Sophie's Smile: A Novel

by Harper, Sheena

  -Sophie 12/21/02

  I could not understand that the unhappiness I felt was an illusion I created. I was the only person who could make myself happy and steer toward a great life. My perfect life. I did not understand, could not understand—my naivety always the key factor—that is, until my Junior year of college, when I met the man who would change all that.

  Part two

  Wandering through hell,

  Flames licking at my boot heels;

  I should have gone right.

  ~Kyle Harper, Wrong Turn

  ~ Liam ~

  1

  I jolted up from my rumpled sheets. My head pounding. My eyes hazed. The music was deafening. What the fuck? The clock read 2:00 A.M. Noise was blazing from…what seemed like was just outside my bedroom door. I looked like a mess with my muddled, mousy-brown hair and boxers that resembled Swiss cheese. I grabbed my gold-rimmed eyeglasses, pulled my jeans on and headed toward the door.

  I winced. The cold floor stung my feet. It was Christmas morning and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would crank the stereo. I felt sorry for the Christian family next door who was probably resting in anticipation of a busy day ahead of them. I just hoped, for the parents’ sake, that Santa already came to visit. I opened the door.

  The space was filled with a cloudy haze of smoke. A sweet and sour aroma filled my nostrils, evidence from the events of only a few hours ago. Empty Filippi’s pizza boxes, beer cans, stacked newspapers, and dust cluttered the room. Dad—a broad, husky fellow with Ireland in his blood—was stuffed on a torn couch, covered in a thin quilt my sister made him a few years ago for Father’s Day, and had his pillow planted over his head.

  At the foot of the couch was the stereo, the only fixture in the place that was clean and in impeccable condition, blasting Right Next Door to Hell by Guns N’ Roses. And there was John, in his skivvies, with a beer in his left hand and his right fist pumping the air yelling, “Merry Fucking Christmas Everybody!”

  The brief exposé was over and John went back to his room, stereo continuing to blast. I left everything the way it was and went back to bed. This was John’s house and we were his guests.

  After the divorce, my sister, Emily, ran away with her high school sweetheart, Dan Wyley, to who knows where—she sends me a postcard from the various places they’ve traveled every now and then, letting me know that she’s doing well and not to worry. Hopefully, for her sake, she is fine and not stuck in some hellhole, ditched by her idiotic boyfriend, scrounging for money, and too proud to come back home.

  Home. I guess there is no longer a home to come back to. The home that we once belonged to, the one Dad built for us, was a small cottage house—in Lake Tahoe near my mom’s parents’ cabin—charming, and tirelessly built with his sweat and love. We lived in a small apartment in San Diego before that. Dad worked and scrimped and saved to make Tahoe happen, to make us happy and together, and we finally moved up there when I was eight years old. Apparently, the plan did not go as planned…

  My mom, Brenda, flew to Italy—with the money she won from the divorce settlement, which was pretty much the whole kit and caboodle—to go find herself.

  As for me, well, since I was only thirteen, I decided to follow Dad back to sunny San Diego and live with him there. Since Dad was only left with a trash bag full of stuff, mainly his clothes, and a few dollar bills in his pocket, John was nice enough to let us crash at his place in the suburbs until things got better.

  Christmas was no longer the color-book Disney fairytale it once was. Just a few years ago, my family—Mom, Dad, Sister, Grandma, Grandpa, aunts, uncles, and cousins—were spending Christmas at my grandparent’s cabin. We all huddled by the fireplace, opening what seemed like hundreds of presents to a nine year old, laughing and drinking hot cocoa or eggnog by the beautifully lit noble fir tree.

  I remembered it vividly. Memories filling my nostrils as I breathed them in, forming indelible pictures in my mind. The room smelled like pinecones, cedar, cookies, and apple cider. The Charlie Brown Christmas CD was set on repeat and playing quietly in the background.

