Chapter Forty-Eight (Hurt)

Previously, on "Memoirs Of A City Girl":
Ch. 47 (You And I)

-Knowing I wouldn’t be able to make the two-hour drive

back to Appaloosa, I decided to call sick from work.

-I made pancakes, Luke’s favorite, but we didn’t even

get to finish our breakfast.

-We ended up having a tryst on the dining table.

-Afterwards, Luke and I slow danced, just like his parents.

-He sang “You and I” by Stevie Wonder to me, which

happens to be one of my favorite songs.

-It was that moment that I realized he’s the one I’ve been

looking for all my life---and I started to have dangerous

visions of a life with him---being his wife and the mother 

of his children.

-This grasp of happiness was so close, I could taste it, but

it terrified me. Terrified of losing him all over again.

-He asked why we’re not together, and I freaked out.

-I couldn’t give him answer and the pressure was too much.

-He got angry and lashed out at me, telling me to go back to Brad.

-I lashed back by accusing him of being a scared little chicken

shit who left me high and dry---twice.

-Not only did he tell me to leave, bu he also said he wished he

never met me. I was crushed.

-Even his saying “I love you” wasn’t enough to keep me from

walking out the door.

Location: 272 Windsor Drive
Date: Wednesday, 11/9/2011
Time: 11:41 a.m.

I must have sat in the truck for an hour, numbly watching the flecks of snow continuously land on the windshield. Instead of turning on the wiper to clear the white layer of ice crystals blurring my vision---I let it accumulate---hoping it will shield me from the rest of the world. I lean against the door, the side of my face pressed against the cold glass as another set of tears leak from my swollen eyes. Pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, I curl up in a near-fetal position as I try to keep myself warm---and hidden---an injured animal licking its fresh wounds.

Luke…The mere thought of his name hurts. The sound of his voice echoing through my head hurts. His laugh, his smile, the way his lips and hands have the ability to pause time; just enough to let my mind and body absorb the beauty of his touch. What was once a glimpse of heaven has now become the flashbacks of hell. What was once a dream has now become a recurring nightmare. And every moment of passion, every tender memory, every taste of closeness, every recollection of raw honesty in his eyes cuts through my heart repeatedly. With every teardrop---it cuts---slashing mercilessly at old scars.

Luke was my refuge when things went wrong in my life. He was my safe shore during perilous storms, and I crawled back to him for safety. And now…now that I finally felt safe enough to tread the water again, a tsunami knocked me down without warning, leaving me mangled, bruised and all alone. There is no refuge. There is nowhere to go for comfort.

And if I came back to Bridgeport only to be slapped by another disappointment, I might as well try to confront its source.

"I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real"

Taking a deep breath, I gather my courage---and pieces of my heart---and force myself out of the car. The early chill of winter greets my face as I walk towards the front of the house, feeling even more anxious at the sight of the old familiar door. Bittersweet memories---mostly bitter, some sweet---greet me like long-lost relatives I haven’t thought about, but now recognize.

 The five year old girl who wondered why her mother never hugged her. The 11 year old sixth-grader who was punished and yelled at a lot, even when she didn’t understand what she did wrong. The overweight 16 year old high school junior who felt awkward, self-conscious and invisible because she was constantly compared to her older sister. The 22 year old working student who dreamed of the knight in shining armor who would rescue her from the realities of her stunted, sheltered life.

And now, the 26 year old would-be-doctor-turned-teacher who feels just as inadequate now as she did as a child---knocking at her parents’ door.

I take a deep breath, trying to instruct my heart to calm down.

As the door slowly opens, my father’s widened amber-hazel eyes greet me directly. The silence between recognition is brief, but long enough for both of us to notice. He blinks one more time, whispering, “Lyndsey…”

“Hi, daddy.” I haven’t called him this in a long time, but at this point, it seems to be the only thing that gives me solace. It reminds me that no matter how old I get or how far I move away from home, I’m still someone’s daughter.

“Sweetheart!” Without thought, he closes the door and takes me in his arms, whispering, “I’ve missed you.”

I’m not sure if it’s the familiar warmth of his embrace or the nostalgic aroma of Old Spice and pine-scented aftershave emanating from his jacket, but I shrink in defeat and start sobbing. “M-me too…dad…”

“What’s the matter?” he asks, briefly pulling away to search my face, “Have you been crying?”

“Everything has g-gone wrong. Every…thing.”

