They both look sophisticated but stabby for all the right reasons.I love it—well, my violent side does.A far cry from orange jumpers and shower slides, they make it work.Look at me, a college graduate with assault charges, felons for parents, and problematic mental health.
The restaurant they chose is stuffy, packed with people in suits and perfumes that rival potpourri.After being seated at a table with white linens, candles, and too many forks, I notice the near-ski resort type decor: mounted game, antler chandeliers, rustic accents, and a bar with a full wine cellar attached to the far left.
I instantly hate it.Dress it down and my memories threaten to squirt like the very arterial blood and synovial fluid that’s drenched with abused nostalgia.
“Welcome to Savage Fork Steakhouse.I’ll be your chaperone for the evening.My name’s Hannah.If you have any dietary restrictions, please let me know.Right now, might I suggest a glass of wine to compliment an hors d'oeuvre of your choice?”
“No thank you, we don’t drink,” Dad cuts in.
Without missing a beat, Hannah opens the single menu to flamboyantly describe an appetizer that she promises will melt across our tongues and leave us yearning for more.
“The venison roll ups are to die for.As one of our more popular treats, you’ll experience bacon marbled with buttery fat and the kick of jalapeño, all wrapped with venison, a bite of mozzarella, topped with a tangy molasses Dijon.”
Dad’s eyes light up at the mention of mozzarella.“That sounds great, an order of those.”
“Great choice.Here’s the entree menu.”She passes one to each of us.“I’ll be right back with your beverages and hors d’oeuvre.”
Hannah walks away, leaving us alone with the extensive menu which spans seafood, wild game, sixteen-dollar salads, and family-style sides.I couldn’t care less about the main courses; my eyes are on the dessert and coffee selection at the back.I would kill for a crème brûlée and macchiato—who am I kidding, I’ve killed for less.Mom ends up getting a steakhouse cobb salad and Dad goes for the surf & turf, while I salivate over the chicken piccata.
The staff are overly attentive and put on quite an experience for each table.A few tables have carts standing beside them with metal dishes holding God knows what.Others have a bartender performing garish drink pours as pot-bellied men look on unimpressed, their counterparts wrapped up in the spectacle.
I can’t say the same for our table.We keep things nice and low-key to avoid my personal theatrics—sucks they have to act differently around me.I wish we all could just be ourselves, but I’m not sure who the hell ‘myself’ is.
We’re halfway into our main course, the venison roll ups having disappeared within seconds of being sat on our table, when they start talking about the baby.I can’t help the green monster inside of me—she’s envious our parents will be there for baby Kaleb.I wanted them when I was tiny.When I was thirsting for a familiar love and the embrace of family.Instead, they were gone either by choice or by effect; now someone else gets to have them for their entire life when I’m hanging onto threads.
Irrationally, I’m furious and it’s all their fault.They left me behind.They gave me away to people who could never love me the way birth parents could—they would have fought harder if they had really loved me.There’s no wrapping my head around the situation.I was simply abandoned.
Now they have a shiny new baby coming in to give them the life they actually wanted, and I’m just a byproduct of dumb fucking decisions and desperation.They spent years ruining their lives, and though their suffering is over, I’m the castoff while they happily move on.
Stuffing forkful after forkful into my mouth, scraping my teeth against the metal prongs of my cutlery, I ignore any attempts they make to include me in their conversation.This isn’t about me.Yhis isn’t my day; it’s another where they can flaunt the family they’ve always wanted in the faces of others.I’m the odd one out, the dark child, the one who should have never been.
“Sadie…” Dad’s voice sharpens, pulling me out of the green smog of jealousy.
“What?”I’m quick to snap.
A pause perforates the air as if I just emptied a full clip of rounds into the crowded room.This time, he’s more reserved when he speaks, but I don’t care.I want to leave, to nest with my demons and forget I exist.
“Your mom asked if you’ve decided what you want to do with your degree.”
Surprise, surprise, I’m the topic of discussion now.Let’s see how long that lasts.
“No, I haven’t.I can technically take the state board exam to get my psychologist license but I’m not ready.I want practical application first.”I’ve rehearsed this answer a hundred times and haven’t believed a fucking word.They do, though, and as long as it keeps them from asking more questions, that’s fine with me.
There’s no telling what the hell I will get myself into now that college is likely over.I may disappear and horrify people with Kate.I could always track down that serial killer my mom’s obsessed with and see if he needs a sidekick, or I could run some sort of dominatrix ring—torment people with the whips and chains.Then when I return home, behind closed doors, the memory of their screams can force me to my knees.
The possibilities are endless, knowing where my path leads is unknown.Robert Frost urges the road not taken, but that could be catastrophic for me.One where the path is more worn, where others have traveled before may be the one that keeps me on track, but the other teases its mystery.
Reminds me ofBeauty and the Beast, where Philippe heads toward the illuminated road while Maurice takes the short cut.Is taking the path less traveled a better choice, or is there another monster hiding at the end—ready to consume all I am?
“Does that mean you’re going to get a job?You know you don’t have to.We're capable of covering everything while you take on an internship or something,” Mom asks.
“I’m not sure.It could be either, whatever the practice offers.I haven’t looked yet, been focused on studying and getting through my finals,” I lie.
“Well, that’s better than nothing.You’ll figure it out, Sugar.Just give it time.”
Tick tock, tick tock.The timekeeper strikes again.
“In the meantime, you’ll need to get to and from if you’re hired anywhere beyond walking distance.”Dad changes the subject like a fresh pair of underwear—still warm and crisp out of the dryer.
