Once, when I tried to tell Karin about how scared I was of Dad, she had frowned, asking me: “But he never hits you, right?”
I shook my head. And her face cleared: “So he just yells at you? I know, it freaks me out when my dad yells.”
“Well, he doesn’t actually yell either,” I tried to clarify.
“Then what’s so scary about him?” From her dubious tone alone, I could see how Karin had no idea how terrifying words spoken quietly could be. How words chosen precisely to wreak the maximum damage ticked like a bomb in your head, but exploded in your heart hours later, leaving you scarred and changed.
My stomach churned so badly I felt like throwing up. But I forced myself to round the corner, forced myself to look at Dad. He was still too busy picking at the last fragments of Mom to pay attention to me, but then he turned, his mouth half open like he couldn’t get his barbs out fast enough. Dad flinched when he saw my face, my dark purple face twinned with his quietly enraged one.
He backed into his chair, a rich distressed leather that I remembered Mom agonizing over, it was so ridiculously expensive. But he was “worth it” — Mom’s words.
I waited for Dad to say something, but he didn’t. Silence, too, can be torture.
And finally, he asked, “Did I or did I not expressly forbid any more money to be wasted on your face? Did I or did I not say that nothing would ever change your face? Funny, but I thought I had made myself very clear.” A pause and then very quietly: “Who paid for that?”
There was no way I was about to tell Dad that Mom had found the funds for my surgery somewhere.
“I asked, who paid for that?”
I glanced over at Mom, willing her for once not to say anything. Mistake. Dad intercepted my look.
“Please, God, tell me that you didn’t waste my hard-earned money on that,” Dad said, rolling his magazine and slapping it in his open hand. “Please, God, tell me that I haven’t been scrimping” — thwack! — “and saving” — thwack! — “to put all you kids through college and you flush my money down the drain on” — he waved at my face with his police baton of a magazine — “that.” His face was reddening with every word. “When are you going to accept that nothing you do will make you look normal?”
I sucked in my breath, kept my face immobile. Don’t listen, don’t listen.
“It wasn’t your money,” Mom said finally.
No, Mom. Don’t.
Dad misinterpreted Mom’s statement and glowered accusingly at me. “I see.” A pause, long enough for me to wipe the sweat off my forehead before it trickled onto my sore cheek. “Clearly, you’re stupider” — thwack! thwack! — “than I thought you were to waste your money. Clearly” — thwack! — “you have too much discretionary income. You can pay for the car.”
I swallowed hard, seeing my college nest egg disappearing and Williams College spinning even farther out of my reach.
A long pause lulled me into thinking that the discussion was over, but I was wrong. As though the thought were only now occurring to him, Dad languidly spread out the magazine, its pages curling up now.
“You know,” he mused, “I’ve seen run-over deer look better than you.”
Even in my sleep that night, I heard Dad, ranting on and on about the car, about how stupid I was for not being able to control it on the road in any condition. Every word, every accusation chipped away at me until I was nothing at all. When my alarm clock rang, I slammed my hand on the buzzer to shut it up, completely unable to motivate myself out of bed. None of my regular tricks worked, not even the reminder that Erik expected me to have a killer body hiding under my clothes.
What I wanted to do was eat. No, not eat. Gorge. I would inhale waffles slathered with maple syrup. Bacon fried so crispy it broke with a satisfying crunch. Scrambled eggs with blue cheese. Thick slices of bread covered in warm, freshly ground peanut butter.
No
I shook my head. And her face cleared: “So he just yells at you? I know, it freaks me out when my dad yells.”
“Well, he doesn’t actually yell either,” I tried to clarify.
“Then what’s so scary about him?” From her dubious tone alone, I could see how Karin had no idea how terrifying words spoken quietly could be. How words chosen precisely to wreak the maximum damage ticked like a bomb in your head, but exploded in your heart hours later, leaving you scarred and changed.
My stomach churned so badly I felt like throwing up. But I forced myself to round the corner, forced myself to look at Dad. He was still too busy picking at the last fragments of Mom to pay attention to me, but then he turned, his mouth half open like he couldn’t get his barbs out fast enough. Dad flinched when he saw my face, my dark purple face twinned with his quietly enraged one.
He backed into his chair, a rich distressed leather that I remembered Mom agonizing over, it was so ridiculously expensive. But he was “worth it” — Mom’s words.
I waited for Dad to say something, but he didn’t. Silence, too, can be torture.
And finally, he asked, “Did I or did I not expressly forbid any more money to be wasted on your face? Did I or did I not say that nothing would ever change your face? Funny, but I thought I had made myself very clear.” A pause and then very quietly: “Who paid for that?”
There was no way I was about to tell Dad that Mom had found the funds for my surgery somewhere.
“I asked, who paid for that?”
I glanced over at Mom, willing her for once not to say anything. Mistake. Dad intercepted my look.
“Please, God, tell me that you didn’t waste my hard-earned money on that,” Dad said, rolling his magazine and slapping it in his open hand. “Please, God, tell me that I haven’t been scrimping” — thwack! — “and saving” — thwack! — “to put all you kids through college and you flush my money down the drain on” — he waved at my face with his police baton of a magazine — “that.” His face was reddening with every word. “When are you going to accept that nothing you do will make you look normal?”
I sucked in my breath, kept my face immobile. Don’t listen, don’t listen.
“It wasn’t your money,” Mom said finally.
No, Mom. Don’t.
Dad misinterpreted Mom’s statement and glowered accusingly at me. “I see.” A pause, long enough for me to wipe the sweat off my forehead before it trickled onto my sore cheek. “Clearly, you’re stupider” — thwack! thwack! — “than I thought you were to waste your money. Clearly” — thwack! — “you have too much discretionary income. You can pay for the car.”
I swallowed hard, seeing my college nest egg disappearing and Williams College spinning even farther out of my reach.
A long pause lulled me into thinking that the discussion was over, but I was wrong. As though the thought were only now occurring to him, Dad languidly spread out the magazine, its pages curling up now.
“You know,” he mused, “I’ve seen run-over deer look better than you.”
Even in my sleep that night, I heard Dad, ranting on and on about the car, about how stupid I was for not being able to control it on the road in any condition. Every word, every accusation chipped away at me until I was nothing at all. When my alarm clock rang, I slammed my hand on the buzzer to shut it up, completely unable to motivate myself out of bed. None of my regular tricks worked, not even the reminder that Erik expected me to have a killer body hiding under my clothes.
What I wanted to do was eat. No, not eat. Gorge. I would inhale waffles slathered with maple syrup. Bacon fried so crispy it broke with a satisfying crunch. Scrambled eggs with blue cheese. Thick slices of bread covered in warm, freshly ground peanut butter.
No
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