  I was sitting on a comfy upholstered couch, staring into the flowing wax that pooled beneath the wick of each calm, unflickering flame. Minutes and sometimes even hours went by as the aroma emitted from the dazzling flame hypnotized and intrigued me. Candles were lit throughout the many rooms—a nice accent to the blistering flames arising from the nearby hearth.

  There were stockings full of treats, reindeer candle holders, red paper napkins with tiny Christmas trees printed around the borders, stuffed Santas, wreaths, candy canes, and Christmas knick-knacks galore (on book shelves, on tables, and on the floors). Grandma always went crazy for the holidays. She created a warm and inviting place where my family could express their love. It was cozy. It was comfortable. It was Christmas. And now…well, now there was John.

  2

  It was 2:00 P.M. when I decided to roll out of bed for the second time that day. I put on my blue track pants, white undershirt (sniffed the yellowed armpits first to make sure they were clean), socks, tied on my running shoes (probably the most expensive thing I owned), threw on a hooded sweatshirt and ran out the door.

  The crisp air bit into my face as I started picking up speed. The scenery was not as rich with color as I was used to, but it seemed fitting with its dusty browns and wet dirt roads. Passing houses one at a time, using telephone poles as mile markers.

  My throat burned each time I inhaled, and my chest throbbed from the cold. My skin started to prickle and I knew it would just be minutes now before I got adjusted to the cold. My ears and face were numb as I ran. I ran faster. Faster. Until my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might come out of my chest.

  Would that be so bad? Sometimes I wasn’t sure. Would death be worse than my life right now? Running helped clear my mind. I could run for hours. Constantly hoping I could outrun the misery and hate that drugged my veins. Running until it hurt to think. Running until I could feel.

  To me, “feeling” was better than the alternative. The general numbness that often overtook my natural state was deadly. It allowed me to hurt myself and that was never good. Trust me; you do not want to feel nothing.

  3

  “Hey, Dad. Going to Justin’s.”

  Dad was, as usual, slumped in the tattered orange recliner with a beer in his hand, watching a football game.

  “Okay. Have fun, Bud.” Bud Light being his beer of choice.

  His eyes never flinched away from the tube. Our relationship no longer was being Dad and Son but more like roommates… no, friends. He no longer kept tabs on me. I think he felt like he no longer had the right.

  I used to admire him. He loved baseball so I practiced hours a day until I loved baseball. He wore ball caps and I wore ball caps. He hated the video camera so I avoided it. He was everything I wanted to be and more. He was my hero.

  Now, all I felt was sadness when I looked at him. All hope lost. No ambition. Broken, especially his heart; and like Humpty Dumpty, I didn’t know if he’d ever be the same again.

  I put on my plaid wool-lined jacket, pulled down on Dad’s old Padres baseball cap—San Diego was where he grew up and I was raised before we moved to Tahoe—stuck my hands in my pockets and headed over to my best friend Justin’s place to hang out.

  Justin Knoxx and I were pretty much like brothers. We grew up together in San Diego before my family moved to Lake Tahoe when I was eight. We did everything together…well, mostly he got himself into trouble and I was right there beside him trying to help him out of it. Somehow I always managed to get us out scot-free. Except for the time he got into his dad’s new Mini Cooper and pretended he was a racecar driver, accidently started the ignition and backed into the garage door. I couldn’t get him out of that one, but I did try hiding him in my room for a few hours.

  A week ago he convinced me to steal some booze from the local drug store. Justin flirted with the cashier, twice his age, distracting her
with his charm (and horrible impersonation of a French accent), while I slid a bottle or two in my backpack. He was good with the ladies, and the people that worked there were usually young, bored and ignorant. Plus, Justin always got what he wanted. He was a charmer when he wanted to be. We joined up with a few other curious (and titillated) schoolmates, sneaked the vodka and rum over to his room where we sat in a loose circle and fired up the Nintendo 64, passing the bottle around between rounds. Each time sipping cautiously, grimacing, coughing, then qualifying our reaction with some canned, masculine marketing phrase such as “yep, it sure goes down smooth.” Grunts of approval each time. All eyes glazed, all eyes on the screen. We kept this up until we were too trashed to continue the video game (it didn’t take long). We turned on some music, stretched out on the beige shag carpet, and stared at the ceiling distorting and floating above our watery pinwheel eyes. Man, we sure felt cool.

