Don’t Go

She knew she wasn’t supposed to see him packing. That’s why he was doing it in the early morning, before the sun erased the stars in the sky outside her bedroom window and lit the zoo animals on her curtains, long before anyone usually got up. Of course, there was no “usually” anymore. 

Fitful, she had woken to the soft closing of drawers downstairs and went to investigate. Over the years she had become quite a good spy, able to curl up in the shadows unnoticed and observe the smallest details, which she jotted down with time markers in one of her glitter-covered journals.

Through the living room she crept in her pink nightgown with the strawberries on it, lit only by the faraway flood of the street lamp that came in through the big picture window. Still, it was ample light to make her way to her dad’s office without bumping into the coffee table or the ottoman. She could probably have walked it in the pitch dark.

The office door was open a crack, emitting a slit of light like the beacon of a lone ship at sea, she thought. Breath-held, she pushed it open just a tad more. It did not squeak. Thank goodness for WD-40, she thought, a phrase her dad had used once on a Repair-Saturday. Around the doorjamb she first saw three open, empty drawers, then her father pulling books three at a time off of a shelf and placing them into a box. She backed away to lean against the living room wall and opened her journal trying to breath out the tightness in her belly.

5:35am Satturday June 14 – Dad in his office, piling books into apple cardbord boxes, from grocery store, obviusly. Looks sad. Shulders hunched. Lots of size sighs. Droors drawrsdrawers empty of his work papers and supplies. This sucks.

Her father grunted. She heard things shift in a box and knew he had picked one up. She ran on tip-toes crawled behind the couch, burrowing into the window curtains. It was her best spy hiding place in the living room. If nothing was going on inside the house, she could station herself there to spy on the neighbors like the old Smiths across the street, who had been a particularly boring subject until the day an ambulance arrived and the white-sheet covered body of Mr. Smith had been wheeled out. It was spooky and sad and exciting. That had been a five-star spy day, two whole pages of journal filled with observations and contemplations.

Peeking over the couch, she watched her dad carry two piled boxes and balance them on his knee while he struggled to open the front door. Out in the driveway, he loaded them into his car and drove away.

5:50am – Dad taking boxs to car. Already some in trunk and backseat. Taking them to stupid new apartmint I gess.

She hadn’t seen it yet, his new “home” where she’d have her own bedroom—“It has a swimming pool, and you can decorate your room anyway you’d like!” She’d be sleeping there several nights a week once it was set up. She couldn’t say what days of the week, had stopped listening to her parents’ sing-songy voices telling her it would be okay. It wasn’t and it wouldn’t be.

Upstairs again, she tip-toed past the closed door of what used to be her parents’ bedroom and was now just her mother’s. She heard her snoring softly in inside.

5:52a.m. – Mom snores. Dose she know? How can she sleep thru this? Why dosen’t she stop him? Why didn’t Mom try harder?!

In the hallway, she stopped in front of the framed photographs on the wall, the colors grayed in the dim light. The first was last year’s holiday photo, the three of them smiling in front of a Christmas tree, Angela in the red velvet fairy tale dress she had begged her mom for. It was too small now, a little snug when they bought it. She wondered if they knew then, behind those camera smiles.

In the next photo the three of them were on a gold spray-painted sleigh all cross-eyed and grinning. She used to love this photo. She had been really angry at them for something, though she couldn’t remember what it was now, and had crossed her eyes and kept them crossed, even when her eyes began to tear. The photographer coaxed. Her parents pleaded. They took turns speaking sternly, tried sweet talk, threatened to take away her iPad, and finally even her Gund Spunky Dog. But once committed, she felt like she couldn’t stop, not knowing why. It wasn’t something she decided to do. It just happened. But she remembered thinking, “So this is power,” wondering how long it would last. Her dad had finally sighed, like he did this morning and said, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” When she turned to see their faces mirroring hers with strained crossed eyes, her control was gone, but she felt happy.

It was like touring a museum, stepping in front of each frame that followed. Angela became progressively younger in each picture until she no longer existed and her parents stood pressed together, a single beaming unit in a wedding cake-white gown and black tuxedo, younger versions of the people she knew, thought she knew. I do. Forever. ‘Til Death do us part. They always got on her not to lie. Who were the liars now?

5:57 AM – In headquarters with sidekick Spunky. Why IS THIS HAPPENING???!! Maybe if I had been easier to deal with? Maybe I should’nt have crossed my eyes. Did my homework.

6:10 – Spies are’nt suppose to cry!…did I say this sucks?!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It took a while to quiet her sobs into her pillow. In the silence that followed, she heard the soft opening of the front door. She leapt up, letting Spunky tumble onto her bed and grabbed her journal and pen, wiping her eyes to make out the numbers on her beloved Guess brand watch, gold with rhinestones glittering around the face, a gift from her dad on her last birthday, four months ago. She had worn it every day since.

“A designer watch, really?” her mother had said to her dad that night. “For a 10-year old? That’s too much.” That night, Angela had been hiding in the dark corner beside the sideboard in the dining room, another prime spy location, too excited from the party and festivities and cake to sleep. 

11:09 PM – Mom and dad cleaning up from party. Mom dosen’t like I got watch??! What?!

