sixty seconds

:animal

My mother cheated on my father twelve times. The first was strange; an affair born out of her jealousy of my father's devotion to ESPN, and the twelfth was so undoubtedly deliberate that my dad attempted to divorce her. He clearly failed, as my mother proposed the idea of a start as fresh as cottage cheese for the four of us in New York. I was thirteen when we moved. I was thirteen when I first saw my father hit my mother. I was thirteen when my brother ran away to Los Angeles with his girlfriend. And I was thirteen when foreseeable decades of family counseling was pinned onto my schedule. Anger and confusion were rarely excluded from the emotions I woke to and fell asleep to, and after years, I realized that the moment I walked in on was entirely painful to have bared witness to.

Seeing people who are supposedly bound together by a force of love strong enough to conquer violence and cruelty is enchanting. To see the same people overcome by a rage that can only be translated into betrayal and savage, untendered ferocity was about as traumatizing a scene an unaware teenage girl could experience. I lost trust for my father and the many men that resembled him; well-put together and stable, yet devoted to misdirected passion. He was an anxious man, but rather than inscribing his emotions into greatness, he turned to great evil.

And I fail to understand the relationship that stood in the wake of the destruction, and how pain had made my parents more eager to mend the wounds they had slashed in each other. I still do not tend to the curiosity I hold over this, but I’ve talked many hours with Anthony and Kyla and even my brother (over the phone, where his connection was as steady as a tightrope may be with an elephant walking upon it) (we cannot all have money materialize after running away from the source of it, he explained once).

Now I see that sometimes, pain is what holds us to hope. Because it is more expressive than old love.

“If he’s ever hurt you, I swear we’ll—”

“No, no.” She waves her hand frantically, smudging her tears away with the heel of her palm. “He would… never. I promise you that. But this may be worse. It’s so bleak; so distant. The way he looks at me is completely blank. It’s as if he doesn’t remember anything good of us. The nights we talked about our future. The days we spent in bed, with intervals of having—”

“Yes, well.” I clear my throat, avoiding more vivid sex talk. “Clearly I’m disappointed in you for not telling anyone sooner, getting help or information when it could have made you feel more secure in yourself, your relationship, and your future, but this panic, this apprehension; it’s inevitable, I suppose. You’re going to be fine, Kyla. Deep breaths. Have you seen your doctor yet?” She’s shaking as she nods.

“He said despite being relatively far along, it’s not very developed.” I press my lips together. “He said it’s normal, but I should take some medications and eat more. I haven’t been eating much, I suppose. And I’ve been throwing up more than I see pleasant.”

“Throwing up is never pleasant. When is it pleasant to be reminded of the poor food choices you made prior to excreting it through a hole in your body meant not to be excreted through?” Kyla raises her eyes and ducks behind her coffee cup.

“I’ve really missed you, Blair. And you were right about Jefferson being a douche. I mean, I can’t blame him for acting so surprised, but after that, what with his acting as if it was all my fault.” She buries her face in her hands.

“It was his sperm.”

“God, I can’t think right now. I thought he was the one.” I pause, considering what I know of Kyla.

“Have you been smoking a lot?” She peers at me through the crack between her fingers, guilt clear in her expression. “Kyla…”

“It’s instinct. I’ll quit. I swear.” Then she blinks at me in a way that tells me her swearing has malice behind it. “Under one condition.” I raise an eyebrow.