Damaged

by Melody Carlson

  “No problem.” I follow him as he practically sprints with his arms full, bounding up the stairs to his third-floor unit. I’m still caught off guard by how much younger he seems than when he was living at home. He seems so much younger than Mom, even though he’s three years older. Maybe some people just age differently. Hopefully I’ll take after my dad.

  It takes about an hour, but we get everything unloaded in time for Dad to make his racquetball date. “You’re sure you don’t mind me taking off like this?” He slings a strap of his gym bag over his shoulder.

  “No, Dad, I’m fine. Remember our agreement: You’re going to treat me like an adult and I’m going to act like one.”

  He grins and grabs a ball cap off the coatrack. “There’s not much in the fridge, but help yourself to anything. Or if you want to wait, we can run out and grab a bite to eat when I get back.”

  “Sounds good.”

  After he leaves, I lock the front door. It’s not that I’m scared exactly, but I’m just cautious. We lived in a pretty small town in southern Oregon, but my mom always insisted on locking and dead bolting the doors, whether we were home or out, and I guess old habits die hard. I check my pocket for the key Dad gave me, worried I might’ve lost it already like I did last time I was here, but thankfully it’s still there.

  Now I take a quick tour of Dad’s condo, which looks almost exactly like it did before. Same black leather sofa and easy chair (Dad’s attempt at a bachelor pad). Same metal and glass-topped tables and same big-screen TV that I was so impressed with. Same fake ficus plant (probably the same dust, too). It’s in a gigantic pot wedged into a corner by the sliding doors that lead to the terrace and overlook the pool. I’ll admit the pool looks pretty good — a bright turquoise spot surrounded by hot-looking terra-cotta tiles and white lounge chairs.

  In the kitchen I find the same black granite countertops and the same stainless steel appliances Mom was jealous of after I blabbed about them following my first visit down here. I still think she sent me down to spy on him that time.

  But I did feel sorry for her since she didn’t have any of these “luxuries.” It didn’t seem fair — not to her or me. Now I check the contents of the fridge and wonder if Dad’s help-yourself policy applies to the six-pack of Corona. Not that I’d go there — I most definitely would not. But I do know Mom would have a hissy fit if she knew. Instead I take a Coke, then dig around the mostly empty cabinets until I find a bag of Cheetos. If Mom could see me now.

  Satisfied that I’ve sufficiently cased the joint, I set to work unpacking my things. Unfortunately, Dad didn’t have time to clear his junk out of the guest room, which is now my room, but he told me I could put it in the storage closet off the back terrace. Of course, the storage closet is full — at least it seems full on first appearance — but with a little rearranging I can make room for his things. By the time I’m done, it’s so stuffed I barely get the door closed.

  Now I set to work putting my room in order. First I set up the old computer. Dad gave it to me right before he left Mom. I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t want to pack the bulky thing up or if he thought he was being generous. But I’d really rather have a laptop. Next I hang up my clothes, and when I run out of hangers, I sneak into his room to see if he has any extras.

  Finally, I see something that’s changed. He’s gotten himself a real set of bedroom furniture! It’s made of sleek-looking dark wood in a contemporary design, with a king-sized bed. Naturally, this makes me curious. Why does a single man need a king-sized bed? However, it’s none of my business. Like we agreed, we will treat each other with respect and act like adults. I study a painting above the bed. It looks kind of Italian with rich tones of red, gold, and black, and it’s obviously not an original. But in a way, it’s attractive. I bend down and touch the garnet red velvety bedspread. Is this really my dad’s taste? Or is he trying to be someone or something else? In some ways this all seems like such a stereotype. Really, he could’ve done better.

  I stand there for a long time, just looking at this foreign world, comparing this space to the bedroom my parents used to share — and the difference is extreme. I would describe their old room as painfully traditional and boring, with a floral bedspread and pastel-colored pillows and too many ruffles and my mom’s porcelain knickknacks on every flat surface. I suppose it’s not a surprise that Dad decided to go in the exact opposite decor direction.