  Justin was an only child whose Mom was nearing the age of sixty. His dad was even older, and quite obviously gave up on Justin years ago. Both parents came from previous marriages and had other children. Justin was the unexpected product of their late love affair. Justin’s upbringing was one of half dysfunction, half spoiling. His personality matched his upbringing—he threw tantrums at the drop of a hat; later, he would be comforted by mommy and showered with gifts. To sum it up, Justin was either a big, soft teddy bear or a force to be reckoned with. And you did not want to be there for the latter.

  Today he wanted to play chess. His dad taught both of us the game back when we were seven, which is probably why he always won. We hadn’t played chess since we were eight, before I left for Tahoe.

  “Do you mind?” Justin asked as he started setting up the 32 pieces on the black-and-white checkered board.

  I shrugged. “Sure.” I really didn’t care what we did as long as Justin was in a good mood and I was distracted. It didn’t really matter how I felt, anyway…Justin always got his way. I learned to accept it. It was easier for everyone that way.

  This was a good game. An hour went by and I was in full focus. Justin was fidgeting, his mood deteriorating with each capture and move I made. My heart was racing. Could this be? Will I finally win a game of chess? I had to focus. And then there it was. In that moment the pieces glowed and the chess-gods were finally on my side. It was like the angels were singing and Glinda was leading me down the yellow brick road toward—.

  “Checkmate.” I said nonchalantly. I was trying to hide my smug, elated face as I won the game. Justin’s cheeks turned from tan to crimson in a matter of seconds.

  Shit…I knew it was too good to be true.

  “What the Fu—!”

  Chess pieces started flying and the next thing I knew there was a gaping hole in the living room wall. I wasn’t shocked. It wasn’t the first time, and I’m sure it wouldn’t be the last. I was more…well, disappointed.

  Come on, Justin, grow up. You probably already won like a hundred times…can’t I just win once? Of course I didn’t say that. I just did what I always did. Stood by, silently, trying to stifle my laughter, watching as Justin tore up the room like Cookie Monster ripping through a box of cookies. Looking back, I probably should have just let him win, but at this point I knew there was nothing I could do; there was no reasoning with him, so I left. After witnessing my parents’ divorce, I had no more tolerance for tantrums and selfishness. I was over it.

  4

  Days, months, and then years flew by without a single word from Justin. If it was anyone else I probably would have been concerned, but it was Justin. I was a little peeved but not surprised. He was the biggest baby I knew, and honestly I no longer cared whether or not we remained friends. With friends like that, who needs enemies.

  I picked up my acoustic guitar, which I spotted at a seedy pawn shop two years ago, and started strumming mindlessly. I focused on the melody that rose from each chord I struck, creating glorious vibrations, just by strumming on the taut nylon strings. Unconsciously, I started repeating the chords to James Taylor’s You’ve Got a Friend, starting over each time a note was slightly out of place, trying to perfect it.

  That was my fault…always trying to perfect everything…to be perfect. To some, I guess it would be considered a strength, but to me, I only looked at it as a dangerous weapon that could someday lead to my death, a weakness.

  I didn’t have a choice, it was my way of coping, it was the only thing I had complete control over—to be perfect. To work night and day until I perfected the new song I learned. To weigh out each ounce of flour on a digital scale before dumping it into the mixing bowl, in order to make sure the cookies tasted flawlessly delicious. To throw the baseball 500 times a day until I could strike out everyone on the opposing team.

  I could control this part of my life and I thrived on it. I held onto this ability, numbing my sanity along with it.

  I wasn’t able to control my parents’ love for each other or stop them from getting divorced. I wasn’t able to control Justin’s immature actions. I wasn’t able to have my spontaneous sister or artsy mother move back. I wasn’t able to escape my dark depression and my ability to feel, all too strongly, the emotions of those around me.

