Junebug • TWD

13. The Most Beautiful Farmhouse.

I didn't sleep much at all last night. I was pretending to, and I seemed to have Dad fooled. He walked past me once, when he was leaving, and brushed his hand over my hair. I bet that if I really was sleeping, I would've woken up. But he left with Andrea last night, looking for Sophia. He was only gone for a little while. I heard him come back into the RV. Carol's crying was keeping me up. That and all of the thoughts in my head. 

He's one real confusing person, my dad. It's always back and forth with him. Because one second, he's slapping me on the face, and the next, he's holding me and calling me baby. I don't know if I'll ever understand him. 

It's easier to just be angry at him, but I try hard not to get angry at people. I've always tried real hard not to get angry at people, just because I know how it feels to have someone angry at you. Someone was always angry at me, back at home. Whether it was Merle because I'm too annoying, or Grandpa because I cry too much, or Dad because I don't always mind him. Someone was always mad and it made my heart hurt and my stomach churn. 

I don't want to make people feel the way I did- or still do, sometimes- so I try not to be angry with people. I try hard to think about it. Why they're being how they're being. Why they're doing what they're doing. There's always a reason. 

Right now, I'm trying to think of my dad's reason for being how he's being or doing what he's doing. I think he is how he is and he does what he does because he's still trying to feel better about his own dad. 

I've been thinking about it all night. And I've come to the conclusion that he's trying to be good, but it's hard when things have been so bad for him for so long. The only example Dad's ever had on how to be a father is Grandpa, and Grandpa wasn't very good at it at all. 

So I'm trying so, so hard to be understanding. I'm trying so, so hard not to hate my own dad. 

Yes, I keep telling myself, I love my dad. I love my dad very much. 

"Mornin', Dale," I say, climbing up the RV ladder. 

The sun is just barely coming up. The sky goes in layers. Where the sun is peeking up over the horizon, it's all yellow, like a sunflower or a dandelion. Then, the next layer is orange, like a carrot or, well, an orange. After that is pink, like a bubblegum lollipop or a big, fluffy stick of cotton candy. And after that, it's all purple, like the morning glories that wind up the railing of my old neighbor's front porch.

"Good morning, June," Dale says, giving me a polite, good morning smile. Sometimes, in my head, I like to imagine that Dale is my grandpa instead of my real grandpa. I bet a lot of my problems would go away if Dale was my grandpa.

My Momma would still be gone, though, because Momma getting taken away has got nothing to do with Granpda, surprisingly. What it's really gotta do with is me. Dad says it ain't my fault. He's told me that about a billion times. But sometimes I still think it is my fault. I can't help it. 

"How are you this morning? Feeling any better than you were last night?" Dale asks me as I take a seat at the edge of the RV, letting my feet dangle over the edge.

The truth is, I feel even worse today than I did yesterday. There's a little monster in my belly, clawing at my insides, trying to dig its way out. And there's a balloon inside of my skull that is slowly but surely feeling up with air, putting all sorts of pressure on my skull and making it so my eyes hurt real bad and, when I stand up, I get dizzy at first.

But I don't want to worry Dale, so, "Yeah, I'm feelin' better," I say.

"I'm happy to hear that. Your dad was very worried," Dale tells me. I'm sure he's lying, just to make me feel better. My dad was just tired of having to deal with me. I don't blame him. It's just as exhausting for me as it is for him.