Abigail wove through the pedestrians on the sidewalk, increasing the distance between them, her lean image shrinking, back erect, arms swinging, head high, eyes ahead, never looking back, her stride shouting self-reliance as if she knew that everything she had been longing for was spilling out and spreading before her. God, she was still a looker—filling her dress like Glen Scotia fills a bottle of excellent scotch. He wanted to dash after her, promise her that things would be different, promise her anything—like always.
He remembered a night not long ago when she had said, “I need you, Brian.” He had arrived home late again and was thumbing through the mail on the kitchen counter. He smirked at that, answering, “Yeah, well, I need to come home to a wife who doesn’t bitch every time I’m late.”
She had kept her cool but grabbed her purse and keys and left him to his mail. Funny how he thought she’d be back in an hour or so after she cooled down or warmed back up or whatever the hell she did after a good bitching. She hadn’t returned until after midnight. He waited for her in their bedroom, but she never came. She had chosen the guestroom instead, while their daughter Christian faintly snored in her room down the hall.
Preoccupied with these thoughts, he maneuvered through the five o’clock traffic, remembering nothing about the drive home, praying he hadn’t run a red light or broken any laws. That’s all he needed. He switched off the engine in his driveway, wishing he could so easily switch off this whining feeling in his gut and the throbbing in his head. His clammy hands felt numb and exhausted from the drive. How would he do this, he thought, laying his head against the steering wheel. He sat there, eyes closed, his breaths short and frantic. Then came the tap on the window.
“Mr. Talbot, Mr. Talbot,” the sitter, Mrs. Welborn, yelled, still tapping the window. “I’ve got to go. You okay?”
He didn’t want to move, even though the steering wheel was hard and unforgiving against his forehead. Sitting up, he opened the car door. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, getting out and standing beside Mrs. Welbourn, who looked at the house rather than him.
“Before you go in, I need to tell you what happened. It’s nothing bad, but Christian, well, you know how she can be, sir. She found that tear on the couch, you know the one she cut Monday with the scissors?” She paused here, and he nodded so she would carry on. “Well, she dug her finger into it and, before I knew it, pulled most of the stuffing out. You sure you’re okay, sir?”
“Just a headache,” he said, rubbing his temples
“I tried to get her cleaned up, but—”
“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Welbourn.”
She started for her car but stopped after a few steps. “You understand why I can’t come every day? It’s just that …she’s more than an old woman like me can handle.”
“I understand.”
Mrs. Welbourn skidded off in her Skylark, the worn-out muffler wailing through the neighborhood. Brian checked the mailbox, ignoring The Talbots Abigail had painted in bright green last summer when she planted the flowering vine growing up the pole and around the box. Bees fluttered and buzzed around the trumpet-shaped blooms, but he didn’t pull back. They could sting him no worse than he’d already been stung.
His house looked majestic, with its six round columns holding up the front porch where oversized rockers hauntingly swayed beneath two whirling ceiling fans. Enormous ferns flowed over the concrete planters on both sides of the front door. It was as if, at this moment, he recognized how meticulously Abigail had created the perfect cozy picture for the world, and he didn’t want to leave it, afraid to face his child.
“You don’t know how it is because you’re never home,” Abigail said one night after he asked why she was on the floor crying.
He had arrived home far after dinner, after Christian’s bedtime, and Abigail was still picking up from Christian’s latest episode. He had planned on telling her he was sorry for being late again and that he’d make it up to her, but her accusations pissed him off. “Someone’s got to pay the bills. It takes money for tutoring, private school, and doctors for Christian. I’m doing what I can.”
“And I can’t keep doing what I can—alone.
“You want me to quit my job?”
“Participate. I want you to participate.”
“And paying bills isn’t participating?”
“Forget it, Brian.” She continued cleaning Kool-Aid from the leather recliner. “I start teaching at the university in two weeks. I’ll be moving out tomorrow to get situated.”
“What the hell? You can’t work and take care of Christian.”
“I know. She’s had enough of her mother.” Her voice was weak and distressed, like someone had punched her in the stomach. “She needs her father now.”
“I can’t take care of Christian.”
“Then, you’ll need to figure out what to do.”
“This is bullshit, Abigail,” he shouted.
“Wow, …that’s the first honest thing you’ve said in years.” She walked away, cleaning rag in one hand, spray in the other.
He had thought she was bluffing. Hell, she spent five years trying to have Christian, and once Abigail finally got pregnant, she nourished herself like a dependent variable to ensure a healthy birth. Once Christian was born, Abigail stopped teaching at university to be home.
The signs of Christian’s erratic behavior began just before she turned six. She was diagnosed with oppositional defiant and attention deficit hyperactivity disorders, which often go hand-in-hand. Abigail had meticulously detailed the diagnosis to Brian, reading from her notes. “ODD usually starts before age 8. It is one of the most common disorders occurring with ADHD. Both are treatable with medicine, but there will be challenges at home and school. There will be steps you and your husband need to take.” Abigail emphasized the partabout you and your husband, reading as if she were reciting directions from a prescription sheet. “Behavioral parent training has by far shown the strongest evidence of success,” she read, enunciating each word so he would clearly understand. And he had—which was the problem.
