Stay

I understand, Dad. I understood that night. 

I can still hear. I can hear the rustle of your jacket, the padding of your feet against the floor. I laid in bed pretending to be asleep. Motionless. Trying to detect your movements. I heard you pat your jacket pockets, checking that your wallet and your keys were inside. Press the button on the thermostat to keep the heat going through the night. Trade slippers for boots at the front door. Make the final zips and ties, switch off the lights. Pause at the front door. Look down at the ground. Press your fingers into your temples. Purse your lips. And then leave. The door closing behind you. You locked both locks. And then it was quiet. It was the middle of the night and it was so quiet. I didn’t come out to try to stop you. This had happened before. I laid in bed all night, sleepless, tearless, eyes open, still. Until morning came and the heat had long since shut off and the house had become cold and it was still so quiet. A bitter, blue sky. A flock of birds traveling in motion outside the window. In constant sympathy with each other.

Even though I was young, I knew I was just like you. That I wouldn’t be able to stay either if it were me. I got your restlessness, your uncertainty, your cynicism toward permanency. I got your tall, strong body, your green eyes, your disgust toward staying.

–––

“This fuckin’ guy. What kinda coward do you have to be to leave in the middle of the night while your kid’s sleeping. Not even make a call. What a fuckin’ joke.”

I’d called Chris when I got out of bed to come over and help me get to school. I told her dad had left. She always came, always got angry for me. I sat in pajamas at the kitchen table spreading peanut butter on toast and drinking orange juice as she put away dishes, banging pots and pans, pissed.

Chris is my half sister. She’s gay and I didn’t know what that meant then, just that she had short hair like a boy and wore cargo pants and kissed girls. My dad is not her dad. She has her own dad, but he’s not part of this story. He lives somewhere in California now. We have the same mom, and she’s very much part of this story. She is this story. She died when I was 9. I am here only for her. Alive only for her. My heart beating only for her. And I’ll be with her again one day. Not too long from now.

The above is an excerpt from the short story “Stay”