  Suddenly I feel like an intruder and fear I may have just broken my “grown-up” agreement, but I still need hangers. Dad should understand. I ease open his closet and see his neatly hung clothes, arranged by color and style. My dad has always been a meticulous dresser. He even shines his shoes. My mom used to complain about the expense of his dry cleaning, claiming she could do his laundry at home and save them lots of money. But Dad insisted that dry cleaning was a business expense for him and if he didn’t go to work looking like a GQ ad, his job might be in jeopardy. And since a lot of employees got laid off at the onset of the recent recession but Dad managed to get a transfer to an even better job, I suspect he was right.

  I grab about twenty wire dry-cleaning hangers, close his tidy closet, and tiptoe from his room. I’m not sure what the tiptoeing is all about, but as I close the door, I decide I won’t go trespassing in there again. It’s just not very adultlike.

  It’s getting close to nine and my room’s pretty much put together, but Dad is still not home and I’m getting hungry. The Coke and Cheetos just aren’t cutting it. I wonder about calling his cell and then realize his condo doesn’t have a land-line. And, thanks to my mom, I don’t have a cell phone. She was certain I would use a cell phone to secretly contact all the boys who were dying to date me. Hopefully Dad will see the sensibility in me having one now. Especially since his condo is essentially cut off. What if I had an emergency?

  Thinking of emergencies makes me concerned about my dad. He said he’d be home around eight and he promised to take us to dinner. What if something went wrong? What if he got in a car wreck? Or had a heart attack in the middle of a strenuous backhanded return? Oh, for a cell phone.

  Instead of worrying, I scavenge through the kitchen again in search of something a little more substantial (and healthier) than my previous snack. Finally settling on a can of chicken noodle soup, I nuke it in the microwave and am just finishing it off when I hear the sound of someone at the door.

  At first I jump, wondering what I’ll do if it’s a break-in. Should I grab a frying pan or something to defend myself? I’m just heading for the steak knife drawer when Dad walks in, looking all clean and happy.

  “Hey, Hay,” he calls out.

  This is his old greeting for me, but somehow it doesn’t charm me tonight. Not like it used to do. “Where were you?”

  His smile fades. “Playing racquetball, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember that, but you said you’d be home — ”

  I stop myself, remembering our grown-up rules. “Never mind.”

  I turn away from him and put my empty bowl in the sink.

  “I’m sorry, Haley.” He drops his bag by the door and comes over and places a hand on my shoulder. “My old buddy Tyson was there tonight and we had drinks afterward. I didn’t think you’d mind.” He points at the soup can still on the counter. “And it looks like you found something to eat.”

  I just nod with my back to him.

  “So all’s well?”

  “Sure, Dad.” I force a smile.

  “Are you still hungry?”

  I shrug.

  Now he frowns. “I guess that wasn’t very nice of me, running off on you on your first night here. But I thought you’d be busy settling in anyway.”

  “I was.” I nod. “I got everything unpacked.”

  “So … how ’bout we order in pizza?”

  Now my smile is genuine. “Sounds good.”

  We confer over what we like, he makes the call, and then we flop down in the living room, where he turns on a Raiders football game
from last week saved in his DVR. I’m not really that much into football, but for Dad’s sake I try to act interested. And he actually tries to teach me about what’s going on with all those dudes in their skintight uniforms and spacey looking helmets. I’m actually starting to catch on by the time the pizza arrives. And by the time the game ends, I think I may have become a true Raiders fan.

  By eleven Dad and I are both ready to call it a day. “I don’t usually do much on Sundays,” he tells me as we head to our rooms. “And I like to sleep in.”

  “That works for me.” My hand is on the doorknob.

  “I — uh — I forgot to tell you that I do have, well, kind of a girlfriend now, Haley.”

  “Oh …” I just nod like this is no big deal.

  “Yeah. Estelle works with me. It’s not real serious; in fact, we’re actually just really good friends. But we usually spend the weekends together, so she’ll probably expect me to do something with her tomorrow.” He looks nervous. “Are you okay with that?”

