Chapter 7 Kaia
Kaia
I stand in my attic apartment in Jamaica, Queens, trying to find the will to leave. My black kitty Exupéry meows and rubs against my leg. He is completely blind but usually seems to be in good spirits. No one else would take him in at the animal shelter so I did.
Kaia, keeper of broken things.
My face would go great on one of those Catholic saint candles that I so love to collect. I turn my head and look at my collection of candles, each looking stoic on its cylindrical glass form.
What can I say, they are cheap at the bodega on the corner. Plus, when I light them, it gives my apartment instant ambiance.
I scratch Exupéry behind his ears and sigh. Taking a deep breath, I stop double checking the contents of my backpack. Exupéry butts me with his head.
“I see you,” I tell Exupéry. Kneeling, I scratch him under his chin.
Purrs burst from Exupéry’s chest. My lips curve upward in a smile.
He always seems enthused about everything I do, especially if it directly involves me petting him.
He’s been like that ever since he strolled up the attic stairs when I left the door open last summer.
He doesn’t mind how tiny my studio is in the least or how secondhand chic my attempts to decorate it are.
He doesn’t even seem to notice the fact that he’s blind, other than the occasional fall down the stairs.
I make eye contact with him as I gently scratch behind his ears. “I wish you could come to Hartford with me. My family would hate you, but at least I’d have a buddy.” I scrunch my face up. “You’d be a welcome distraction, honestly.”
Exupéry’s tail twitches; he loves being talked to and petted at the same time. I pet him for another twenty seconds and then I sigh.
“Okay. Wish me luck.”
Grabbing my backpack, I shoulder the straps as I start down the stairs. It’s only a few blocks to the bus I need to catch that will take me out of New York City and all the way to Hartford. It’s cold and overcast as I climb on the bus and find a window seat.
I text my father to let him know I’m on my way. Then I stare out the window, trying not to bite my nails as the bus pulls out.
The question of why my father summoned me home is heavy on my mind. Did I just wait too long between visits? Or is there a more sinister reason?
The scenery changes, though I’m barely aware of it. The gritty concrete texture of New York soon gives way to the strangely empty echo of the highway that winds itself near the suburbs. At one point, there are no exits for miles, just dead grass and barren trees.
Then we’re in Connecticut; only an hour and half from New York City, Hartford likes to play the charming country cousin to it’s older, more glamorous sister city.
Outside, the suburbs of Hartford are entirely different than that of New York. The streets here are clean as a pin, the yards expansive and green, the houses are huge three story affairs made of brick. It’s kind of amazing how much each house looks to the next.
I suck in a deep breath and get off at my stop, my heart hammering the entire three blocks to my parent’s house.
I trot the last forty feet up the yard, ringing the doorbell on the off-white brick house. Out of the corner of my eye, I see ivy starting to climb a corner of the house.
My father hates ivy. One corner of my mouth lifts in the ghost of a smile as I wait for someone to open the broad oak door.
But as soon as it opens, my smile vanishes. My sister stands there in her dark blue Catholic schoolgirl outfit, her blonde hair pulled halfway up with a long dark blue ribbon. Her lips twist with humor as she eyes me, wearing jeans and a black sweater.
“God, you look wretched,” she says. “As always.”
I repress a sigh. “Hello, Hazel.”
She rolls her eyes and leaves the door open, heading down the long hallway into the kitchen.
Pressing my lips into a thin line, I step in and close the door behind myself.
Although I’ve just come from the blustery day outside, it feels colder inside.
As I head in my sister’s wake, I guess that Dad has been on a money saving kick again.
The heating is usually the first to go when he rages about how everything costs him too damn much.
It’s a frequent complaint because the costs of heating a house of this size here in Hartford are significant.
I walk into the kitchen, bracing myself. But my father is nowhere to be seen. Instead, my sister sits at the kitchen counter, absorbed in her phone.
My mother turns from the stove, her eyes hazel lighting up. She brushes off her aprons and hurries toward me.
“There you are, Chickadee,” she greets me warmly. She hugs me hard, kissing my cheek. When she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes. “It’s been too long since I’ve last laid eyes on you.”
I pat her cheek. “You look good, Mom.” My gaze slides around the kitchen and dining room. “Shouldn’t the cook be doing your job?”
