Wander Dust

by Michelle Warren

  Chapter 4: Unexpected Move

  “Sera, why do you find it so incredibly hard to keep yourself in class? You’re too smart for this kind of nonsense!” Ray’s shouts bounce around the interior of the car as we drive home from the hospital.

  “You’re right, Dad. Sorry.” I don’t bother defending myself. I simply admit guilt and accept whatever punishment he dishes out.

  Ray just shoots one of his disappointed sideways glances and continues his rant. The intensity of his yelling seems directly disproportional to his driving skills. As he works himself into a frenzy, he becomes reckless, weaving in and out of traffic, cutting off other cars, and nearly sideswipes a tractor trailer. When I grip the dashboard with both hands and screech out loud, he takes the hint and finally slows down. The needle on the speedometer drops below sixty, and I relax into my seat.

  He jumps across three lanes and veers off the highway onto our exit. The car slows to a stop for a red light, and the color of his cheeks fades from bright red to a normal color. Still, he’s not done reprimanding me. He only moves his speech into more familiar territory: parental cliché. “I’m so disappointed in you. What would your mother think? Not under my roof.” And my personal favorite, “You’re grounded for life!”

  I am, in fact, already “grounded for life” for at least the fifth time this year, and I would love to know what my mother would think.

  I try to play the obedient daughter, listening to his babble, but I’ve just found a new distraction: watching the sunlight reflect the most beautiful prisms off of Mom’s bracelet.

  As I trace a rainbow on my arm and tune out Ray’s yelling, I contemplate my sanity. Did my little trip to Chicago actually happen? Or could it have been a dream, the result of being knocked out? At the time, it seemed so lifelike, except the part where the earth folded over to crush me.

  I shiver in my seat.

  That’s it. I’m definitely insane.

  Thinking back to the Lady in Black, the candles, and my burned hand, I wonder if this is how it starts for people who are going crazy. They slowly become delusional. Honestly, I just want to forget anything ever happened, so I picture the photo of the boy in my head, hoping he will send the crazies away. Since he showed up, I truly believed I was getting better.

  The light turns green, and Ray takes off. I roll down the windows and let the warm air hit my face. The wind roars in the car, dulling the sound of his rants. This is real life. What happened is impossible. There’s a reasonable explanation.

  After further contemplation, I side with common sense. Nurse Perez’s story is completely possible. She explained that I have a humongous welt on my head from when a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound senior playing football tackled me in the courtyard at the end of lunch, knocking me comatose. Somehow I escaped without a concussion. I don’t remember any of it, but it sounds good. Better than what I believe happened.

  Chicago was a dream. It didn’t happen.

  Finally Ray drives into our neighborhood, Biscayne Bay Estates. When we pull into our driveway, music pours into our open car windows.

  In my garage, Todd, my bandmate, wails on his guitar. He jerks in angular and rigid moves, flailing himself all over the orange shag carpet. His lanky body rolls around the floor. For drama, he kicks over an amplifier.

  Beth beats on a set of drums in the back. Her moves, so fluid, look as though she’s conducting an orchestra. When the beat of the music intensifies, she twirls her drumsticks between her fingers then thrashes her flat, dark hair.

  Now that I’m re-grounded, I won’t get to practice with the band for at least another month, so I take advantage of the moment. Ignoring Ray’s threats, I jump out of the car and run in and grab the mic stand. Instantly, my body sways to the rhythm of the music. My lips brush against the woven pattern on the head of the microphone, and I sing. When I whip my hair into my face, strands stick to my mascaraed eyelashes. Lunging toward the ground, I sing louder, letting my music become my escape.

  Ray yells from the car, but I ignore him; just for this song, I tell myself. I need this to forget. I need this for my sanity.

  He turns his attention to Todd and Beth, scolding them from the open car window. Their music abruptly stops, and they scramble to pack their bags and quickly escape out the side garage door. The two run halfway down the block before Ray even hoists his body from the driver’s seat.

  “Seraphina Parrish—I just told you, you’re grounded!” He stomps up with a briefcase gripped in his hand and suit jacket flung over his arm.

  “And what in the world is this?” His nubby fingers snatch a piece of my hair. “What did you do to your hair? When did you do this?” He flings the strand back down to my shoulder after he inspects it. “It’s—it’s purple!”

