by Salma Saeedi
CLEO
My mom dismisses the song as being nothing more than noise. She pokes her head out from the window imploring me to turn it off, yelling at me when I make it louder instead. She doesn’t care that the song gives me chills and almost puts me in a trance. I guess it’s understandable; she doesn’t like any of the music I like. I don’t even think she likes music, always complaining of the headache it gives her.
I think about the idea of this particular song: everything in its right place. It’s a great concept right? I guess I would imagine it to be like those perfect days when you find yourself sitting outside with the weather just right, reading, and listening to music. Your friends are there if you want to hang out but there’s no pressure if you’d prefer to revel in the solitude. The sun shines on your face, the warmth wraps you up: an imperturbable peace. I envision that scenario and I contrast it with my day today. Even though the specifics might coincide, something is missing.
Mama’s nagging voice interrupts my daydream:
“Come back inside. Don’t you have work to do? Clean your room, take your medication.”
ERMA
She never listens to me. Always instead with her radio, constantly turning it louder so she can’t hear me, but I know she does. I also know she doesn’t have time to hang around like that. Every once in a while her teachers tell me to come talk to them, going on about how she doesn’t do her homework and instead spends all of her time looking out the window. Still water runs deep, I tell them, not sure if they believe me. Not sure if I believe myself. They ask me about her home life, if that’s to blame for her poor academic performance. I almost want to tell them it’s none of their goddamn business what happens in our home, but I guess they’re only concerned. Either that or they’re pretending to be—it is their job after all. Anyway, last time I ended up telling them the truth about her father. I figured it would at least make them ease up on her for a little bit. The truth is, ever since he left, she doesn’t wanna do anything but lie outside and listen to her music. I worry, I do, but she blames me and there really isn’t anything I can do about it.
I hear the phone ring and my bones shrivel up a little bit in anticipation of the voice I know I’ll be met with.
“Erma?”
“Hello Carl,” I respond. It takes all of my strength to be calm, and even more of my strength to resist hanging up on him.
“Erma, hi, I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks now. I’m running dry.”
“That ain’t my problem Carl. You can’t just call me every time you need money. I’m not gonna keep bailin’ you out, clingin’ to the possibility of you coming back.”
“It’s not for that—I found a dress I’m sure she’ll love. I wanna buy it and send it to her.”
“You mean, you want me to buy it and for you to receive the credit for it? It’s okay Carl, she doesn’t need a new dress. She doesn’t even need a dad.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“No.”
He makes me so angry sometimes. I try my best to keep my composure, at least for Cleo’s sake, but the anger wins out too often. I’m supposed to act in a certain way, the “good mom” role and all that, but I always wonder if I fit the bill, if I’m doing it right. It’s hard. I don’t think she sees that, but how could she? She’s too young and wrapped up in how it affects her. I know I can’t expect too much of her since I’m the adult and all, but all I want is a bit of slack.
Sometimes I consider asking him back. Not because I’m lonely or anything, but more because I know it’s not true when I say she doesn’t need her dad. All I need to do is see him or talk to him, though, and I immediately change my mind. All of our conversations are singed with the anger and resentment carried over from the last twenty years and it’s not something I want to deal with anymore. I can’t remember the last time I talked to him without wanting to yank his sorry face off his body and throw it in the fireplace. Being that negative all the time can have a detrimental effect on you, not to mention how it could affect Cleo.
CLEO
She’s yelling and then she acts like I don’t know who she’s talking to. I know it’s my dad. How could I not know? Nobody else calls except for my grandma every Wednesday at 8pm. I really wish Mama would stop yelling. I think she’s scaring him away. But I dunno. It’s hard for me not to feel responsible sometimes, but then I think back to all of the fights and realize I never heard my name in the screaming. Mama told me to talk to somebody after he left, figuring I was upset and couldn’t handle my own emotions or something like that. The lady said it was normal for me to blame myself but that I shouldn’t. That I shouldn’t feel abandoned because I’ll always have people to talk to. Where these people are, I don’t know. Sure, I have some friends. It’s not like I’m the weird girl who chews on her hair in class instead of talking to people or anything like that. Sometimes I just don’t feel like them, you know? Do other people ever feel like I do? Do other people just not have the patience to deal with their friends sometimes like I don’t? That’s what I wonder all the time: how other people’s minds work. What they’re thinking about. I think it’s easy to guess. My friend Marley probably thinks about her dogs and what they’re up to. My friend Jeff, that’s easy, he probably thinks about what he’s going to eat for lunch, and then at lunch he’ll think about dinner. But like I said, that’s just guessing. Maybe at any given point, these people could be having the same exact thoughts as I am! But nobody’s going to say anything.
I realized something once when I was reading some book. I passed over a line that felt as if it were coming straight out of my own head. It felt so true and at first I was about to start calling that my favorite book, but then I realized, maybe all of these words, these song lyrics, or book passages that resonate with us, it just proves that everything has been thought before, that original thoughts pretty much just don’t exist. I guess sometimes that might not be true, but all I know is I stopped getting as excited when I ran into thoughts I’d had before in things I was reading or listening to.
He left about two months ago. I remember certain aspects of their last fight well, but the rest of it is hazy. I was sitting in my room, finding it hard to finish my homework with the entire ruckus outside my door. Even just staring at the piece of paper was proving to be a decent distraction.
“Two cyclists start at the same time from opposite ends of a course that is 45 miles long. One cyclist is riding at 14 mph and the second cyclist is riding at 16 mph. How long after they begin will they meet? ”
And then a glass shattered.
ERMA
“WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, DID YOU NOT SEE IT THERE?” I asked Carl, ready for him to give me a lame-ass excuse.
“Calm down, Erma. It’s just a glass we have a gazillion of them, I don’t get why you always sweat the small things. You don’t know how to relax.”
