Fiction Writing

An Inescapable Wake

A short story by Kelsie Abram

     Sitting in my den in the pitch black darkness, I swear I can hear the air. It’s small whistle is soft and it moves through my brunette hair like it’s alive. I can feel it’s gentle touch on my fingertips as I turn the page of the Hemingway novel lay in my lap. I wonder if it knows what I’m thinking. If it can concept raw, emotional human pain. I wish it could, and that it would take mine away.

My father left our family three weeks ago. Growing up, I chose not to notice the way his secretaries fixed his ties at work. How their manicured fingers lingered on his chest a little too long. Or how my father had two separate phones that he never left unattended. I even ignored the fuscia pink lipstick stains on his neck, a color my mother had never owned.

But when I watched him walk out our door, I accepted defeat. My father is not the man I thought him to be. Instead, he’s a man who chose a 24-year-old blonde secretary over his family.

I turn my gaze to our grandfather clock situated perpendicular to a shelf of over priced stationary. Seeing the hour hand still upon the seven, I realize the night is dragging on agonizingly slow. I return my focus to the words floating on the pages in my lap. Reading lets me forget who I am, what my life has become.

My phone buzzes under my leg, shining through the weight of my skin. Pulling it out, I see my boyfriend Dylan’s name on the screen. Pressing the tiny green button, I raise the phone up to my ear.

“Hey,” I mumble.

“Where are you?” Dylan asks. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

His voice is mixed with anger and concern, a tone I am contently familiar with.

“I’m home,” I reply.

“Alone?” he asks.

I can’t bring myself to answer.. I know he’s worried about what I will succumb to when by myself. If I’ll resort to drastic measures. But somehow I feel content sinking into the velvety abyss that is the red den chair, disappearing into the nothingness that I feel. Dylan takes my silence as an affirmation, and replies in a much calmer tone.

“I’ll be at your house in two minutes.”

I consider locking the front door, but I feel too heavy. Motionless, I focus on the family portrait hung on the center wall. My father stands tall behind a cherry wood chair. His green eyes are too bright and his smile is perfectly deceiving. My mother stands next to him with a posed hand atop his blazer-dawned shoulder. She looks static, like a being that only exists in frames. Her real emotion hidden behind her need to be loved. She holds me in a tight, motherly embrace. One that should feel safe.

“Sarah?”

My thoughts are interrupted by the closing of my front door. I wait for Dylan to find me, knowing the den will be his first checkpoint. I see him step under the threshold, leaning his long body against the wall. He stares at me with an intense gaze, one full of pity and exasperation. I watch him open his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him before the words can find their way out.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, looking at the ground.

I hear Dylan move across the patterned carpet, catching glimpses of his black converse slowly stepping towards me. He halts in front of me, sitting down on my chair’s matching footrest. With my eyes still focused on the floor, Dylan begins to speak.

“I think you need to see somebody,” he whispers. “Maybe they can help.”

My mother invited a counselor to the house a few days ago. When the lady asked me to describe my feelings using animal figurines, I walked out.

I raise my head to look at Dylan. His elbows are on his knees and his body is leaning towards my own. He’s waiting for me to agree, but I slowly shake my head.

“It didn’t help last time,” I reply.

“You barely gave it a chance,” he says.

“Look, Dylan,” I say, leaning back into my chair and picking up my book. “I just want to sit here and read.”

As I open my book to where I left off, Dylan snatches it out of my hands.

“Hey!” I shout accusingly.

Dylan throws the book to the floor, shaking his head.

“I’m worried about you,” he says. “It’s like you don’t care anymore about…anything.”

I know it hurts Dylan to see me like this. A few weeks ago I was quite upbeat. But now I’ve turned our relationship into a burden. He feels like he’s responsible to fix me. To patch me up and wind the key in my back.

“I’m sorry, I know,” I whisper.

Standing up, slowly shuffle to the other side of the den. I feel my eyes begin to water and my breath begin to shake. Dylan follows behind, gathering me in his arms and pulling me to his chest, allowing my tears to wet his soft flannel..