Although Christian’s diagnosis had turned Abigail around, it also somewhat relieved her because now she knew it wasn’t just misbehavior or bad parenting. On the days of Christian’s check-ups, Abigail reminded Brian in the mornings before he left for work and then by voicemail and text. He had managed a few appointments, but that’s about it. And now …here he was.
He opened the front door. The television clamored in the den, and the radio blared from the kitchen. His shoes stuck to something red on the floor as he entered the foyer. Blood? he smelled burned popcorn just before the smoke alarm pealed into action.
He dashed into the kitchen and flipped the alarm off. The countertops looked like a beach of red sand, and two strawberry Kool-Aid packages were crumpled on the floor. Through the doorway into the study, he saw Christian sitting motionless at the computer, the lighted screen illuminating her.
“Christian!”
She spun around. Her face, arms, and shirt were Kool-Aid red.
“Who made this mess?”
She peered around the room. “What mess?”
“Clean it up.”
“I didn’t do it.”
He almost believed her before asking himself, Who else would’ve done it, you idiot? “That’s a lie. Now, clean it up.”
Then it happened—that scream, that unnerving scream she used during any confrontation, like someone was ripping her heart out.
“Stop it,” He said.
She screamed louder.
“Stop it. Now.” He grabbed her shoulders, tempted to shake her until she stopped.
But her eyes widened through the tangled hair falling over her face. “I want Mama. Mama! I want Mama.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to calm her, but she only cried louder. “Everything’s going to be—”
She screamed again, falling to the floor, flailing her arms and legs, until he backed away and left her to her tantrum.
In the kitchen, he filled a glass with water and drank to soothe his throat, which would become as dry as Arizona before the night was over. The screams stopped, but silence draping over the house like a plastic bag unsettled him. He returned to where he had left Christian and found her sobbing on the floor, candy wrappers, Fruit Loops, Barbies and paper dolls strewn about her. Her chest heaved from crying.
“Why did Mama leave me? With you?”
“She … just needs a little time, a vacation.”
“She’s never coming home. She hates me like she hates you.”
Strands stuck to her red, wet face, and snot ran from her nose. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, but her dirty hand was already doing a lousy job, so he stuck the handkerchief back into his pocket. She wiped her snotty hand on the rug.
“Your mother doesn’t hate us.”
“I heard her say it.” Christian’s voice was deep from crying. “She was walking back and forth like she was in a race or something, saying, ‘I hate that son of a bitch.’ Then, I flushed my toothbrush, and Mama just ran out, yelling I can’t fucking do this anymore, I can’t fucking do this anymore! I can’t—”
“Okay, Christian,” he said, gently touching her shoulder so he wouldn’t stir even more agitation.
“She hates me, too,” she cried, burying her face in her arms. He crouched beside her, saying nothing, watching her tire herself out.
To lighten the heaviness pressing down on them, he jumped up and said, “I’m going to get this place back together so we can have dinner.” He grabbed a few empty glasses and one half-full of Kool-Aid and headed for the kitchen. “Finish your homework?”
“Yeah,” Christian said, settling into her place in front of the TV.
“Thank God,” he uttered, opening the refrigerator to find something to eat. The bulb was still out, but he noticed how clean and neat the inside was: lettuce washed and stored in a Zip-lock bag, orange snack drinks with smiley faces stacked nicely beside chocolate pudding cups.
He made turkey sandwiches with a dollop of potato salad on the side and called, “Come eat, Christian.”
Her steps drummed up to the breakfast bar, where she scowled at her sandwich. “Yuck. I hate that. It makes me throw up.”
“Does not.”
“Does, too. I won’t eat it.”
“Hush.”
“I won’t. I won’t.”
“Be quiet.”
“I hate it.”
“Shut up, for god’s sake!” She started crying softly this time. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he said.
“I want Mama.”
“How about a peanut butter and jelly?”
“Mama. I want Mama,” she cried, her voice elevating with each “mama.”
“Fruit Loops?”
She snuffled. “No milk.”
He poured Fruit Loops into the bowl, popping an orange one into his mouth.
“So,” he said, placing the bowl before Christian. “What’d you have for homework?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you finish it?” Sitting across her at the table, he bit into his turkey sandwich.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Don’t lie to Daddy.”
“I don’t understand it.”
He took another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with water when what he really needed was a stiff Scotch. “After dinner, I’ll help you.”
She answered with the crunch of Fruit Loops.
At nine-thirty, they were still struggling with her math, he sitting beside her, Christian on her tummy, kicking her feet behind her.
“You have to borrow from the tens before subtracting from the ones.”
“That’s not how Mama does it.”
“How does she do it?”
“I don’t know, but that’s not how.” Christian picked a Fruit Loop off the carpet and ate it.
“That’s dirty.”
