The Ground Beneath Our Feet

Chapter Two: Small Hill

I am five years old.

Daddy comes home from work and he calls to mama.

I love my daddy. He sings to me at night and hugs me and I watch tv with him. He has a bristly mustache and dark eyes and thick dark hair. He wears plaid button down shirts and jeans with a belt and he feels solid, but cozy, like my teddy bear.

His voice is loud and angry now. It sounds like bad things. It sounds like thunder and scary monsters. This is not my daddy. I don't understand.

I don't like it.

Where is my daddy?

Mama runs out to see him.

Every day he comes home when it is dark outside and the lights are on. Then we eat our dinner.

But not today.

Today we haven't had lunch yet.

My mama looks scared. She wipes her hands on her apron and then holds them together in front of her belly. She has a baby in there.  Her hands shake.

He whispers to her.

That scares me more than the thunder.

Then he talks normal while she holds her belly.

He says that he was fired. I know that fire is bad and matches are bad and I don't like it that my daddy got burned. I run to hug him. He hugs me back and kisses my forehead and tells me to go in the kitchen.

Mama cries.

I don't like it when my mama cries.

He hugs her.

He leaves.

My mama gives me a galleta. And I eat three of them with milk and I feel better.

And then I have my lunch.

***

I stood downstairs in the Victorian house, pacing, wringing my hands. I didn't know what to do.

Part of me just wanted to turn around and go back to Los Angeles with my tail between my legs, embarrassed for what I'd seen. Part of me, though, was pissed. I'd paid for this room and followed his directions and it hadn't worked. He wasn't supposed to be here and that was supposed to be my room. The thing was, I'd never tell him that. I'm the least confrontational lawyer there is. For my clients? Sure, I'd argue.

But for me? Well, I'd just blame myself for getting it wrong even though I know I got it right. I'd just swallow it up.

Eat the wrong.

Just that thought made me hurt. But when things went wrong, it was my fault. I'm the one in control, I'm the one who makes the decisions, and I'm the one who chose to move up here.

So embarrassing. Like the red-faced, wiggling stomach, want to pass out kind of embarrassing. I'd never ever seen anyone else have sex before.

Yuck.

I felt like stomping. I'd never do that, though.

Then I felt like disappearing.

Grrrrr.

I mean, what did I do? Did I wait for my roommate to stop having sex with some woman? Yeah, that's not embarrassing. I decided to leave, taking my red-faced anxiety with me.

I got in my car, looked up the address for my new employer on my phone and drove to it, parking in the parking lot.

As I drove, I calmed a little. Getting away gave me some perspective that I didn't have in the moment. So there was a mistake. My go-to position was to blame myself since I couldn't control anyone else. But it wasn't my fault! He wrote the wrong directions on the note. I'm sure he did.