“How in the hell do you expect me to relax when everything is constantly on the verge of falling apart? You do enough relaxing for all of us. Throughout this whole relationship you’ve been tellin’ me to relax, and I’ll tell you, it might have been exciting at first, but now it’s just old. Go wherever the fuck you want and relax but there’s no room for it here.”
“What are you saying? Do you even hear how ridiculous you’re being? I broke a glass! There’s no way you can be this angry. I’ll buy you another one if that’s what you want.”
“You think that’s what I want? You think this is about a glass? It’s not, Carl. Smash every glass we have, for all I care. While you’re at it, why don’t you go for the plates too? Just take every goddamn possession we have and break them into smithereens until we’re all left with nothing. Incinerate them, why don’t you? It’ll speed up the process.”
I watched his face. I felt almost bad for him while he tried to think of an adequate response, attempting to dig beyond the surface of the argument and coming up dry. I heard him muttering under his breath. Probably something about how I’m psychotic. No acknowledgement of his faults, as usual. I wondered how it is we got to this point and I kept reminding myself that it could have been worse. He could have been abusive or a serial killer or something like that. I’ve read some crazy shit in the newspapers, like about men who go crazy on their wives and stuff them in ovens or throw them off buildings and scary scenarios of that sort. In some ways I guess I’m lucky because any way you look at it, deadbeat beats murderer. Then again, there has to be some sort of medium. Maybe I’m the actual problem and I just attract these good-for-nothing men.
It’s not that I wanted him to leave forever at that point, but I couldn’t stand the sight of him any longer. We were both so tired of fighting. I watched as he walked away, grabbing his keys and closing the door with a vengeance. I guess that was the only response he could come up with.
“Don’t slam that door! I’ve told you a million times!”
CLEO
Two cyclists start at the same time from opposite ends of a course that is 45 miles long.
Two cyclists start at the same time from opposite ends of a course that is 45 miles long.
Two cyclists start at the same time from opposite ends of a course that is 45 miles long.
I think about the cyclists. What were they even trying to do? Was it coincidence that they were starting at the same time? Was it all just for this stupid math problem? Did the cyclists know each other?
I never did finish that problem. Too much going on I guess. Anyway, I’ve only talked to him a few times since then. He came back a few days later in the middle of the night and the next day all of his stuff was gone. Why didn’t he come during the day? I’m sure we would have all liked to see him. I know my mom gets angry and sometimes it seems uncalled for, but her heart is in the right place I think. She cares for him, she has to. Why else would she have stayed with him for so long? I still love the story of how they met. At this point, I’ve heard my parents tell the story countless times, but to me it never gets old. I always find myself thinking that it’s the way these things are supposed to happen. She was 16, working in her mom’s wig shop when he walked in. Men rarely came into the shop; the store catered more to older women wanting Dolly Parton circa Steel Magnolias hairstyles, not men like my dad who had full heads of hair. Anyway, he walked in and started looking at all of these wigs, as if he were really interested. He walked up to her, asked for her name and requested to try on some of the wigs. Mama was like super taken aback that he of all people would want to do this, but she played along and gave him wig after wig to try on. It became this huge game and they were laughing and laughing until my grandma came out and saw what clowns they were being. Apparently she got all angry and told my mom to go home since she was not being a serious enough worker, so Mama apologized and left. Instead of going home though, my dad took her out for milk shakes at the diner and I guess after that they just hung out all of the time and became super close and whatever, insert cheesy “the rest is history” cliché here.
I remember I woke up the morning all of his stuff was gone to find a note that said, “Sorry, doll.” It confused me more than anything. Since when did he call me doll? He could have at least written my name. He could have at least said what it was he was apologizing for. Was he apologizing for leaving? For not having said goodbye? For not really being around? I could list more grievances than the Continental Congress wrote against the king of Britain. We had to memorize those for whatever reason a few weeks ago. I don’t know what good it’s going to do to be able to recite those, but I guess one day it might come in handy if I wanna sound smart or something. The point is, there’s a lot he could have had to be sorry for and I would have liked clarification.
Since then the conversations have been short and awkward. You know, he asks me how I am, and I ask him where he is. I say fine, and he makes some random comment about the weather. I guess maybe he thinks I’ll try to find him if he tells me where he is and he doesn’t want that to happen, but that’s really not it. I wanna know just for the sake of knowing. It’s not that I’m unhappy living with Mama, or that I’d be any happier living with my dad. I guess I don’t even know what it means to be unhappy or happy even. I think I feel the way I’ve always felt, but I can’t be sure. It’s not like we were ever the picture of a perfect family. In fact there’s really only one picture of us. It was taken by one of Mama’s friends like ten years ago. I was super little, pulling on my dad’s shirt. My dad is trying to kiss Mama’s cheek but she’s turned away so he can’t reach her. Mama’s friend brought it over in a frame and kept talking about what a great picture it was but I hated it so when they weren’t looking I took it out of its frame and I went over Mama’s face with a crayon, trying to make it look like she was smiling. Mama’s friend thought that was hilarious and kept talking about how adorable I was but I wasn’t trying to be funny. I just wanted a happier picture. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t done that because that’s probably the only picture there’s ever going to be of the three of us.
“Honey, come on in, it’s getting dark out and you still have work to do. Tomorrow’s another day, and it’s the weekend. You can hang outside all day if that’s what you want, but for now it’s time to come inside,” I hear Mama say.
I went inside and looked at the table with its two place settings. For a while after my dad left, my mom would unthinkingly put three place settings, but I guess now she’s used to the change. I can’t help but wonder whether she’d kick me out if I were to break a plate, but I push that out of my head. I know it has no truth to it.
Maybe there is no right place for things, because everything is just how it is and wanting things to be different is a waste of time.