My mother flushes as she steps back, shaking her head. She heads back to the stove. “Esmerelda was let go a couple of weeks back. Your father caught her and the new maid stealing.” She clucks her tongue as she pulls oven mitts on. “I mean, can you believe the nerve of some people?”
My father usually discovers that his housemaids are treacherous once per season; it happened so often during my childhood that I could almost time it down to the week. I feel bad for the servants who are hired here, to put it bluntly.
“Well. It smells good in here,” I say, changing the subject.
My mother blushes and smiles at me. “Thank you, Chickadee. We should be ready to eat soon.”
Slipping my backpack off, I carry it over to the bar where my sister is sitting. I set my stuff on the ground and slide into a seat.
“How is school going, Hazel?” I ask politely.
She doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Better than it did for you, I assume.”
I squint at her words. She’s almost certainly a worse student than I was. Ballet academies don’t screw around when it comes to grades. Mine was no different.
“Girls, be nice,” my mother says. “Hazel, we only have Kaia here once a month. Let’s keep it civil.”
Hazel looks up at me and sticks out her tongue. I flip her the bird and she immediately tells on me. “Mom! Kaia just told me to go fuck myself!”
“I swear, you two,” Mom says, whirling around. “Quit it, both of you.”
My dad’s steps suddenly break the tension, sounding like thunder coming down the stairs. I bite my lip. Hazel smirks.
My mother tucks her hair behind her ear nervously. We all turn toward the doorway, waiting. Three little arrows, primed and quivering, just waiting for him to release us.
Eventually he stalks into the room, muttering angrily. Tall, blond, and heavyset, my father is dressed in khakis and a white polo. He rakes his hand through his thinning hair and glances at the three of us.
“That was the fourth call I’ve gotten that was pre-recorded JUNK!” he declares. “I’ve told you time and time again, Serena. You sign up for these…” He makes a gesture. “These lists and then I’m left getting my fucking phone called twenty times a day! It’s fucking ridiculous!”
My mother doesn’t even blink at the accusation in his tone. “They are the worst. I’m sorry, honey.”
My father hikes his belt up, shaking his head. “I’m not dealing with that shit anymore, Serena. You can’t expose us like that.”
My mother nods, as if he’s giving her sage advice. Before his barb even lands, he’s already swinging his gaze around to Hazel and me. “Why are you dressed so casually, Kaia? In this house, we have a dress code.”
I struggle to keep my feelings off my face. “I didn’t know, Dad. I’m sorry.”
He takes a couple steps closer. “Your sister and your mother are wearing skirts. I expect you to dress up like a woman when you want to come to dinner here.”
This is entirely new since the last time I visited, just over a month ago. I swallow, bobbing my head. “Yes, sir.”
My mother hastily turns to us with a platter of roast chicken and vegetables clutched between two potholders. “Why don’t we sit down and eat?”
My father gives me a look as I stand up, shaking his head on the way to the formal dining room table.
The table is long and glossy, laid with an extensive place setting for each of us, undoubtedly my mother’s doing.
Dad sits at the head of the table and my mom hurries to set the chicken down in front of him.
Hazel and I take our places across from each other as he clears his throat and starts to carve.
My mom rushes back to the kitchen, retrieving several more dishes. My dad serves himself first, then Hazel. My mom sets a perfectly poured pint of beer at his place, then scurries to her seat.
My dad takes a bite of his food, seeming to forget that my mother and I are yet to be served. I stand and move to grab the platter of food. My dad growls at me, his mouth still full.
“Manners, Kaia!”
Hazel smirks at me, picking up her fork and putting a piece of chicken in her mouth. It takes my father another minute to serve me and my mom tiny portions of chicken and vegetables.
“I’m trying to help you both out here,” he says, passing our plates back. “You both tend toward having fat asses. You guys both take after Serena’s mother, who was herself practically a fucking cow. She was disgusting.”
I glance toward my mother. I’ve never seen my mother bigger than a size two except when she was pregnant. But she just smiles benevolently down the table at my father, like he’s really doing something great for her.
“Thank you, Robert. You always look out for us,” she says. She glances around the table. “All of us should be very thankful.”
Hazel has a piece of chicken hanging from her mouth when she mumbles, “Thanks, Dad!”
“Thank you,” I echo quietly.
I look down at my plate, eying the tiny portions with a silent sigh. No sooner have I sliced a tiny piece of chicken off and popped it into my mouth does my father begin.