe he thinks I would just get in the way.
Rejected, I turn around and go upstairs. The door to Andrew’s room is open, but so is the one to Mom and Dad’s. It is cold and dark at the top of the landing - the chocolate brown paint on the walls was supposed to add warmth, but I never cared for the colour. Mom painted it herself last year, back when the family was whole and we ate dinner, took trips, and laughed together. Always together. Now, everyone separates in the evenings and the family room is dark and silent. I don’t like it, but just as with the colour of the wall I know my opinion doesn’t matter.
There is a faint click sound and the wall at the end of the hall is suddenly alive. Light and colour flicker across the surface, going black then starting up again in time with the music spewing from the room. I hear a tinny sort of laughter and know that Mom is watching her program in bed. I used to love that bed - I guess I still do, but I am not allowed in there much anymore. When I was younger I would frequently awake in the middle of the night, lonely and afraid. I would sneak up the stairs and push open the door, taking care not to wake my parents, and crawl up deftly onto the bed and snuggle under the duvet right between them. It was safe and warm, and secure. Now Dad doesn’t sleep there and the bed feels too empty. I think Mom is lonely but she still tries to insist that I sleep downstairs - she thinks I am too clingy, and need to stand on my own. Maybe she is right.
I decide to check on Andrew. Creeping up to the door, I peek my head around and find him sitting on his bed, playing a game. The console is across the room, near the television, and the cords that connect the controller to the screen are stretched out in a tangled mess across the carpet. His room is untidy, and I need to step over socks, baseball caps and pencils to reach the bed. He spares me a fleeting glance and smiles weakly, but his eyes return almost immediately to the noisy box across the room. His mouth is slack as he taps on the controller, then his brow furrows and he curses as the little man dies on the screen. Mom would be mad if she heard him say things like that.
I sit myself gently on the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t seem to notice my presence so I let out a little sigh, and watch the familiar, freckled face for a sign that he sees me. He remains mute, and I invisible, so I edge myself a little closer to him, hoping he will put the controller down and play with me like he used to when we were young. I sigh once more, hoping to get his attention. His gaze never falters from the screen.
Rejected once more, I get up and leave the room. Andrew doesn’t say anything, so I pad quietly down the hall to Mom’s room now. She is laying on top of the covers in her grey robe, her eyes glassy and glued to the television. The skin beneath them is puffy and pink, I can tell she has been crying and I wish I could help. I remember a time when I was the sensitive one - the baby of the family that everyone coddled. I was afraid of the dark, of thunderstorms, of the bully next door. Mom was always there for me, and now I wish I could be there for her, too. I creep timidly forward, watching her face carefully for a sign of recognition, and gently kiss her hand, which hangs limply off the side of the bed. She grazes my cheek lightly with her fingertips, but does not invite me to join her, or even say a word. I feel young and insignificant, so I leave her to her program and step out into the hall.
Dad still isn’t home so I am out of family members to bother. I hop down the steps one at a time, having nowhere in particular to go and trying to make a game out of it. When I reach the bottom I steal one last glance upstairs - as if I hope that Andrew will come bounding down, soccer ball tucked under his arm and ask me if I want to go play. Or that maybe Mom will call my name, and invite me to curl up on the bed next to her and listen to her heartbeat, like I did when I was small. There is only silence, so I turn around and walk away.
My footsteps echo dully on the tiles as I walk past the kitchen and into the laundry room. It is dusty and dark in here, but also small and cozy and safe. My bed is in the corner and I curl up on it, trying to make myself as small as possible - as small as I already feel. My feet are dirty from the tile, so I lick my paw slowly, and in silence. I can hear the sound of cars going down the street behind the house, off in the distance. I perk my ears and listen intently, hoping that any minute now I will hear the groan of the garage door opening, and I will know that Dad has come home at last. I imagine that he will bring treats, and Andrew and Mom will come downstairs, and Marcus will return from his hockey game next door. Maybe we will all pile onto the couch in the living room to watch a movie, and Mom will make popcorn and Andrew will sneak me pieces under the table when he thinks no one else can see. But the street grows silent and the groan of the door never comes.
My family is broken, and I don’t know why.
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Comments
This one had me hooked, al..
This one had me hooked, al...and it wasn't until right at the end I twigged;-) Well penned and very enjoyable;-)
Tina
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