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.

I’m afraid to let go of his body. That if I loosen my grip, I’ll sink through the ground and physically fall as low as I feel.

“Then let me in,” Dylan replies, holding me tighter. “Let me help.”

I look up to meet his eyes with mine. As I sniffle, he wipes one of my tears away with his thumb. Taking his face in my hands, I kiss him gently on the lips.

“I’ll try,” I say as his lips still brush against my own.

Dylan pulls away and bends down to pick up the book he had taken his frustration out on only minutes ago. Turning it over in his hands, he smiles.

“I bought you this, didn’t I?” he asks.

I nod, attempting to grin at the fond memory. A few months ago he heard me rambling about my fondness of The Sun Also Rises and surprised me the next day with a copy of The Old Man and the Sea.

“Yes,” I reply, grazing the cover with my fingers. “This is my third time reading it.”

“I’ll never understand why you like him so much,” Dylan says laughing. “I had to read this last year in Mrs. Hong’s class and couldn’t even finish it.”

His smile is infectious, and I laugh in what feels like the first time in a while.

“Let’s go to Anderson’s,” Dylan says, grasping my hand in his own. “I’ll buy you another book I hate.”

I smile, nodding in agreement. Anderson’s is my favorite book store in town. Their bookshelves are gigantic and seem to go on forever. Sometimes I close my eyes and run my finger down a shelf and pick a book at random. No preconceived notions, no bias. The odds take control, and I abide blindlessly.

I walk to the kitchen and pull a yellow notepad from one of the drawers. Since my father left, my mother has been coming home routinely late. I think she’d rather go shopping and relax in a spa than face her crumbling marriage. But on the chance my mother arrives home before myself, I write her a note saying where I’ll be.

I turn around and see Dylan waiting by the front door, holding my purse in his hands. Joining him, I grab the purse and follow him out the door to his volvo parked in my windy driveway. The streetlights illuminate the neighborhood, allowing me to find my way to the passenger door of Dylan’s car. I watch him start the engine and pull into the road.

Driving down the empty street, Dylan sets his hand on my knee. I turn his radio on and spin to look at his face. His unruly brown hair sits atop his head, whisping slightly from the crack in the driver’s side window. I feel my heart beat with admiration, realizing how grateful I am of Dylan’s love.

In a few short minutes, he pulls the car in front of Anderson’s brick building. I jump out and make my way inside, turning around to make sure Dylan is close behind. He walks through the doors and I pull his hand into mine, leading him to the classics section.

“Help me look for A Tale of Two Cities,” I say.

As we search for the letter “D,” I hear a familiar voice from the opposite side of the bookcase. Suddenly my body becomes as frozen as my mind.

“Is that…?” Dylan tentatively whispers.

My father’s voice shocks me. It evokes emotion that I’m not yet ready to face. I listen to his familiar laugh, and my stomach feels like it’s stuck in a vice grip.

“Do you want to go?” Dylan asks.

I begin to respond, but stop when I hear another voice speak. It belongs to a woman, and the shrillness of it makes me recognize it’s owner. My father is only steps away accompanied by the woman he left our family for. The woman that matters more than his daughter. I feel the room begin to spin, and I shut my eyes as tight as I can.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Dylan says, pulling me to my feet.

As I walk with him to the door, I hear my father’s voice from closer proximity than before.

“Sarah?” he says.

I slowly turn on my heel, facing the father than I no longer know.

“What?” I reply in a low tone.

My father steps towards me, and Dylan pulls me closer to his side. I watch the two men exchange glances, feeling hostility fill the air.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” my father says.

“It’s my favorite book store,” I reply defensively. “I’m here all of the time.”

My father stopped paying attention to my ventures a few years ago. He would look right through me. His embrace no longer held felt loving, but cold and distant. Yet I still wanted him to care. I wanted him to love me enough to try.

“Honey, I’ve been meaning to call you,” my father says. “It’s just been-”

“I get it,” I reply, cutting him off.

