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He's the Reason I Always Wear Rubber Boots

A Braided Memoir

By Natasha LalondePublished 6 years ago 4 min read
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I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. His mouth was moving in slow motion, spit barreling out and riding the air. His soul, painted four shades darker today, was flashing warning signals at me from within his chest. The skin on his forehead was so furrowed, it looked like it had burrowed away into itself. I bet his nerves were having a fist fight. I bet it was because of me.

I glanced over at our grey Honda Civic nestled deeply into the snowy ditch on the right side of our driveway. As my father circled around it, cursing at it, kicking it, it stayed quiet. I understood. Heaving a bag of salt over his shoulder, he carefully stepped down the icy stretch. He was muttering something under his breath, probably: stupid daughter, useless daughter, can’t drive, daughter. The ice was beginning to curl up over my boots. Two hands were wrapping around my ankles as the cold made its way up my legs. Throwing the bag to the ground, my father turned around and looked at me.“How? How did you manage to do this?”

I looked past him, “It just slipped.”

He was already shovelling out the salt. He wasn’t even waiting for an answer. He just wanted to ask the question.

“We need to give it some gas,” he said, handing me the keys.

I un-iced my legs and walked over to the car. My heart temper-tantrumed against my ribs. Opening up the door, it began to rain. In February. I looked over at my dad. He was staring up at the sky, eyes reddening, telling the weather how to behave. I opened the car door and slid myself into the driver’s seat. No amount of gas could fix this. I revved the engine. The car didn’t move. Some things can’t be fixed.

All he did was scream out the window, “Stop trying!”

I pulled up my boots.

I wait on the bed. Mom’s favorite frilly curtains hang in front of the window. They don’t make sense here. Like a house of mirrors, my eyes were staring back at me from every angle. There were pictures of me all over the walls, swayed like hypnotic pendulums in her face. Nursing home or crystal ball? I’d never know. Dad rolls Mom into the room. Her shoulders have caved in, her frame rusted in place. She’s been standing under his cloud. She doesn’t move. Her eyes are pools of grey. She was dying. He was dying with her. We’re all dying. He gets down on his knees and steadies the wheels of her chair with his hands.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

Her eyes flicker to me. Her stare refreshes. Dad slowly strokes her hair, ignoring the grease and whitened strands and takes her constantly fidgeting hand in his. They tremble together. He looks up at me, as if asking me to join them. I don’t.

She stands, legs quivering at the edge of the school parking lot, waiting after all the other students had gone. He said he was coming. He is coming. He always comes. The gravel were getting closer and closer together, to forget how lonely they were. She looked down at her phone. 6:35. A lot could go wrong in thirty five minutes. She scanned the space again. The sky thundered. The emptiness began to shake.

The grey Honda Civic pulls into the school parking lot. Dad flashes the headlights. It’s raining inside the car; he has always come with his own personal storm. Tchaikovsky fills the air. He reaches for the volume dial and turns it down.

“Hi.”

I nod. He puts the car into gear and pulls out. Before I can answer, the sound of violins silences me. The sky cracks and hot air surges through the vents. The crescendos quicken my heart rate as Dad absentmindedly conducts his radio, his middle finger avoiding raindrops as they fall. Neither of us say anything. Not down the main road. Not onto the highway. We’re soaking wet and we don’t use umbrellas. When we get home, he turns off the radio. The sky clears. We can hear each other clearly for the first time since we got into the car. He whispers I love you. I pretend to not have heard him.

“Dad. I’m moving out.”

I stand, legs quivering at the edge of the school parking lot, waiting after all the other students had gone. He said he was coming. He is coming. He always comes.

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About the Creator

Natasha Lalonde

70% Monica, 30% Phoebe. Oh, and I like to write.

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