Daddy's Kitten

“Hey Jessica!” the cheerful greeting and honk of the postmistress’s horn snapped me out of my miserable mind, just in time to keep me from rushing right into a slim, birch barked tree trunk that split the sidewalk before me. A lick of sweat trickled down my back. I pulled my nails out of my palms, willing myself to calm down, telling myself somehow, someway, this whole crazy situation would someday make sense. “Hey, Peggy!” I hollered back, my voice sounding tired even to me. The sound of rolling wheels came up from behind, and I watched as three boys wheeled their skateboards up to The Mercantile, kicked their transport off the ground, tucked the wheeled conveyance under their arms, and walked inside. Most likely in search of penny candy. Sometimes it seemed as if Briarville were a place where time stood still. A cowboy planted his boots hip width apart on the sidewalk, spurs on, pickup parked in the street. His matching set of black and white McNab Shepherds in the back and a horse in the trailer, all close enough to keep an eye on while talked to other locals from the door of the store. Sometimes it felt like I was trapped in time. A steady litany of chores, cleaning, and transporting with little or no respite. It was odd to be so closely tied to someone around the clock, and still have feelings of isolation from other people. I was so lonely. All I had to figure out for the moment was tomato soup. Cooking would help me relax, if I were any good at it. Instead, my favorite part of cooking was menu planning and the rare chance to escape to the grocery store. I sucked at creating anything edible, a flaw which he reminded me of on the daily. I got around it, making a show of purchasing homemade ingredients, swapping them out for store bought whenever I could. Not often. My father liked to roll into the kitchen in his chair to monitor and critique my cooking. Working as his caregiver meant my time was very limited, so I avoided extra trips to the store by planning meals for the entire week. If I had more free time, I’d stop at Sweetness and Light down the street and splurge on one of the handmade pieces of chocolate. I could tell my aunt Ambrosia was working since there was a chalk-drawn cross above her message, “Have a blessed day!” on the sandwich board outside. Ironic that they had named her after the dessert, or food for the gods, the bitter righteousness that followed her like an invisible cloud always left a nasty taste in one’s mouth. That was reason enough to avoid the shop today. Plus, I needed to get back to him as soon as I could. Once I told my aunt I felt like giving up. That sometimes I just stood in the shower and cried or sat in the car and did the same. Last week I let her know I smiled and said “I’m fine” to everyone that asked how I was doing, when inside I was sick to death of being the strong one all the time. She said I should think about what I did to “piss God off, to have so much illness in one family.” First mama, now him. It was a low blow, and God forgive me, but I hadn’t forgiven her yet for saying it. Shopping list prepared, it sat in my dinosaur decorated backpack, just one tool I used to keep from looking crazy. A blast of frigid air hit my face as the automatic doors of Valley Grocery opened and I took my glitter pen out. “A fancy shmancy pencil,” he’d complained after I’d bought them on sale. Crossing the ingredients off my list as I perused the aisles helped me to blend in, even though I kept a death grip on the shopping cart and could hear him chastising me, “pick your feet up!” Everything I did brought to mind his verbal reminders for improvement. They echoed in my skull even when he wasn’t there. Why did a twenty-seven-year-old woman wear clothes from the kids’ clothing department and sleep with stuffed animals? Leopold, made me feel safe when I held him at night. He comforted me even though the world was uncertain and scary sometimes. And as for my wardrobe, I felt better wearing pastel colors, tutus, striped socks and anything to brighten up my otherwise drab days. It just so happened that the kiddy department had clothes that met my criteria for a wardrobe. Even worse in his opinion was his discovery of my personal nickname, “sparkle pony” which I whispered in the secret chamber of my mind? Sparkle pony is brave. Sparkle pony is strong. Sparkle pony runs so fast, she can escape from anything just by traveling faster than the wind. Yup, certifiable. That’s me. Get your head out of the clouds, Jessica. Pay attention to your list. An announcement gushed from overhead, battering my ears, “To the owner of a black Lincoln-Continental, your lights are on in the parking lot.” I placed one hand on my chest, breathing deeply, and scorned myself for startling at the sharp, magnified sound. “Excuse me, Miss.” The rumble of a voice from behind hit me in a way that