Starting Position

Chapter 18

Week fourteen concluded with the dreaded Friday night, and I was no more ready than if I'd been given a year to prepare. I had spent the majority of the day glancing at the time and counting down to six o'clock, fearing the sight of Sarah strolling through our front door, burning my eyes with her thousand-watt smile.

As it turned out, I wasn't off by much. Five minutes until six, the doorbell rang. My insides shrank. My father, wearing a stupid grin, marched to the front door and greeted Sarah with a serene tone of voice that sounded foreign. Her blonde hair swooped airily around her face, falling to the middle of her back, and she was beaming at my father. She carried a circular container covered with foil which I assumed to be some type of pie. After she greeted my father, she rounded on me with only the slightest bit of apprehension.

"Hi, Elliot," she said warmly. "Good to see you again." I found I could only nod as she continued. "How are you."

"Fine," I said, the words nearly getting caught in my throat. "How are you?"

"I'm doing great. Very happy to be here." Sarah handed my father the pie. "I'm glad we're finally able to do this – have dinner together."

"Yeah," I said faintly, withdrawing my attention from the pair of them. My senses started to lessen, a sign my defenses were kicking in.

"Well, who's hungry?" my father said, clasping his hands.

A series of unfamiliar food was dispersed across the kitchen table. My father had made a colorful salad, some sort of roast beef dish, and potatoes that looked like they belonged in a magazine. This was quite the contrast to the spaghetti and frozen dinners I was used to eating for dinner. I didn't let myself linger too much on this, because the next half an hour was spent consuming the rather delicious meal and tactfully engaging in conversation with Sarah. I prided myself on my indestructible walls. The trick was to offer a vague answer and then volley the question back.

"So, Elliot, your dad tells me you work at a pet store. What's that like?" Sarah asked between bites of food.

"It's great. I love the animals. Did you have a job when you were in school?"

Game. Set. Match. That was how it was done.

Sarah smiled, something else lay beneath the surface; however, it was gone just as soon as I noticed it.

"I did, yes. I worked for a fifties-themed diner, if you can believe it – had to wear the roller skates and everything."

"I would have loved to have seen that," my father chirped, while I thought I would have loved to have thrown up.

"Can't believe it," I said indifferently, and we fell into conversation about the jobs both Sarah and my father had when they were around my age. My hearing felt muffled as my mind zoned in and out of the conversation, picking up pieces here and there about my father working for a supermarket and Sarah paying for college as a Spanish tutor. My eyes kept darting to the clock, checking to see how much time had passed. It had been almost an hour; our plates were nearly cleaned and water glasses were nearing on empty. Dinner should be over with soon.

But what my father said next set my ears ringing.

" – And then I worked for Brooks Jenson, that old crook. He ran a small electronic repair store and ripped off nearly everyone that came in." My father leaned back in his chair to reminisce. "Horrible man – worked all his employees to the bone. I sure learned a lot though... That's where I met Marie."

It was as though a vacuum had swept the air from the room, like the three of us were floating in space. The slightest move might bring our fragile existence to an end. My pulse must have been audible.

My father broke the frail silence first. "My wife, my first wife – Elliot's mom."

Somehow, his explanation was so much worse than sitting in absolute silence. A rushing heat singed my skin; I was flushed in anger. He hadn't so much as mentioned my mother in two year, let alone spoken her name out loud. 

I chanced a look at my father: he was bent over his plate as though it would miraculously provide him the words to say. I glanced down at my own and wished for this to be over with.

"How – how about some dessert?" Sarah said deftly as she lifted herself from the chair. "I made apple pie. Sound good?"

"Yeah, thanks, Sar." My father's face had started to resume some normalcy and I wondered how that was possible. I felt like I had been involved in a very tragic car accident. He continued, "What about you, Ell?"

"Sounds good," I said as if it was a default phrase in my programming.

Sarah hurried away to the counter and began placing slices of pie onto small dessert plates. My father was still glaring ruefully at the empty plate before him, and so I did the same. This was how we handled problems. If we didn't speak of them, they didn't exist. The pain of not speaking was easier than the pain of speaking, but as I silently sat with a my pulse throbbing in my throat, I wondered if the pain of remaining silent was far more difficult to endure in the long run.

The pie looked delicious. It was homemade and was coated in shimmering sugar flakes that resembled specs of ice. But I didn't taste anything as I swallowed bite after bite. The sooner it was gone, the sooner this evening was over. The conversation was strained, but Sarah attempted to speak of neutral things in an attempt to brighten the mood before she left. It didn't work, not for me, at least.

My wish came true fifteen minutes later: Sarah declared that she better return home. My father and I bid her goodnight before she shut the front door. That part was easy, but when my father rounded on me in an attempt to have a conversation, I needed to escape.

"So, what did you think?" he asked hopefully.

"She's nice. This was nice," I said. "Listen, I've got homework I've got to do. I'm going to run upstairs."

"Okay," my father said warily. "Thanks, Ell. Goodnight."

"Night," I said and ran upstairs, where I locked myself inside my room and pretended I was lost in space again.