The Day I Woke Up Alone

When I was five I wanted to be just like my dad: one of America’s heroes. And when I turned six, my mom would let me stay up until 8:30 but only if I had eaten all my carrots, and so my hate for carrots often earned me an 8:00 bedtime. A few birthdays later, my bedtime evolved into 9pm and Mom would tuck me in under my Obi Wan Kenobi and R2-D2 covers and then her dazzling heels, red as Dorothy’s slippers, would click-clack down the hallway.

Click clack. Click Clack. Click clack.

And she would click clack down the hall and then down the stairs and out the door, swishing her hips left and right with a purpose, her thighs, freckled and sweaty, sticking to that cardinal red leather skirt she wore every Thursday. The sign outside my window frantically flashed green and yellow letters, signaling that Thursdays meant free drinks after 11, even Joe Campbell said so, and Joe Campbell knew everything. He lived in the house next to us, was fourteen and knew the square root of 100, so naturally when he told me that my mom was ‘broke,’ I thought he must be right. Joe Campbell said a lot of other things too. He said he always heard his dad saying what a good dancer my mom was. But I had never seen her dance so I think Joe Campbell’s dad was mistaking my mom for someone else. Maybe he was thinking of Sally Quimby’s mom. Sally Quimby’s mom had been a ballerina when she was in college. After two entire days of parading outside of his door, begging, Joe Campbell finally explained what ‘broke’ meant. “Did we buy an antenna TV from Mrs. Shelley’s yard sale last week because we’re broke?” I asked. But Joe Campbell only laughed and shooed me back through my doorway.

On that yard sale TV, I watched the president talking about the war. He said he was trying to get all the soldiers home as soon as he could. I hoped Mr. Kennedy wasn’t a liar, but my mom said most presidents were. Still, I hoped his promises proved true; I hadn’t seen my dad since last Christmas. I kept watching. When the TV showed images of soldiers in tanks and rescuing little children, I imagined my dad was one of those soldiers who won awards for courage, for leadership. He had been there so long, in those countries my teacher pointed out but I couldn’t pronounce the name of, that he must have been in charge of the whole army by now, I thought. But I knew my mom would be home soon, so I slurped the last of my Lucky Charms and I left the pool of milk alone because the green four leaf clover marshmallows had turned it a fungus color.

A knock.

“I can only the answer the door if my mom’s here” I shouted from atop the mahogany stools in our kitchen. Which was the truth.

“But I’m not a stranger,” the voice cooed back.

My eyes sprung open, inflating like the helium balloons floating down the Macy’s day parade. I knew that voice. I swear I knew that voice. Or at least, I used to know it. But now this voice was the memory of a distant dream, having finally faded, forced to the farthest crevice of my mind, forgotten.

When I opened the door, slowly, fearfully, it was not the man I had watched in the black and white pictures on our crumbling antenna TV. No, those men seemed fearless. Those men had broad shoulders, shaved heads as smooth as our marble countertop, faces animated by the promise of justice, hands bigger than my head that gripped unsympathetic rifles used for eliminating the enemy. But this man was not that image, not the image of America. He did not exude pride for his country. He did not epitomize bravery. This man was too plain. He was old. The wrinkling bags under his eyes reminded me of the creases in my sheets after a nap. Scars zigzagged across his face, forming letters and then words, and finally telling entire stories of death and defeat from cheek to cheek. His eyes used to be a piercing blue, a happy blue. Now his eyes had dulled to a grey, the happiness buried with the foreign schoolboys he had shot.

“Dad.” was all my meager voice could produce in response to this stranger. Even that felt forced.

My mom and dad feigned happiness, artificial at best. It was what they did so as not to worry me. But I could see through it. Dad slept on the couch. Mom went out at midnight. My dad traded the actual war for a war on his wife. He must have forgotten his sense of humor while he was there too because when I asked, “So, how’s the food taste over there?” he just gaped at me, those grey eyes of his becoming dark pools of disappointment.

The day I woke up alone was the day Joe Campbell told me my parents had gone to the brick building 22 blocks away. He said that’s where all the men in white coats worked. It was only 8 am so I trotted back to my room and slipped back under the Star Wars covers. I heard the door creak open but I shut my eyes tightly and forced myself to sleep.

The day I woke up alone was the day I stepped out onto our porch and saw what happened. It was the day my dad dove headfirst into our empty pool. It was the day his blood formed tormented shapes as it trickled down the drain. But heroes don’t kill themselves.