ramped up my erratic pulse and made it impossible to steady myself. Only this time, being a scaredy cat wasn’t to blame for my quaking heartbeat. My mind was a crazy mixture of fear, yes… but the powerful, well-muscled body that passed me and walked through the front doors filled me with something like hope. And that was a feeling I almost didn’t recognize. Plus, he smelled like pine trees. Pure. Clean. Every time I went out in public, it made me sweat and tremble; my heart acting like it was trying out for the hundred-meter sprint in the Olympic trials. And my mind went blank whenever I had to speak to a stranger. I’d been like this since mama passed away. Dad told me he was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma right after she died. He had a brief remission until the lymphoma came back “with a vengeance” as Stage Four metastatic cancer. He preferred to go alone to his chemotherapy and radiation appointments and gullible me thought he was being brave. For years he’d been “too sick” to take care of himself, so that it fell on me to do so. Making meals, driving him anywhere he wanted to go, running errands, cleaning house, yard work—heck, sometimes I even acted like Ms. Fix it around the house, but certainly never to his standards. “Rabbit, rabbit.” I remembered at the last minute, whispering the words to myself. Today was June first. Saying the words out-loud at the first of the month was good luck. I kept up the silent chant, careful not to move my lips too much as I pushed my cart away from the front of the store. My backpack buzzed against my spine, making me jump. He only let me have my cell when I went out, in case he needed to text me to get something he forgot. Otherwise, the phone was off limits. His random rules were just one of the many reasons the local senior center was helping me look into respite care for dad. If he knew I was doing such a thing, he’d kill me. But honestly, if I didn’t do it, the risk of killing myself was greater. I was so tired. I stepped out onto the sidewalk again to take the call, careful to avoid the straight lines that cut across the sidewalk like lines over the surface of store-bought brownies. Step on a c***k, break your mother’s back. My stomach tightened like a fist and jealousy set fire to my chest as I watched a man help his partner into the passenger side of a car, reach over and fasten her seat belt for her. “Jessica?” said the female voice on the other end of the phone. It was the social worker from the senior center. I could tell she was nice. It was just hard to feel it. It was hard to feel much of anything these days. “Speaking.” I answered and my voice sounded dull to my own ears, but I was powerless to pretend otherwise. The energy to be sunshiny and gay just wasn’t in me, not when my normal pulse dawdled like a sloth on sedatives, and answering the phone felt harder than solving a Rubik’s Cube in under a minute. “Oh good, I finally caught you, you’re a hard woman to get ahold of.” It seemed like she expected some reply, but I was fresh out of words and sat there breathing through my mouth, hoping she couldn’t hear me. “Anyway, are we able to have a private conversation right now?” she asked. “Yes.” I answered, “I’m alone at the supermarket, shopping.” “Good. Good.” She blew a rush of air past her lips on the other end of the phone. “I’m afraid there is no easy way to tell you this. In fact, it might be better if you could come on down to the center so we could speak in person.” “I don’t have time today. I need to get the shopping done and get back home.” It was easier to do what he wanted than listen to the endless accusations of how he presumed I was spending my time. “Out hunting peckers like a panther on the prowl.” To use his words exactly. “Well, I think you should know right away that when we called the oncologist’s office for a routine review of your father’s charts before he entered our program, we found they never treated him. I’m so sorry, but it looks like he hasn’t been honest with you.” The hollowness in my chest dissipated as I filled my lungs with air, trying to hold back my scream. Dad’s unreasonable requests, and not having the time to take care of myself were what made me turn to the social worker in the first place. Now this. “But that’s impossible,” I said. I flinched as the parking lot attendant slammed a long row of carts into their container behind me with a “ka-cham”. “The good news is, he may have a long life ahead of him if he’s otherwise healthy. Not only that, but given our past conversations about your need for relief, it may come sooner than you think. I’d still like to schedule an evaluation for your father. He’d benefit from our services and programs and qualify for psychiatric assessment given his feigned diagnosis.” She kept talking, but it all came through like the adult voices in a Charlie Brown cartoon, muffled