Sunshine
Chapter thirteen
The worst part about sitting in the gymnasium, with a hundred other students, is how I have zero recollection if I took my exams. Graduation is technically only a ceremony, as grades haven’t been finalized, so if I didn’t go or failed, then I’ll be repeating my classes anyway.
Exciting.
Without any fallout—the demons are stashed away and taking a much-needed snooze—I made it onto the stage, shook hands with the Dean and collected my faux degree.
After that was about a million camera flashes and official graduation photos at the end of a long ramp which felt more like a pirate’s plank.
I’d willingly dive off the end if it meant there was a monster below the surface waiting to take me into oblivion.
According to the Internet, there’s a two-to-three-minute wait before I’d lose consciousness.
Wouldn’t really matter because the atmospheric pressure would crush me before my leviathan finished dragging me deep into the blackness.
Hell, I spend half of my time drowning in the void already, eyeball deep in a mental fog so thick it pours out of my orifices—the ocean would be a reprieve.
Wading the sludge, I made it through the remainder of the ceremony still struggling to piece together the past several days.
What if I didn’t log in to take my finals?
My tablet was dead, so was my phone. What if I hurt someone?
There are men out there looking for me now, watching and waiting for me to fall off the wagon again; to assault someone else.
They want to throw me away, melt down the key to my cage and use it to cast the bullets needed to put me down.
Weaving through the throng of students and their families, I gravitate to my parents.
They’re standing away from the masses with their backs to the wall, with clear sight lines to the exits—some things never change.
They’re dressed modestly but still edgy—Dad in a pair of dark washed jeans, black leather boots, gray button-up shirt, and a black suit jacket.
Mom’s in a navy-blue jumper with flowy pant legs, a cropped leather jacket, and sandals.
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 jalapeno, 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 br?lée 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 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 of Beauty 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.
I try hanging on to every word he speaks—he’s my favorite like that—but the soft buzzing of my silenced phone captures my attention.
It hasn’t made a peep since we left my place—suppose my reprieve is over.
With the screen face down on the table, I can’t see what or who’s messaging me, which tickles my curiosity.
Dad reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a single key with a silver-plated medallion hanging from it. As he slides it across the white linen table cloth, I look down at it with furrowed brows.
“Daddy, what’s that?”
Mom’s nose is turning pink which only happens when she cries. She sits quietly when I look from the key to her and back to Dad. He glances at her, his arm reaching around her shoulders for comfort where he rubs her bicep with his rough hand.
“While we were in Michigan, we got someone’s blessing to give you the Civic. That’s what this is, the key.”
Oh. Wait. OH!
“You serious right now? M…mom that’s your car.” My voice cracks because I can’t fucking believe they’d be dumb enough to give me something that means more to them than it ever will to me.
God, I sound like an asshole.
“We know that, but we want you to have it. You’ve helped me rebuild it; helped your mother grieve without realizing what you’ve contributed to. It was her idea to give you a piece of her childhood, and in turn, some of her when you start the rest of your life.”
What do I say or do? I can’t accept this, but I know they'll park it in the garage at the apartment and break in to put the keys by the front door if I don’t take it. They’re adamant like that.
When you don’t have any words, just shove several bites of food in your mouth and try not to choke. Sharp flavors from before have now dulled yet still blanket my tastebuds and send a zing through my teeth. It floods my nerve endings with the reminder that I’m alive—like all pain.
Having a hard time coming to terms with what they’ve said, it dawns on me that this isn’t a hallucination.
It’s not a mirage I’ve built out of thin air while succumbing to my demons—they really want me to have this.
To be one with their pasts, just like baby Kaleb.
Already feeling like I don’t have any place with them, they go out of their way to show me I do.
My phone buzzes again, interrupting the tense moment between us.
Hoping I don’t look as ungrateful as I seemed a moment ago, I smile and reach for the keys.
Mom’s in full tears now, not the sobbing kind that makes me feel weird—she’s weeping, brushing away the salty droplets as if she’s embarrassed by them.
At least I’m not the only one who can’t regulate my emotions—apples don't fall far from the tree.
“Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just take good care of the car, Sugar. That’s all I ask,” she says through a knot lodged in her throat.
Taking the keys, I look them over and inspect the silver medallion I spotted. It’s a sun. Reminds me of the Godsmack logo with its sharp arms and black antique-like wash that’s settled deep into the crevices.
Smiling, I place it beside my phone and change the subject. Back to faking my hopes and dreams, and what I plan on doing after school—hoping it pacifies them enough to move on to something more concerning, like the weather.
Truly, I want to go home and lock myself away. Fighting my own mind for a week, or however long, then venturing into the world as if nothing has happened is exhausting. I want to pop a few sleeping pills and knock the hell out for a good seventy-two hours before resurfacing.
As we wait for our desserts to come around, I finally pick up my phone—Dad smirks, seeing me use the fucking thing without complaining for once. I mean, I could complain, but who would listen. Hell, even if they did, I would still have to get over my aversion.
Unsurprising, it’s Elias. Opening up the chat thread, I look over his previous messages and the new ones.
Klingon
Where are you?
Don’t make me come find you, Sunshine. You know I can, and will.
Me
I’m at dinner. You couldn’t find me with the help of the FBI, you decrepit asshole.
His response comes seconds later—shmuck was sitting by his phone waiting for me. Knowing that inflates my little ego, but we won’t tell him that.
Klingon
Watch your mouth. I have limited patience today and if you get too ballsy, I’ll find something useful for it to do.
Is that supposed to be scary? Newsflash, jerk, there’s nothing you can do that will put the fear of God in me. I look at invisible horrors every day and have yet to die of fright.
Sneaking a glance at my parents, I gauge their conversation before returning to my phone—Dad’s eyes narrow but I let it go. Whatever he thinks he knows, he’s wrong.
Me
What happen, someone piss in your Cheerios? You know, there are more heart healthy options for geriatrics. If we need to go grocery shopping, I’m happy to help you read the nutrition label.
Klingon
Not quite, I appreciate your understanding though.
Me
Odd, never said I understood.
Klingon
Tragic. I’ll be at your apartment in thirty minutes. Bring your left over chicken piccata. I need something to eat while I’m punishing you.