“It’ll be okay.” He pulls me closer, making me forget the snow falling on our faces, and soon, our body heat won’t be enough to fight off the blistering cold. But it doesn’t matter. In my father’s arms, I am that little girl again; beaten by the world, laughed at by fate and all I can really do is cry. And hope that my father can make the pain go away---perhaps make it all better. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“For what?”

“I should have…I should have protected you more. I should have been more involved.”

“Y-yes,” I reply quietly, burying my face in his neck, “you should have, dad. All my life I felt unworthy. Like…like I can never be good enough. I tried so hard to please you and mom...to be a good daughter…but…you always loved Naveah more than me.”

“That’s not true. I’ve always loved you. I just…I just didn’t know how to show it.”

“Oh, daddy…”

“I’m sorry, pumpkin,” he smooths out my hair and softly kisses my forehead, “I’m sorry I failed you.”

As I sit on the old avocado colored sofa that spent most of its life wrapped in clear plastic---protected from inevitable stains and permanent human imprint---I become bombarded with the essence of a life I once knew. The dampness in the air, the lingering scent of potpourri scattered in ceramic vases, the almost penetrating aroma of wet lo mein noodles and fish sauce screaming to remind me of half of my identity and sturdy walls cradling family photos---and everyone else’s sanity.

There’s a quiet assurance as I look at my father sitting across me pensively. What I once took as distance and coldness from his demeanor now resonates as a subtle frailty of a man who did the best the he could---with what he knew. There’s weariness in his eyes, in the gray roots overtaking his dark locks, in the deep crows feet hiding behind his glasses and the force of age declaring itself on his face. Even as I fill him in on my life in Appaloosa---my house, Mr. Nunu, Nicki, my job as a teacher---the sadness in his smile is hard to ignore.

“Brad was here a few weeks ago,” he comments unexpectedly after a moment of silence.

I stare at the wooden floor for a moment before returning his gaze. “What did he want?”

“Well, he brought back your car,” he explains calmly before searching my eyes---as if dreading the words coming out of his mouth, “And…he told us what happened. We know what your sister did.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t planned on my family knowing about the failures of my personal life. It’s something I’d rather forget, but here they are, peering into my face again. They seem to be mocking me, basking in my fresh wounds, pointing and laughing, as if I was deluded enough to think that I can actually escape. What are you going to do now, Lyndsey? What did you expect? That the whole world wouldn’t know how pathetic you are? What are you even doing here? You think your parents are going to give you support? They seem to provoke. Even Luke doesn’t want you!

Enough! I’ve heard enough! I scream back at them, their voices morphing into something familiar---a particular shrill voice that I still dread to this day. The sound of my own mother berating me with her thick accent.

“Frank, honey, who’s at the---” Amidsts the footsteps, my mom appears with widened eyes gazing down at me. “Lyndsey…”

“Mom...”

"The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything"

Without a word, not even a weak attempt at a half-hearted hug, she walks by me and sits down next to my dad. I can feel her brown eyes, which I apparently inherited, flash at me like the abrupt winter air---icy and piercing. A part of me hoped that she would at least acknowledge my return, but a part of me also knew that’s as foolish as expecting the next hour to be sunny, clear and a toasty 85 degrees. Summer will always be hot. Winter will always be cold. Leaves will always fall in autumn. It will always rain in spring. It would take nothing less than a miracle or a practical joke from God to make things any different.

“We also know about the baby,” my dad cuts through the awkward silence---and my mother’s evaluative head-to-toe stare, “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“Yeah…” I look away and shift in my seat in an attempt to control the pain and emptiness gnawing at my insides, threatening to flood my eyes. But I force myself to think of something else, anything that would prevent me from crying in front of this woman, who is a stranger to sympathy---or remorse, for that matter. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry!

 “I’m furious at Brad for what he did,” he adds, “I wanted to kill him. But if it wasn’t for him telling the truth, we would never know where to find you.”

My dad makes a good point. Brad didn’t have to say anything, let alone come here and own up to his actions. But he did, knowing he was risking his ties with my family. And the fact that he never mentioned it…could be a sign that he did it for me. Not necessarily for his selfish glory. “He gave you my address?”

“Yes, I forced it out of him.”

“So why didn’t you ever visit me?”

“I wanted to, but Adam told me to give you more time. You’ve been through enough as it is.”

“I need to talk to Nav. Where is she?”

