I
’m awakened by the sound of voices arguing in the garage. Rolling over, I squint my eyes at the alarm clock, realizing it’s only five in the morning. I recognize the two voices as my mom and dad’s. I hear my father’s voice rising as my mom’s darts around in hysteria. I’m familiar with this sickening duet, only just not at this early hour.
I recall a conversation I had with my dad and realize its implications are just now taking effect. Last week at McDonald’s, he shared a secret with me that would forever change my life. He began by asking if I was happy with the way things were at home. I knew he was referring to the tension that existed between him and my mom. It’s not that I was happy with the way things were, but I was frightened by the thought of divorce.
Divorce is rampant among my friends’ parents, and although I knew that it was inevitable that we three would soon join the group, this was one club I did not want to be a member of.
He was sharing this loaded secret with me - a secret I never wanted to hear. He was telling me that he’d be leaving my mother, all the while assuring me that he’d always be there for me. I found myself nodding my head as if I understood, when all along I really didn’t. He told me they hadn’t been happy for a very long time, and I’m thinking, If you’re both not happy, why the big secret? Why isn’t Mom here sharing this awful moment?
He hugged me in an awkward kind of bear hug, and I got all stiff to his touch. Scratching his nose, he informed me that he wasn’t ready to tell my mom he was leaving just yet. I asked him when he was going to tell her, and he closed his eyes while sighing, “When the moment’s right.”
So for two weeks now, I have stared into my mom’s eyes, while never revealing the secret. I am betraying her just like my dad is. I try to convince myself that the conversation at McDonald’s never really happened at all.
Now, as I lie in bed listening to my mom’s muffled cries, I realize that the moment has arrived. Although my mom and I have not always confided to each other about a lot of things, such as dating, school, friends, life... right now my stomach is aching for her. Each of her sobs shoots through me like a dart piercing my chest. The agony is so great that I finally understand what a broken heart must feel like.
I shuffle out of bed and quietly make my way down the long hallway towards the garage from where the voices seem to be coming. I open the door slightly enough to see but not be seen.
The scene being played out by my parents makes me want to burst out crying. My mom is holding on to the bottom of my dad’s leather jacket. She is straining to hold him back, so that he won’t leave her. This is not the proud woman who once refused to accept my grandmother’s financial help back when my dad first lost his job. Her face is red, awash in tears, and her nose runs while she howls in pain. She has no pride; he is taking it with him.
He grabs his coat from her and pushes her back with one hand. He tells her it’s over...” It’s been over for a very long time, and we both know it.”
She howls again, and through her wailing I hear her moaning, “No, no, no, no.” And then suddenly her tone changes to one of anger as she screams, “You are just going to sneak out in the night... aren’t you?... You’re a child... You have no backbone, you coward... I hate you, you pig!” She’s still not letting go of her grip on his jacket.
He pulls away from her, and she’s left holding only his jacket in her hands. He tossed his valise into the open door of our family van. Then he gets behind the wheel and, without another word, he backs up out of the road and out of our lives forever.
Now all that’s left is the echo of her tortured cries. I’m not worried about the neighbors hearing what went on. They’re used to the sound of my parents’ wars. We don’t know what shame feels like anymore.
As my mom leans against the wall wailing in spasms of anguish, all I can think of is what I did to cause this. Was it because I talked back to my mother that time, when we were out having a nice family dinner? She got so angry with me, and I remember my dad told her not to lose her cool and that I was right. Her frozen glance suggested that she did not at all like this friendly alliance my dad and I had formed. There was screaming and yelling and people were staring, but my parents didn’t seem to care. Next thing I knew, my dad stormed out of the restaurant for the refuge of the car.
That was always the pattern: an argument followed by my dad retreating to some remote corner. My mother turned to me that night as we sat alone at our table for three and said, “Please don’t destroy my marriage. I don’t think I can live without him.”
I felt sorry for her now and wondered whether I was the driving wedge between my parents. I was always Daddy’s little girl, and in order to please him, I always faced to my mother. My mom described our relationship as black and white. If she said yes, I said no; if she said fat, I said thin.
I closed the garage’s door and headed back to my room. Once inside, I pressed my forehead against the window-pane, hoping his car would be coming back. Maybe it was all a bad dream and soon I’d wake up.
Then I felt her hand touch my shoulder. My rival, my sparring partner, took my head in her hands and turned it towards her. She wasn’t crying anymore, yet I could still feel the wetness of her tears. There were no words spoken between us that morning. For once, we both felt the same thing. We were in agreement in our grief. And now we were left with one chair empty at our table for three.
- Isabel Philley