and indistinct. I swiped a hand across my forehead, wiping the sweat off. My tone grew even less certain. “But why is he so thin? He even lost his hair in the most recent round of chemo.” “You said he preferred to take the free shuttle to the hospital for his treatments, right? Perhaps he didn’t go there after all.” “That’s crazy, right? Telling me he had cancer when he didn’t? What for? To get attention? Or was it just so he could use me as his personal slave?” I bit both my cheeks, hard, and put my hand over my face, closing my eyes. “I can’t take this all in right now. He’s expecting his favorite tomato cream soup and I will never have it ready in time if I don’t finish shopping soon.” “Jessica, I know this isn’t easy, but I don’t think you should try to handle this alone. I’m happy to arrange a home visit so that we can plan for your father now that we know the truth about his condition. He may still qualify for caregiving hours.” Yeah right. She was a nice lady, but she hadn’t a clue about what it was like to deal with my dad. He’d mastered the art of getting what he wanted. My mouth fell open as she spoke, and I felt weak in the knees. It was as if my body was crumpling in on itself. My thoughts spun in disbelief. How could someone do this to their own child? How could someone do this to their own child?I lifted my chin and spoke into the phone. “I’ll call you later after I figure out what to do.” I told her and hung up. What kind of sicko would fake their own illness? I covered my nose, gagging and squinting my eyes shut—hard—for a moment. Spinning around, I nearly ran into an older woman dragging a dolly for her groceries, stepping sprightly around her. I barely avoided a collision with the back of her hand-crocheted cardigan. It felt like someone was standing on my chest, and the pressure squeezed from my sternum to the base of my throat. Oh no. Panic attack. I breathed slowly, telling myself, it will pass. Breathe in, breathe out. All is well. My list trembled in my hand and my eyes landed on the first item, two pounds of fresh tomatoes. The letters swam, and I blinked my eyes remembering by rote, five things you can see: grocery list, glitter pen, fingers shaking, paper produce bags, grocery cart. I could touch: a bag, red tomatoes, a twist tie, the inner sole of my sandals with my toes. I heard: “Miss? Are you okay?” Wait, that’s only one thing. One voice. Four words. I clutched the bag in my hands so hard, that it tore, and heard glossy red, pulpy and delicious fruit tumble to the floor with heavy thumps, and bumps across the foam padding of the vegetable area, except for the distinct squelch of one such piece of produce which landed atop the most expensive looking leather loafer I’ve ever seen, splatting them with a horror film smear of tomato blood and gore. And then his smell of pitch and pine hit me hard. There was only one thing I could taste. Bile rose from the back of my throat, an acid taste which held the bitterness I felt thinking about my father spending every second of every day in his recliner. The daily abrasion of his accusations that I couldn’t do anything right, never did enough. A gentle yet absolutely giant hand touched my bare arm, his touch feverishly hot against the air-conditioned temperature. “Are you okay?” His soothing voice probed harder. The voice was velvet edged and forceful at the same time. Tormented by confused emotions, I bit my lip until it throbbed like my pulse. Anything to keep the ugly feelings inside. There was a choked, desperate laugh, and I realized it was coming from me. I swallowed the sob that was in my throat and bent my neck back to look up at him. His face was predatory, primal, but not without compassion. He had a kind mouth, and his teeth, even and white, contrasted pleasingly with his olive skin. Even though he was a solid wall in front of me, I wasn’t afraid. His suited shoulders were a yard wide, and it occurred to me they could bear the weight of the world. “It’s just a bag of tomatoes, Miss. Let me help you.” His brown eyes were full of life, pain, and unquenchable warmth, which he directed at me. It was the nicest thing I could remember anyone doing in what seemed like forever, and I gulped hard and felt hot tears slipping down my cheeks. He smiled benignly, as if dealing with a sensitive child. “What do you say to some comfort food at Splendor in the Grass Diner? Things always look better after a slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream.” The gesture of sympathy caused me to weep out loud, rocking back and forth, squeezing my backpack tightly in my arms. The question was, which was the greater danger? My lying father who’d fly off the handle if I was late making his soup, or this tall, black-suited man who looked as though he could crush me in one hand and wanted to have me laid out on a table, three meals a day?