  “Hair dye, Dad. Just a streak of color. No big deal,” I sass. It only took him a few weeks to notice.

  Thank goodness he can’t see the belly ring I got on my birthday with Beth. He would lather himself with disinfectant at the mere sight of the less than respectable tattoo parlor on Washington Avenue.

  Ray sighs, rubbing his forehead. He readjusts his glasses and glowers.

  “Remember, grounded for another month,” he says sternly and points to the house. When I nod with acceptance, he turns and stomps away, mumbling to himself about being “just like Eliza.” He looks back a few times to give me the evil eye before exiting the garage into the kitchen. Like a child, he slams the door.

  Truthfully, I’m not positive if I’m like my mom, Eliza. Even now, all these years later, my mom remains an abstract memory. I’m not sure if the very few memories I have are more Ray’s than my own.

  In any case, I’m not dejected to be compared to her. It makes me feel closer to her to discover any personality traits we might share, even the stubborn ones.

  •

  At dinner, Ray still sulks. To keep chatter light, I drive the conversation clear of the afternoon’s events. It’s enough that he’s talking and not yelling.

  With the subject of school off limits, finding a topic to discuss is nearly impossible. Even his top secret, classified government job is off limits.

  He exhales from across the table. His brow furrows, and he appears to be in deep contemplation. He takes a bite of his pizza, leans back, and chews, but he doesn’t look at me. I know he’s purposely ignoring me.

  I take a gulp of water and turn my head away, letting my eyes focus on anything else but him. I feel guilty, but I always do after an “incident.” Sometimes I do things without thinking. But mostly, I know he will finally give me the attention that I want when he catches me. If he just did that in the first place, things would be different. At least, I hope they would be.

  In today’s case, though, I’m innocent. I hadn’t planned on skipping class. There was no malicious intent on my part. I truly considered it an honest act of self-preservation. At the time, I needed to sort out my personal craziness.

  My glance shifts back to Ray. Our eyes meet uncomfortably, and I look away. I grab the Parmesan cheese and dump a pile on my pizza.

  He’s not a bad dad. He’s just—I don’t know—disconnected. For the most part, we get along, but for whatever reason his brain lacks an emotional connection to me. I don’t hate him for it. He’s always been the same. I just accept it. We’re just two people who cross paths on occasion, but most often when I need discipline.

  I do try to win his affection in other ways—normal ways. Although, I’ll admit, it hasn’t won me any points yet. Basically, I clean the house, make dinner, and maintain straight A’s. So all this makes me wonder: who really cares if I dye my hair purple if I must juggle being a teenager and an adult all at once? At least when I do lash out, it reminds Ray who’s the child and who’s the parent.

  “I like this pizza,” he says unexpectedly. My mouth drops because usually, after a day like today, he’ll give me the silent treatment. “But it’s nothing compared to a Chicago deep dish,” he muses, then steals a mushroom from the b
ox and drops it on his tongue.

  We’ve had this conversation a million times, but I engage him regardless. It will lead to a subject I am interested in talking about—my mom.

  “I think they both have something different to offer,” I challenge. “You can’t fold a deep dish in half like this.” I cringe as I say the words, zoning out as I imagine the earth folding over on me.

  “Sera?” Ray waves a greasy hand in front of my eyes. I snap out of it. To hide my mental lapse, I grab the slice from my plate, fold it longways, and cram half the enormous cheesy triangle into my mouth. My cheeks bulge so far away from my face that I can see them from the corners of my eyes. I chew in slow motion, smiling at him as tomato sauce drips from the corners of my lips.

  “You look like a chipmunk!” He snickers. “A purple-haired chipmunk.” He crunches his forehead and sighs, probably remembering he’s still mad.

  After some thought, he begins again. “Yeah, I suppose they both have their place, but there’s nothing like the pizza I grew up on,” he reminisces, brushing his greasy fingers through his thinning, dirty-blond hair. This makes the little hair he has left stand straight up. I cringe, scrunching my nose, and try to finish chewing. I want to laugh, but I hold it in because I know it will embarrass him, and cause him to stop talking. When I compose myself, I segue as stealthily as possible into the notoriously taboo subject—Mom.

  “Did you and Mom have a favorite pizza joint in Chicago—you know—when you were dating?” I take another bite.