  I found myself starting to give up on myself—on life—all too willingly, as if accepting my fate—to live alone and in a constant stream of sadness.

  5

  Dad worked hard the next few years in order to move out of John’s place and into a place closer to town. A place of his own. Of course, a few days were harder than others and on those days he hid out on the recliner—with a beer in his hand, eyes, glued to the tube.

  Time seemed to pass without much change. Days, months, and years seemed to blend together with equal despair—closing our eyes and ears to the unhappiness that loomed over us like a dark impending cloud.

  A glimmer of hope arrived the day we finally bid John farewell with one last carne asada beer bash. Worried the long-awaited sun would sink back behind the thunderous clouds, we anxiously packed up Dad’s truck with our meager possessions, and headed out the next morning.

  The place was decent for the two of us: one-story, 550 square feet, built in the ‘40s, walls were lined with flowery paper, yellowed with age, and torn at the corners—this was the first to go—oak flooring, caked with decades of floor wax and neglect but otherwise solid, bathroom needed an overhaul (rust was evident around the faucet and shower head, toilet needed to be replaced, handy plunger was always near), but it was the kitchen that won him over. It was the crowning jewel to this old, decrepit place.

  Large range, sub-zero fridge, extra-deep cast iron sink with high gooseneck faucet, stainless silver appliances, white cabinets, tile backsplash, slate floors, granite countertops, and a corner island for extra counter space. Recessed lighting transcended a radiant glow to the black, white, and gray color palette lending nicely to the colorful knick-knacks that Dad enjoyed.

  Cooking was Dad’s activity of choice and the kitchen was his retreat. Owning a restaurant was his dream—far-fetched in his eyes, but to me, it seemed achievable like a ripe fruit just waiting to be plucked. He was a wonderful cook, especially when it came to Italian cuisine—Pizza Pie, his specialty. Like me, he was cast in a shadow of despair, lost in the depression to which he all too easily succumbed. Sure, there were roadblocks that led him there, hard losses, and negative twists of fate, but he had a choice and he chose wrong. I took after him in many ways…learned his ways…all too accurately followed his mistakes.

  At times he would toy with the idea of what his restaurant would look like, how he would run it, what would be on the menu. He even went so far as searching the listings in the newspaper or scanning the “for rent” signs as he drove back from work—taking the long way home—waiting for the perfect venue for his restaurant.

  I would occasionally join in, excitedly, candidly expressing my approval and pitching in my own ideas to bake desserts for his restaurant. But in the back of my mind I always feared that this dream would be
just that, a dream, and would never amount to anything more. That he would never be able to open up a restaurant. That his depression wouldn’t let him.

  This terrified me. Although I loved my father and he had been my hero since I could remember, I inherited his negativity, and bluntly, his bad luck. I strongly believed that my fate would mirror his and I would live the rest of my life in pain, despair, and…loneliness. I thought I was destined to be alone; the future seemed bleak and unwelcoming.

  Sporadically, the sun sprayed its rays upon us, but having spent years under an opaque mask suppressed our ability to enjoy its warmth.

  Sometimes, it seemed too easy, too enticing to resist escaping this desolate future. To take my own life. Once in a while, depression overtook my sanity, and I was close…too close…but I controlled the urge to finish what I started when I felt the pain I would be inflicting on my family.

  That pain shielded my depression long enough to make me stop. Long enough for the knife to fall from my shaky fingertips and the thick blood that oozed from the self-inflicted wound to clot and blacken. Long enough to regain composure and hate myself for it—hate myself for being a disappointment.

  6

  Today seemed like one of those bleak days. It was the morning of my twenty-first birthday. I’d been on a hiatus for the past year; dropped out of UC San Diego, got dumped by my girlfriend, quit my job as an intro-level software developer, quit my next job collecting tickets at a museum, then at FedEx, and then 24 Hour Fitness, and now I was just hiding out for a while taking odd jobs for my father whenever he needed an extra hand at the construction site.