Two: An Unsurety of Love
Why do we question whether someone loves us (even when they say they do)?
Curled up in the stained backseat of her father’s car, the girl stared blankly at the dirty windowpane. In the distance, she could make out storm clouds gathering above the little brick church that she attended with her mother. She wondered what she had missed in Sunday school that morning.
At her young age of eleven, the adults she knew assumed her life was full of those things typical to 21st-century eleven-year-old girls: American Girl dolls, gymnastics classes, and goofy Snapchat filters. Unfortunately, her scrawny arms, stringy blonde hair, and innocent blue eyes were not as devoid of adult suffering as they seemed.
Her father drove his grey-gold 1998 Toyota Camry in a reckless fashion well suited to such an ugly car: he paid no attention to the road, flying 20 miles an hour over the speed limit and swerving in and out of lanes as if he simply hoped to crash. And perhaps he did - he was always sputtering about how auto insurance was a “fucking scam” - except, of course, when he found a way to collect a payout.
James - she preferred to think of her father with a more formal, distant term than “dad” - took an overly large bite out of the Big Mac he’d snagged a few miles back and, with his other hand, reached for the Red Bull in his grime-encrusted cupholder. The old Camry let out a groan as it drifted into the lane beside them. A disgruntled businesswoman laid on her horn, causing James to jerk on the wheel and let a couple of profanities fly from his burger-stuffed mouth.
The eleven-year-old in the backseat hugged her stuffed dog tighter. James always drove terribly, but it seemed he grew worse each time he took her back to her mom’s house at the end of every other weekend. She’d always wondered why he was in such a hurry to get rid of her; but now, at eleven, she knew better than to feed such thoughts. She shoved the pain away almost as quickly as it had come, preferring to hide from James’s never-ending rejection.
James swung the car into her mother’s pleasant suburban neighborhood without regard for the young children riding their bikes near the community’s entrance sign. The children’s father, shocked at James’s obvious lack of concern for the five-year-old he almost ran over, threw up his arms and shouted in anger. James’s daughter slunk far down in the old backseat, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed. The embarrassment she felt around her father was often too much to bear.
James barely missed the mailbox as he whipped the old Camry into her mother’s driveway and came to a screeching halt. The girl in the backseat watched as her mom appeared suddenly on the front porch, her arms crossed in frustration.
“You’re gonna hit the damn box one of these days!” She exclaimed, her mousy brown ponytail bobbing up and down as she stomped angrily down the wooden steps.
“You’re so dramatic,” James spat, laughing at her through his open window. He threw the car in park and swung his door open, the hinges moaning begrudgingly.
He pulled open the door to the backseat, where his daughter sat curled in a ball, her painted pink toes gripping the upholstery as she recovered still from James’s driving.
“You comin’?” James asked her, a sense of hurriedness and impatience in his voice. His daughter chose to believe it was due to the sprinkling rain that had just begun and not his desire to leave her more quickly.
She nodded and scrambled out of the backseat, still barefoot and clutching her toy to her chest. James pulled the girl’s flower-covered suitcase out of the backseat and placed it beside her mom.
“Bye, kiddo,” he said, planting an obligatory kiss on the top of his daughter’s little blonde head.
“Bye, dad,” she squeaked as he jumped back in the car and backed rapidly down the driveway. He flipped the car around and raced off down the street. Just like that, he was gone.
The little girl turned to face her mom, who simply sighed and picked up her daughter’s bag.
“Come on, Lilly,” she said, turning towards the house. “Let’s go inside.”
“Did you bake the cookies you promised?” Lilly asked, hopeful for the first time in three days.
“Yes,” her mom replied, smiling back at her daughter. “Let’s go have some. I picked out a movie for us, too.”
Lilly grinned, comforted by the familiar swing of her mom’s ponytail as she climbed the front steps.
El fin.
Story two is for Mom, the woman who taught me that my dreams are worth chasing after - and fighting for.