By trade, my father was some kind of doctor. . . or by qualifications, at least, but he no longer worked that job, and had no interest in assessing the pain I was constantly in.
He had another job now, something to do with traffic management. . . something that paid much more than a medical practice. Something he wanted me involved in. Something I knew nothing about. He said that didn’t matter, that my looks would be enough, enough to draw attention, enough to attract those with dollar signs stamped in their blood.
He once told me, during his abuse, he was molding me, creating a future for me that would bring in lots of money, but there were times where my body felt so weak that I felt I wouldn’t even make it to that future. . . but still, he wouldn’t help.
That hurt me.
I needed those thoughts out of my head. I needed all thoughts of him as far away from me as possible.
“It’s time to go inside. Daddy said to be in before six.” I spoke with confidence, acting like I had some idea of the time.
I was the first to my feet, eager not to disappoint my father for the second time today.
Nessie’s little arm waved Jolie inside as she rushed away, leaving her toys in the grass ready for tomorrow’s playdate. . . “Come on, Jolie; we can play upstairs after dinner.”
I left my toys behind, too, following thedelicate footprints my sister left in her shadow.
Jolie’s fingers closed around my arm, stopping me in my tracks. I couldn’t turn my head, but my eyes moved to find her face, pretty and smiling at me. She’d calmed throughout the day, and her tear tracks had faded away. All the while, playing a game that she felt she was too old to partake in.
I twisted my body to hers, and she met me halfway, coming closer than I expected, which had my back snapping straight.
“I never asked if you had a nice birthday?”
“It’s okay. No one ever does. Except Nessie.”
Only ever Nessie, who always woke me on my actual birthday—not the day before—by jumping on my bed and body, singing the song that all loving families sing on someone’s birthday.
Jolie’s face looked pained, as if she couldn’t understand my parents’ lack of love for me. Her mouth opened, and she took a breath, before saying, “Happy birthday, Woodrow.” Her touch rubbed the skin on my arm, and she caused a million little bumps to cover me. Goosebumps. She had given me goosebumps. “I’m sorry. Woody,” she corrected herself.
But he heard his name, said by someone other than Nessie, said by someone who was caring and kind. Someone who spoke with interest.
He needed to get back to the surface. . . and I could feel him again. Feel him coming around for her.
A gentle breeze caught us, the scent of daisies whirling around us. Around me, just like her words.
I blinked once, twice. I felt dizzy, confused. My heavy eyelids struggled to lift as a headache formed. Memories faded, altering into someone else’s. . . and then I was gone, replaced by the person whose broken mind had created me, unintentionally.
“Thank you,” I spoke as Woodrow, and she smiled like she noticed and liked the deeper tone of my voice.
Woodrow
The dinner table was full again. Full of delicious things that I couldn’t eat.
Prayers had been spoken, the meals had been blessed, the Lord had been thanked.
My family were already digging into fried chicken on the bone, ripping the meat apart like scavengers. Jolie was yet to take a bite. Her big brown eyes peeped from her head’s dipped position. She was watching me, wondering why the fuck I was limited to lukewarm soup, rice, and mushed bananas–things that didn’t even look right sitting next to each other on my giant plate. Such a splendid birthday meal. Though, I guess that was yesterday, and I was grateful for the change to mashed potatoes.
“Is everything all right with your meal, Jolie?” my mother’s eyes squinted across the table, her voice as sharp as the knife sawing through her meat.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. . .” Jolie trailed off as I shoved a chunk of banana into my mouth, smooshing the small chunk into an even smaller piece with my brutal tongue, ensuring a safe swallow.
“If you have questions, it’s okay to ask.”
Jolie shook her head in response, lifting a French fry to her mouth, filling the space with something other than words.
“He has a tumor,” my mother regarded the issue with my throat, shrugging as she said the words, as if they were meaningless.
The tumor was nothing more than a fatty lump that caused pain and discomfort—a punishment from God, for the sins I was yet to commit, was how she described it. . . but it didn’t feel that way to me, and it hadn’t been checked out in years, and it had definitely grown in that time.