  Now I’m not really sure what “okay with that” means, but I just nod and try to act cool. “Sure, why not?”

  He smiles. “You’re a good kid, Haley.”

  “Thanks.” Then we tell each other good night and I go into my room and try to wrap my head around this new development. Oh, it’s not that I thought my dad wouldn’t find someone else — or even that he’d be celibate. My mom had always been suspicious that he’d found someone else … long, long ago. She rationalized that was the reason for their marital difficulties.

  In fact, I’m sure that’s why she sent me down here when I was fourteen, just so I could spy on him and find out. But at the time I saw nothing to suggest Dad did anything besides go to work and come home. He didn’t even play racquetball. When I reported this back to Mom, it almost seemed like she was disappointed, like it would have validated her in some twisted way to know he’d been cheating on her all along.

  I may not be the worldliest girl, but I can put two and two together and I’m pretty sure, based on Dad’s posh-looking bedroom, that he and Estelle are more than just friends. Maybe they’re not actually sleeping together … yet. But I don’t think someone like my dad puts that much effort into his bedroom unless he’s hoping to entertain.

  I can’t bear to imagine what my mom would think if she had any idea about any of this. And now, as I get into my nightgown, I make a pact with myself. I will not keep second-guessing my life in regard to my mother. Obviously she hates all of this — no surprise there. She thinks Dad is the Devil and now, by association, I am evil too.

  According to my mother, anyone who doesn’t believe what she and her church believe is going to hell anyway. So, really, what’s the use? Why try? It hasn’t escaped my notice that if I am turning my back on my mom, I am probably turning my back on God as well. A small part of me isn’t comfortable with that decision. But the larger part of me is so fed up that I seriously don’t care. Why should I?

  Oh, it’s not that I plan to throw away all my morals and standards. For some reason, one that I don’t fully understand and can’t really explain, I still think I will take my abstinence pledge seriously. I pledged to remain pure until marriage at my mom’s church when I was thirteen, right after the divorce, and at the time it felt very real and meaningful. I believe it’s right to respect myself and my body. And I want to save myself until marriage. Because despite everything Mom has said to me, I do value myself and I do believe that true love is worth waiting for — mostly I think I am worth waiting for.

  Even during my romance with Bryce (we only kissed, but sometimes it got intense), I made my stand, and he actually seemed to respect me for it. And I liked that. It gave me a sense of control … and peace. Therefore I do not intend to compromise on that particular commitment. Maybe it has to do with God, or maybe it has to do with me. I’m not even sure anymore. But I am sure of this — I am not going to let my mother’s weird religiousness rule over me. I refuse to become as critical and judgmental and angry as she has become. From now on I will be my own person.

  As I get my goody bag of personal products and hair stuff from the dresser, I see the light blue Bible sitting there, almost like it’s waiting for me to pick it up and read it. But whether it’s because of the way my mom has used her Bible as a sword, hacking into Dad and me and anyone else who disagrees with her, or because I’m simply feeling rebellious, I pick up the Good Book and shove it into the bottom drawer, burying it beneath some old jeans before I slam the door closed.

  I so do not want to become my mother! I don’t want to look down on my dad — I do not want to judge or criticize him. And when I meet his girlfriend, Stella — or whatever her name is — tomorrow, I will act totally cool, like I’m completely comfortable with whatever their relationship might be. Even if they make out on the couch or even go to bed together at the end of the day, I am not going to react.

  As I go into the hall bathroom, my own personal bathroom — well, at least until Dad has guests (like his girlfriend) — I decide to adopt a new grown-up way of thinking. As I arrange my things on the counter, lining them up nice and neat, and as I brush my teeth, I decide my philosophy will become laissez-faire. It’s something I remember from last year’s history class. It’s usually a political or economic term, French for “let it be” or something to that effect. But from now on I will do just that. I will let it be. I will live and let live. And I suspect that my dad will be greatly relieved by this. Hopefully my mother will never know.

  ...[CHAPTER 3].................