“She’s staying with her friend Jessica.”

“She moved out?”

“We kicked her out after she admitted---”

“I never kick Nav out,” my mom abruptly rises, her eyes seething with contempt in my direction. “Your father did! You happy now? She was out on streets!”

 “Xhun, stop! What are you---“ my dad immediately blocks her path, which appears to make its way towards me.

“It’s okay, dad. I can handle this.” I give him a grateful glance before summoning up my own courage to get off the couch and face my own mother. That tender moment of honesty between us earlier (my father and I) gave me a new backbone---a sort of quiet, knowing security that I was not alone---that my father has been on my side this whole time. Taking a deep breath, I look her dead in the eyes and retort, “Are you seriously blaming me for what happened? You’re still defending her? You’re still---”

“You no talk to me that way, little girl!” Her lips curl in that familiar wrath, nostrils flaring, letting me know that I pissed her off even more. “You better know your---”

“No. It’s my turn to talk.” Calmly, I take another step towards her with unwavering gaze, until we are face to face, barely a foot within each other. “And if I have to tie you up to get you to listen, I will do it,” I add, the silent fury boiling within me---a lifetime of unleashed fury---letting it pierce her almond-shaped eyes, her face, her throat, until it forces her to swallow whatever remnant of oxygen or saliva down her throat. “Don’t make me do it, mom.”

Silence.

“All my life, you’ve treated me like shit,” I continue. The moment she tries to look away, I grab her chin and force her to meet my eyes. “Look at me, damn you! You made it clear that you didn’t love me and you made it clear that Naveah is your favorite. I was never pretty enough, I was never skinny enough, I was never smart enough, my cooking was never good enough, the house could never be clean enough, I was damn near Adam’s nanny! She never had to do anything. She got away with everything. Me? I had to go to med school just to prove that I didn’t have to marry a doctor.

“Do you have any idea how much you messed up my self-esteem? Do you have any idea how much Nav hurt me when she slept with Brad? Of all people? Do you have any idea how close I was to jumping off the bridge when I found them together? I almost killed myself, mom! Because of what your daughter did! And you have the audacity to blame me for getting her kicked out?”

SMACK. The palm of her hand lands on my cheek---leaving a familiar, burning sting.

“You think…you can t-talk to…me like that?” Her voice breaks, failing to suppress the tears---and lash of truth leaking from her eyes. In a barely detectable flash of time, I painted a picture vivid enough for her to see what she has done. Despite her pride, she continues to emotionally attack---but I know she saw herself in me, gnawing at her forgotten conscience. “Because you move out? You think you grown? You’re nothing…b-but…ungrateful child!”

“You know what, Mom?” I shake my head in disgust. “Thank you. Thank you for helping me see what I needed to see. All these years, I thought there was something wrong with me. The truth is, it’s you. You’re just a sad, bitter woman who took everything out on me. I’m sorry your parents disowned you. I’m sorry you had to leave China at such a young age. I’m sorry you had to abandon your dreams when you married dad. But you have no right to treat me this way. And if I ever become a mother, I hope to God I never become like you.”

Her mouth drops with a gasp---as if that’s the only way to ease the blow of my words, hurled at her like shiny, pointed, sharpened spears---straight into her heart. This shock reverberates all over the walls of the living room, further intensifying the thick silence. I watch myself standing in front of my speechless parents. I watch myself become freed.

I turn to my father, kiss him on the cheek and whisper, “I love you, dad. Come visit me some time.”

I walk out the door.

"And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt"



Location: Appaloosa Plains Public School
Date: Friday, 11/11/2011
Time: 3:35 p.m.

When I returned to work yesterday, I received a phone call from a parent who preferred to be called by her first name, Rosie. She wanted to set up a conference regarding her daughter’s behavior in class. I told her that I was available today after students are dismissed at 3:15 p.m. When she and her daughter entered my classroom, I was awestruck at this woman’s presence. Flaming mahogany hair that’s graying at the roots, a robust figure draped in earthy colored clothes, empty champagne eyes and heavy make-up. Sitting next to her is the very same girl who called me a "bitch" on my first day of work. She does not look pleased.

“Calla, you owe Ms. Santori an apology,” Rosie turns to her head-strung daughter, the tone in her voice serious and unflinching. “And we are not leaving until she gets one.”

“Whatever,” Calla briefly glances at me before rolling her pale blue eyes and looking down at my desk. “I’m not apologizing to anyone.”