I see the secretary standing farther back, holding a few books in her long, tanned arms. She’s staring at me, and I feel the urge to run. I look to Dylan, who decides to speak for me.

“I think you should go, Mr. Lorens,” he says, pushing my small frame behind his body.

My father looks taken aback, shocked by the sharpness in Dylan’s voice. Around my parents, he had always been more than respectful. Never swore, always shook their hands, never kissed me anywhere other than the cheek. Now, every ounce of respect Dylan held for my father had vanished.

“And I think this is none of your business,” my father replies threateningly.

“Oh, I think it most definitely is,” Dylan barks back.

As the two men argue, I move my gaze back to the secretary. Our eyes lock, and I wonder what she thinks of the situation. If she even cares about tearing my family apart. As her eyes leave mine, she lifts her hands to her stomach. My eyes widen, and I feel my last shred of hope leave my being.

“Fuck you,” I spit at my father.

Dylan and my father halt their bickering, looking at me in shock.

“Excuse me?” he says.

I loosen my grasp on Dylan’s flannel and step around him towards my father, no longer needing him as a shield. The emptiness of my father’s presence fills with rage.

“You heard me,” I reply with an edge. “I said ‘fuck you.’”

“Hey! I am still your father!” he yells back.

I feel myself throw my head back and laugh. My father and Dylan look at me in disbelief, confused by my quick change in emotion.

“Yeah, and a bad one at that,” I say. “At least you’ll have another chance at it, huh?”

My father’s expression changes and he takes a step back.

“Mallory is only a few months along,” he replies defensively. “I would’ve told you, but we weren’t sure the baby was mine until-”

I push my father on the chest, causing him to stumble backwards onto the ground. I feel the urge to punch him in the face, but I fight it for the sake of the crowd that has now gathered around us.

“You know, I hope you enjoy your new family,” I say. “Because the one you left behind doesn’t need you anymore.”

I glare at the bookstore-goers surrounding us, causing most of them to sheepishly walk away. Dylan grabs my hand and pulls me towards the exit, whispering that we need to go.

“Have a great fucking life!” I yell as Dylan drags me out of Anderson’s and into his car.

He’s starts the engine immediately and drives to my house at an urgent speed. I clench my jaw and tighten my fists until my nails break the skin. My breath is ragged and my heart pounds with rage. I shove my body backwards into the passenger seat and let out a scream.

“Why does this have to happen to me?” I yell at the ceiling of the car.

Dylan sits in the driver’s seat silently, waiting for me to finish my rampage. I know he’s angry, too. But his restraint is much better than my own.

I feel hot tears pour out of my eyes, running down my cheeks and off of my chin. My mind fills with despair and agony. My pain runs through my veins and I feel like they will implode. Like they will burst and leave me in a pool of black blood.

When we pull up to my house, Dylan quickly parks and pulls my shaking body into his. I climb over the center console and adjust myself in his lap. It’s uncomfortable, but his warmth soothes my pain.

“What am I supposed to do now?” I cry.

“I don’t know,” Dylan quietly replies.

I gather myself into a tighter ball, trying to make myself small enough to disappear. I close my eyes and allow myself to be consumed by the darkness. It feels inviting and friendly, and I can’t decide if I want to depart from it.

After a few minutes of my silent breakdown, I look up at Dylan. He pulls my head towards his and kisses my forehead, letting his lips linger against my skin.

“Sarah, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I wish I could take your pain away.”

I rest my head in the crook of his neck, feeling his pulse against my face. It’s steady and slow, calming my racing mind. The thought of a life without my father hurts. Thinking of him with a new child hurts even more.

My father’s actions have left a seemingly inescapable wake. I want to conquer it, but the sadness in my heart strangles my confidence.

“What can I do?” Dylan asks quietly.

I wonder if anything will pull me out of my murky state. As focus on Dylan’s warmth and the way it encapsulates my body, I let out a shaky sigh and reply in a whisper.

“Just hold me.”