“Is not.”
“Is … Never mind.”
“I’m tired.”
“You still have four problems.” To that, she rolled over to her back, her eyes red, Fruit Loop crumbs sticking to her hands. “Alright. Let’s wash up,” he said, picking up the stained, crumpled homework sheet. “We’ll finish in the morning.”
In the hall bathroom, he ran water from the sink faucet until it was tepid, the warmth running through his fingers, making him crave a long shower.
“Okay, Christian,” he called out. “Let’s wash up!” No response.
He found her asleep on the floor, hands clasped behind her head, puddles of spit in the corners of her red-tinted mouth, and the sight struck as truth often does—complex and real.
He picked up his daughter and carried her to her room. Pushing the stuffed animals and hardcover books covered with scribbles off her unmade bed onto the floor, he laid her down and pulled the silky comforter spotted with pink fingernail polish to her chin. Her breaths were soft and quiet. Her peaceful expression in this sleep rarely found her when awake. Stroking her hair, he discovered a hardened blob of gum by her ear. How many things had he never noticed? He bent down and kissed his daughter’s cheek, choking on emotions he didn’t remember feeling for a long time.
The trek to his room felt long and arduous as if his little girl’s confusion gripped him. Blue and red squiggly lines on the wall led to his room, his favorite colors he hadn’t known he had until Christian asked him. She had been coloring at the kitchen bar. He was finishing his coffee before leaving for his Saturday golf game. Abigail was going through the house and gathering the next wash load.
“What’s your favorite color, Daddy?” Christian asked, drawing a square house with a triangular roof, two rectangular windows and a door in between.
“Hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I guess I have two—blue and red.”
Without a response, she picked up the blue marker and drew three stick figures: one tall, one average, and one short.
“That us?”
She nodded before picking up the red marker to fill in the taller figure’s round face and the black marker to add eyes and mouth.
“Whoa! I must be really angry,” he said.
Christian used the blue marker to color the faces of the other two stick figures. “Dr. Boykin said red means lots of things.”
“Like what?’
“Power.”
“So …I have power?”
Christian kept coloring. “Mama says you do.”
“When did she say that?”
“At my appointment.”
He chuckled, trying to keep his inquisition lighthearted. “I wonder why.”
Christian shrugged. “Said you have the power to change things. That’s all.”
Abigail stopped in the kitchen and tossed a dishrag into the clothes basket. “Got anything for the wash?”
“No,” he snapped, glaring at her before grabbing his keys from the hook. And he was out the door.
The memories felt like numbers on an Excel sheet that didn’t add up like the formula had a flaw somewhere, but he couldn’t find it. He undressed and tossed his wrinkled shirt onto the chair like always. The blinds were closed, but he noticed several bent slats in the middle. Was there anything in this house Christian had not defaced? But the damaged slats were too high for Christian’s reach. He pulled the cord to open the blinds, but it didn’t work.
How often had Abigail peered through the small opening, hoping one of the passing cars was him? He remembered her calling to ask, “When are you coming home?” and he saying, “I’ll be there when I get there.” He tried to imagine what she must have felt, but you can’t feel someone else’s despair. You can only feel your own.
He climbed into bed, closed his eyes, and imagined Abigail as he’d last seen her: determined and independent. He hugged his pillow, pressing his face into the soft foam. How long had it been since he’d done that to her?
“Abigail,” he whispered.
The bed stirred, and he smelled something sweet—Fruit Loops. Two sticky hands touched his arm, and he turned to gaze into his daughter’s eyes. She lay on her mother’s side, on her pillow. “I want Mama.”
“I know,” he said. “Me, too.”
He turned away from her to watch the window, hoping for headlights to roll into the driveway.
“Don’t leave, Daddy.”
He was crying now, more from guilt than anything else. “I’ll never do that.” He promised it like truth, knowing it was a lie, knowing he’d never really been there, knowing what he already planned to do, knowing that Abigail was right—he was a son of a bitch.
At 3 a.m., he still couldn’t sleep, so he poured that scotch he’d been craving. Although he’d done this many nights before, flicking through a soundless TV, sipping scotch, thinking about a stock or trying not to think about a stock, tonight the house and everything inside-out felt like he’d never belonged there.
He opened his laptop case and pulled out the brochure for the ODD residential treatment center. Glossy images of children and therapists showed happy faces, unity, peace, and everyone getting along like good families—the faces you want people to see, like The Talbots’ happy porch and mailbox.
He placed his empty glass in the sink, feeling the enormity of the house and the night hovering over it like a silent stalker. He imagined moments when he and Abigail had laughed and loved, when Christian was born, and they came home as new parents with every good intention. And now, here they were, paving separate roads to hell.
Christian was right. He had the power to do whatever he wanted. And Abigail had the right to leave. But Christian had neither.
He tossed the brochures into the garbage, knowing he could still keep the appointment if he changed his mind. But for tonight, he’d be content knowing his daughter slept because her daddy hadn’t left her. And for now …that would have to be enough.