  Idon’t know why I couldn’t sleep in late this morning, especially after not sleeping too well last night. Maybe it was the sunlight pouring through my east-facing window. Or maybe it was the call of the swimming pool down below. But at a little past nine, I’m in my swimsuit, wrapped in a beach towel, and, with my key in hand, heading downstairs for a morning swim.

  It’s weird, because I definitely have a spring in my step. It’s like I’m in a different world today. I’m here in sunny California and it feels like I just came back to summer. Oregon in mid-October can be beautiful … or it can be gloomy and gray. When I left, it was damp and dreary … and a little depressing.

  I test the temperature of the water, and seeing that it’s comfortable, I drop my towel on a chair and dive in. Naturally, the water feels colder on my body than it did on my foot, but after a few strokes, I’m acclimated — and it feels good, refreshing, invigorating. I feel more alive right now than I’ve felt in a long time.

  I used to be on swim team. Until I developed curves. That’s when Mom decided it was “indecent to go around in a skimpy team suit for all those teenage boys to gawk at,” but I still love to swim. Who knows, maybe I’ll look into it again at my new school. Although I’m afraid I’d be too out of shape to really compete without too much humiliation.

  Despite being out of shape, I easily swim for about an hour. Then I find a nice sunny spot where I park myself on a chaise lounge and soak up some sun, even falling asleep for a while.

  When I wake up, I’m toasty warm and very thirsty. The clock on the fence says it’s getting close to eleven and I’m guessing Dad might be up by now. I head back upstairs, unlock the door, and come into the condo in time to see a tangle of arms and legs on the black leather sofa. It takes me a couple of seconds before I realize it’s my dad — and a blonde!

  I turn my head away and, without saying a word, hurry past them. I’m not sure if they even saw me or not. With a pounding heart, I remind myself of my new laissez-faire attitude. Let it go, I tell myself as I turn on the shower. Live and let live. But, cheese whiz, I think as I vigorously shampoo my hair, why couldn’t they take their little act behind closed doors? As I apply conditioner, I wonder about Stella or whatever her name is — how old is she? I swear she looked about my age, but then I couldn’t really see her face — as it appeared superglued to my dad’s face.

  “Live and let live,” I say out loud. “Just chill and let it go.”

  By th
e time I’m drying my hair, I feel a little calmer. And by the time I put a little curl into the ends — I’m not sure why even, but I suspect I’m just trying to delay the inevitable — I think I can handle this.

  Finally, dressed and ready to face whatever it is that’s waiting for me, I emerge from my room to the smell of something good cooking, which reminds me that I really am hungry.

  “Hey, Hay,” my dad hails. “Come and meet Estelle.”

  So it’s Estelle, not Stella. I paste on a smile and go into the kitchen to see a very young-looking blonde woman stirring what looks like eggs. Dad does an introduction and, feeling conspicuous, I reach out and shake her hand. She looks a little surprised but shakes mine, too.

  “Do you like omelets, Haley?” she asks brightly.

  “Sure, but you don’t have to cook for me.”

  “Estelle brought breakfast things over,” Dad says. “She’s a really good cook.”

  “You just pick out what you want in it,” Estelle tells me. “There are mushrooms, green onions, and a bunch of other things by the sink. Just throw what you want in a bowl and bring it to me. I used to work in a resort restaurant where I had to pump these out for a waiting customer every couple of minutes.”

  I gather some things and take them to Estelle as she’s sliding an omelet onto a plate for Dad. He leans over and plunks a kiss on the top of her head. “Thanks, babe.”

  Thanks, babe? I try not to wrinkle my nose in disgust, but I can’t help but think I never saw him treating my mom like that. Still, I’m not going there.

  I wait and watch as Estelle cracks and whips up the eggs, then pours them into the sizzling pan. She adds my ingredients, using a spatula to gently turn the edges of the omelet, lets it cook a bit longer, and finally slides it onto a plate. “Here you go, Haley. And there are blueberry muffins by the fridge.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t kiss her on top of her head. I grab a muffin and go over to sit by Dad at the breakfast bar.