“Do you know she’s the only teacher that actually talked to me first? Before writing you up?” Her mother continues to look in her direction---her disappointment evident---despite Calla’s refusal to look up and acknowledge either of us. “The rest of them send you to the dean with a referral.”

Silence.

I sit back and quietly study this girl in front of me. This 16 year old girl who is failing half of her classes, who is constantly getting in trouble, who is crying out for something---perhaps attention---who obviously feels unheard and invisible in her own way. I’ve been that girl. Calla wants to scream at the world while I shrunk away in self-doubt. The fact that her mother is here, trying to drill some sense into her, shows that she cares.

But where is the angst coming from? Could it be an absent father? Having just confronted my own parents---and my issues with them---I suddenly feel an obligation to this girl. She should not have to wait until she’s 26 years old with damaged self-esteem to try and make sense of her life. She needs guidance now---before it’s too late.

“Calla, I said this to your mom on the phone and now I’m going to say it to you,” I lean closer, carefully choosing my words and the tone of my voice. “I think you’re a bright girl, but you don’t want to show it. You obviously have an influence over the students, but you use that influence in a negative way. Now, I get that I have to earn your respect since I’m new, but you need to understand that there are consequences to your actions.”

“Wait…” She looks up and finally meets my gaze, somewhat bewildered by what I just said. “You think I’m bright?”

“Of course,” I flash her a warm smile, which instantly softens her guarded face. “When you decide to pay attention in class, you actually finish your assignments. And when you finish your assignments, other students do too.”

“Oh…” a soft chuckle escapes her lips as she looks at Rosie sheepishly---who is shaking her head but smiling---before returning to me in a sort of awe. “You notice that?”

“I notice everything.”

“I’m sorry for disrespecting you, Ms. Santori,” Calla’s voice softens as she sits up in her chair, her true personality finally outshining the loud colors of her watermelon-inspired hair. She’s just like any other teenager---still a child---who needs something to believe in, and someone who believes in her. Some people call this encouragement. “It’s just…none of the teachers ever stick around and we pretty much gave up on learning.”

“I understand. And appreciate your apology.” A wave of warmth and calm washes over me as I absorb what just transpired. The girl who is known as the troublemaker, who was responsible for scaring away former teachers, who refused to apologize even in front of her mother---just opened up to me. They gave up on learning because everyone else quit on them. And it’s this very same moment that I realize where I need to be. Not in a hospital, but in a classroom. I can always go back to finish my residency, but I owe it to these kids to finish the school year. “Listen, I’m going to do my best to help you guys out. But I need your help too.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I need you to use your influence in a good way. I need you to be a good example.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a leader, Calla. And leaders need to set an example so other people can follow.”

“Nobody’s ever said good things to Calla, Ms. Santori,” Rosie breaks her silence as she pats her daughter’s back. “She’s always getting in trouble.”

“That’s because they don’t see her the way I do,” I reply with the utmost sincerity, looking at Calla the whole time.

“Thank you, Ms. Santori.” A rare glow emanates from this teenager’s face, a mixture of pride and this thing that can be very hard for teachers to earn---respect.

“You’re welcome. Don’t forget, we have a test next week so you need to study. And I’ve been checking on your grades from your other classes. You’re failing half of them. If you want to graduate next year, you need to start stepping up.”

“Yes, maam.”

“Come on, sweetie. Your teacher needs to go home too.” Rosie gathers her purse as she rises up from her chair. “Thanks again, Ms. Santori. I’m really glad they hired you.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply, but my heart stops at the sight of Brad coming in. I told him that we needed to talk when I returned from Bridgeport, but he insisted that we do it over dinner. And I certainly didn’t expect him to show up in my classroom. Dr. Benson must have told him where I work. My eyes return to Rosie as I add, “Don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Rosie mutters when she turns around and sees Brad standing behind her. “I didn’t mean to keep your husband waiting.”

“It's okay, this is Brad. He’s… a friend of mine.” I give a brief but somewhat awkward introduction as I step away from my desk. “Brad, this is Ms. Clem---”

“Brad?” She repeats his name almost reluctantly---as if it just triggered painful memories---but her eyes widen in undeniable recognition. “Bradley?”

“Mom?”

“What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end”

*Copyright 2013 Lyn C.S.*
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"Hurt" Cover by Johnny Cash
Original by Nine Inch Nails
Video by: GCBeep