  “Nope, no. She, she—she—she didn’t like pizza.” He takes a slurp of his drink, curtailing the subject.

  He’s lying. I can tell when he repeats his words in a stutter, becoming nervous. It’s how I learned the tooth fairy doesn’t exist.

  “Dad! Really? She didn’t like pizza? I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who doesn’t like pizza!” I raise my voice. The fact that he will never tell me anything about her annoys me.

  He throws his napkin down and pushes his chair away from the table. I think he might jump up and leave to escape my questioning, but instead he folds his hands behind his head and leans back in his seat. He stares at the ceiling as though it holds all the answers.

  “All right—if I recall,” he pauses, sucking his teeth, “she liked Louis Guarino’s Pizzeria. There’s a location not too far from that fancy high school she attended. Are you happy now?”

  “Immensely. Was that so hard?” I ask.

  Ignoring my question, he jumps up from his chair, walks into the kitchen, tosses his napkin in the trash, and drops his dirty plates into the sink with a crash. He escapes to the adjoining family room. Falling back in his easy chair, he kicks up the ottoman, and stretches his legs. Next, he does what I expect him to—he takes out his phone and calls Maddi.

  Her voice is so high-pitched, I can hear her squeaks from across the two rooms. He tells her he misses and loves her. The words sound soft and comforting. He has never told me either message with the same amount of conviction. I guess I should be sad, but I’m not. In a strange way, it gives me hope. Hope that there’s some part of him capable of real emotion, even if it’s not toward me.

  To avoid further cross-examination, Ray dodges me for the rest of the night. So I spend the evening in my room. Alone. I’m used to it.

  Despite having had the weirdest day ever, I adhere to my normal routine. Since I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m crazy, and the Lady in Black never existed, I unlock and open the window, allowing a warm breeze to roll through, ruffling the curtains.

  As I do every night, I blast music and ransack my closet for a suitable outfit to wear to school the following day. After much deliberation, I settle on a pair of black jeans and a lace-embellished shirt. For shoes, I choose a pair of low pumps. Graffiti art wraps from the tip of the toe to the heel. A few months ago, I bought them from a street artist in the Miami arts district. Ray argued the selection, but of course, I bought them anyway.

  I try everything on. When I step in front of the mirror, the ensemble pleases me. “Ray will see now just how great these shoes look,” I mouth to myself. I twist in front of my reflection with my hands on my hips.

  He has no imagination. He also bears no resemblance to me. Somehow I managed to dodge every dominant trait the man claims. My dark brown hair and athletic build were inherited from Mom. Curiously, no one claims the color of my eyes—a soft violet that people often mistake for blue.

  Or—maybe—Mom did have violet eyes. I don’t know for sure, and I have yet to ask Ray. Not that he would answer without a fight.

  I own one black-and-white photo of my mother. It sits on my dresser, and I glance over at it. Our striking resemblance comforts me.

  In the photo, she holds me in her lap, her laugh bright and frozen in time. Melted chocolate Easter bunny smears my chubby cheeks. I remember her cold silk pajamas brushing my skin, her warm breath on my head as she kissed me, and her fingers brushing my baby-fine hair. That memory, I know is my own. I have proof.

  How different would my life be if she hadn’t died? Would Ray have settled in one spot? You’d think he was running from something if he hadn’t been moving for work.

  I glance over at the boxes still stacked in the corner, yet to be unpacked from our recent move. Miami Beach is only the latest in a long chain of former homes: New York, Rome, Boston, Portland, D.C., and too many small, podunk towns in between to remember.

  Even though I've made random friends I’ve made all over the world from Ray’s haphazard relocation exercises, we rely on each other. I never intended to hurt him today. My guilt grows and I’m fighting a lump in my throat. It’s not his fault I’m losing my mind.

  I need to apologize.

  After leaving my room, I tiptoe down the stairs toward his home office. To gauge whether his mood will allow for an interruption from his current enemy, I spy on him first.

  When I near his office, I hear that Ray is on the phone. As I peek through the crack of the door, he appears shaken. His worried face hides, buried in his cupped hands. The phone sits precariously wedged between his ear and shoulder.

  He whispers. Only parts of the conversation are audible. “I think you’re right…it’s time for her to come stay with you…something’s happened…yes, yes, I know…she needs discipline…just like her mother…I’ve failed…”