Chapter 1 #4
“Ella, your father's asking for you.” The heels come back, spitting across the floor.
I stand with difficulty; my knees are killing me.
I take my bucket and empty it into the toilet.
I'll finish later. Taking the stairs, I make my way to the first floor, into the hallway behind the kitchen and living room, where there's a study and my dad's bedroom.
Since he couldn't walk, what was the point of finding a way to get him upstairs?
I looked into it. Eight thousand dollars, and we could have an electric stairlift installed at the push of a button.
I begged Mara, but she wouldn't have it.
It's not worth it, she said. It would damage the staircase, and houses are valuable, aren't they, Ella?
You wouldn't want to find yourself without one.
If I save enough, maybe I could have one installed for him.
But then I'd have to postpone my second year at university by another year. I run a hand over my face and knock.
“Come in, love,” I hear his weak voice and I make my way inside.
A nurse comes every morning to wash him and help move his legs and arms to improve his blood flow.
“Aw, my pretty little mouse,” he says with a sad smile, the dark circles under his eyes betraying a night spent in the trenches of insomnia.
I'm wearing blue jeans and a white long-sleeved cotton shirt.
Dad always says I look like Mom. I got her eyes.
People have always said that. You have your mother's eyes.
Sometimes, back when Dad wasn't this sick, he'd look at me a little too long with that sad look in his eyes.
I could tell he was somewhere else, revisiting her in a memory.
My long black hair falls over my shoulders in loose layers.
I cut it myself after watching a video online.
It makes it look as though I've had a blowout. As if.
I notice the tray of food is still sitting at the foot of the bed. If I had a voice, I'd definitely use it right now. As if he could hear me, Dad weakly motions with his hand.
“She was in a hurry,” he says, and I shake my head before signing back to him.
“Hurry, hurry. Nothing could be more important than you, Dad,” I sign while he reads my hands.
My parents learned sign language the moment they understood I would never utter a word.
But Dad's disease trapped his nerves and bones in concrete, and in less than two years he lost almost all ability to move his forearms. Only slight movements of his wrists and fingers remain.
I mourned that every morning. We used to have our own language, one that I'm now the only one still fluent in.
It was a secret victory, having a silent dialect only Dad and I could understand.
One Mara and the twins couldn't read or take away from us.
At least Dad can still read my signs. If he couldn't, no one in this house would ever be able to understand me.
“Just like your mother,” he sighs kindly, “always running around for others.” Only for you, Dad. I wish I could say it, but the lie tastes bitter in my mouth. I run around for everyone in this house, even the people who will never have the smallest place in my heart.
“Come.” He pats the bed, the tartan blanket tucked around him, the only reminder of his former self, resting in the long-sleeved polo shirt and navy sweater he still likes to wear at home.
I guess it brings him back to who he used to be before his life became a nightmare of doctors and treatments.
If I could take his place, I would in a heartbeat.
“Is everything okay? You've been...” He coughs hard.
“Sorry, honey. You've been a bit agitated lately.” I sit on the edge of his bed, resting a palm over his hand, looking at my father, who used to be so different.
So strong. Full of life. He had a laugh that made me think of barbecues and Christmas.
He used to make my mom sway around the living room before dipping her like they do in the movies.
He'd tell jokes and hunting stories. He wasn't always confined to a bed.
He wasn't always watching television and looking at me, resigned, like a man who had already made a pact with death.
“I... Everything is fine, Dad. Don't worry about me,” I sign.
“But I do, Ella. I do.”
“It's nothing. I...just have lots of homework and projects to work on.” My hands move, the lie like sand in my mouth, stinging my heart with shame.
Lying is wrong, Mom used to say, but I've come to a different realization.
Sometimes it protects the ones you love.
There's no use telling him how much misery has become my companion, how I cry myself to sleep at night wishing I could escape this place, knowing that as long as he's here, I never will.
And that the day he leaves me, I'll be all alone in this world.
There's no escape because there simply isn't one.
Staying is awful. Leaving is awful. And I'm caught in the middle of it.
Struggling to stay awake during the day after working nights in office buildings, scrubbing stains and washing floors.
I use the small pockets of time to read, write, and stay afloat to be ready to start again next year.
But I can only do so much with all the tasks Mara piles onto my shoulders every day, her little notes left on my doorstep multiplying by the day.
Laundry, dry cleaning, cooking, baking, picking up flowers, washing the floors, changing light bulbs…
There's no rest for me in this world. Five hours, at most, before Mara wakes me up with a little golden bell she shakes above my head.
“Wakey, wakey, lazy birdie,” she chants, bursting into my room and yanking the single curtain open before storming back out.
I work from nine p.m. to one a.m. By the time I get off the bus, I'm in bed by two am.
Mara wakes me up at seven sharp, day after day.
I'm lucky if I get five hours of sleep and a short ten-minute power nap in the afternoon.
That's no way to live, I often tell myself.
I guess I've learned to live with my own definition of normal.
What I'd give for seven hours of uninterrupted sleep, no nightmares, and the chance to wake up, get ready, and spend my day studying.
I'd give all the money in the world, every little treasure I own, and the clothes on my back.
Everything except my necklace. My mother's. A small golden heart-shaped locket hanging from a delicate chain, with a picture of the three of us inside from when I was little. My only treasure. My only personal possession the twins haven't dared steal from me.
“Your mother would be so proud,” he says.
“Watching you become exactly who you want to be.” Grief takes hold of my hand at those words.
Nothing is okay, Dad. I haven't sat in a classroom for months.
I clean paper bins and dust offices so that one day...
One day, maybe…Mom wouldn't be proud. She wouldn't understand the mess my life has become or why I wasn't able to be loved by Mara and earn my place in this family.
Mom taught me about unconditional love, and so I naively thought that our new family would love me too.
Now I'm a pawn on a chessboard, and the queen is winning, moving straight toward me.
I'm holding on.
I'm trying, Dad.
I really am.
“Food for thought, hmm?” he offers, his familiar expression never failing to light up the little room inside my chest where I keep all my childhood memories.
There's dust on the furniture and piles of happiness forgotten beneath the clutter, but it still exists.
“Even if it's hard, you'll never regret learning, honey.
Trust me. I know you're putting in long hours.
Mara told me you spend so much time at the library, and that's why I don't get to see you more often.
But I'm glad you do, love. You're building your future, and I couldn't be prouder.” I conceal my true feelings, squeezing his hand.
How could she lie to him? Isn't a wife supposed to take care of her dying husband?
If Mom were here, things would be so different.
In a way, I'm grateful she's hiding what I'm really doing during the long hours I spend running around and cleaning for her and the twins, but…
I can't help wishing I had somebody in my corner.
“I...” I start signing. “Thanks, Dad. I hope it'll work out.” Dishonesty striking again, hiding behind a version of the truth where he can't be hurt.
A few months or a few years, the doctors said.
That's all he has left. I may not succeed in leaving this place before it crushes me, but I won't let them crush his spirit.
I will lie. I will debase myself. I will scrub dirt and spit blood into the sink.
I will hide my sorrow and force myself through the exhaustion, plaster a smile on my face, and bring him his favourite food.
I will let every insult roll off me, and I will carry on.
Grateful, brave, kind. Just like Mom taught me.
I press the remote and change channels until I find his favourite soap opera.
Something about a Latin family filled with drama and pre-recorded laughter: they're all so pretty, with nice hair and beautiful clothes.
The set is nice too. A mansion, kind of like this one, actually.
If I look closely enough, I can almost smell the hairspray Mara enjoys so much.
I watch the show, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think this was my life.
But things are so different behind closed doors, aren't they?