Looking At Us

61. hadley

Some kids grew up to music. Some grew up to sports. Some grew up to the smell of cooking. 

     I grew up in a battlefield. 

     For as long as I could remember, my parents had been fighting about God knows what. No, scratch that—even God didn’t have a clue why they were fighting. Both were strong in law/politics; my father was a statesman, and my mother was an attorney. There were rarely times when they were both at home, and when they were, I preferred to remain in my bedroom. 

     Sunday afternoon, Michael was driving home from his basketball practice, and I had come with him because the idea of watching athletic guys run around for three hours seemed mildly entertaining than home because (a) my computer had decided to only play rap videos—they were full of crap and bad language—and (b) my parents had decided to only play reruns of previous life episodes—they were also full of crap and bad language. 

     Michael let me out so that he could park the car, and when I stepped inside the house, three out of five members of the family were in the kitchen. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that nobody was talking, and my parents weren’t fighting, and the whole atmosphere was cold, cold, cold. 

     My father said, ‘‘Hadley, we need to talk to you.’’

     ‘‘And Michael,’’ my mother added.  

     What the hell. Both of them acting together on something? I got tingles in my stomach, like when Cody had called me over so that he could kiss me and then break up with me. 

     Michael came in. He had the same confused expression as Rogan, who stood with folded arms against the counter. 

     I tried to imagine what exactly had brought my parents to this. I wanted to know, and I didn’t want to know, and I was fed up with—

     ‘‘We’ve decided to get a divorce,’’ my mother said. 

     There it was.

     After years of hinting, suggestions, warnings, and unrealistic threats, now, finally, there it was. 

     I said, ‘‘Naturally.’’

     ‘‘Hadley,’’ my father said. 

     I said, ‘‘Don’t give me that shit. I am done. You two are done, and I’m done, too.’’

     Rogan started to cry.

     My mother said, ‘‘Your father’s going to stay here.’’

     ‘‘With us?’’ Michael asked. He was looking at his knees, but he spoke at everyone else. Like a statue. 

     My father said, ‘‘Your mother is going to take you to New Denver.’’

     words words words words. 

     For now, it didn’t register. I was concentrating on how they called each other your mother or your father. Not Laura or Damon. I tried to remember happy moments, anything that would give proof that my whole life would change now that my parents weren’t together. But there were no memories. No proof. I couldn’t remember any Christmases, any birthdays, any days where they’d both been together, smiling and laughing and kissing each other’s cheeks before they left to work. 

     I was scared for the pain to come later. 

     My mother wasn’t wearing her wedding ring. Neither was my father. I felt a little funny inside, like this must be some kind of joke, but my parents didn’t joke. They argued. The only benefits out of their separation would be the decrease in shouting. 

     I missed Cody. I wanted him to hold me. 

     ‘‘Wow,’’ I said. ‘‘So. Congrats on your breakup. Well, making it official, I guess. Okay. I’m done.’’

     ‘‘No,’’ my father said. ‘‘This is not acceptable, Hadley.’’

     But he was wrong. There was nothing left to do but accept it.