“I just wanted to give her something special. Father to daughter.” 

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Showing I care?”

“How about buying her love and forgiveness.”

“When did you get like this?”

“It takes two to tango.” 

Angela felt confused, her heart twisting inside. 

Mom at dishwasher. Dad at tabel. Forth argument this week…that I know of. What the heck? Pressures at work maybe.

“I gave her the watch because I thought she’d like it, because I think she’s old enough to take care of it.” 

“Right.”

11:10pm – They stopped talking. Just cleaning. Slamming drawers. What did Mom mean about buying my forgivness? 4 what? What did Dad mean about tangoing? It was a great party. Maybe thery’re just tired. ??? I LOVE my watch. Won’t ruin good day by thinking about it! Thanks a lot Mom and Dad!!!!

That was four months ago. And then came last night. 

“Angela, can we talk to you?” Her Mom stepped in front of the TV and switched off Angela’s show, about kids used real magic. Her dad stood off to the side, staring at a spot on the carpet. What? Her mother sat on the sofa not right next to Angela, but an arm’s length away. Her dad took one of the chairs that only guests sat in usually. He tried to smile. It was obvious it was bad, whatever they planned to say. 

Divorce. Her mother made the pronouncement. Her dad stammered out something about an apartment. This was really happening. To her, not to a kid at school or in a book or movie, but to her. 

After their speech, Angela couldn’t seem to move her arms as each parent took turns hugging her. She just excused herself and went to her room, feeling like part of her had just been erased. 

And now it was morning and her dad was moving out. She wrote quickly, breathing back more tears.

6:20AM – Dad’s back. 

Question: Did he know on my birthday? Is the watch some sort of gilt guilt gift like Mom sez? Why R they doing this???????!!!

She had written this question several times now, never with an answer. Passing her mother’s room again, the door was open, the bed empty.

“No, you can’t take that,” came her mother’s loud whisper from the kitchen. Angela snuck down the stairs, the carpet silencing her steps.

“Okay. What can I take? We have three peelers. Can I take one?” 

“Yes, but not this one.”

“Fine. I only paid for most of this stuff.” 

“That’s not fair. It was what we agreed to.”

“Only for the first few years. Then you were going to bring in an income too.”

“It didn’t work like that. Not with motherhood. I didn’t know. We talked about this.”

“When?”

“Forget it.”

Angela took her spy spot in the dining room, between the wall and the sideboard. 

“I’m taking the Vitamix,” her dad sighed, “I use it every day. You hardly do.”

“Fine. I’ll get a new blender for when Angela wants a milkshake.”

“Since when has she ever had a milkshake at home?”

“That’s not the point.”

More sighs. 

“Listen. Maybe it’s better if I come back to finish while you and Angela are out during the day.”

“I’ll pack kitchen stuff for you because you won’t know what to take and what not to.”

“Fine.” 

Again, there was the sound of box flaps closing, and the time for spying was over. Angela stomping into the kitchen, sliding all the dimmer switches on the wall up so that light flooded the room. 

“You don’t know what you’re doing. You have to stop this.”

“Angela,” her dad started.

“No. I mean, have you guys even tried counseling? Michelle’s parents go. You…you can ask them for the name of their counselor.”

“Angela,” her mom muttered.

“I’ll…I won’t talk in class anymore. I’ll eat Chinese food. You guys used to love that, right? Eat it all the time before you had me.”

“How do you know that?” her dad asked with surprise.

“You said it. Here.” She flipped back, hands shaking, through the pages of her journal. “Um…I’ll find it. Yes. January 19. 9:30pm. Watching House of Cards. Beer Commercial ‘I miss Chinese food,’ says Mom. ‘Me too,’ says Dad. Used to eat it all the time before Angela. They know I hate it. Slimy.”

“You were spying on us?” 

“Well, yeah. I… it’s something I do. For fun. Detective work. You always said I was observant.”

“Listen, Angela,” said her dad softly, “this has nothing to do with you.”

“Is that a joke?” She stared back and forth at the two of them, who both seemed thinner than she remembered, her dad graying at the temples, her mom with bags under her eyes.

“What your dad means is that this is no fault of yours at all. It’s just that your dad and I have grown apart. We’re moving in different directions and want different things…”

“Except when it comes to you, Honey,” her dad interjected, taking a step towards her. Angela took a step back. It was impulsive, but she immediately regreted it when she saw the pained expression on his face. 

“Look,” he continued, “I know it’s going to be different than it was, but we both love you. That will never change. We are still your mom and dad. We just will be living apart. You’ll have two homes.”

“That’s right,” her mom nodded, sitting and leaning towards Angela from a kitchen chair, “We love you very much. You are our first priority always, and we’ll do everything we can to help you through this transition.” 

Angela wanted so much to throw herself into their arms. But she didn’t. Instead, gripping her pen and spy journal in a half fist, she undid the strap on her Guess watch, placed it on the table between her parents, and left the room.

She held Spunk dog to her chest. Her journal and pen lay unopened beside her on her bed. There were footfalls downstairs, the front door opening. 

“I’ll call this afternoon, okay?” she heard her dad say, “To talk about Angela.”

“Yeah, okay. ’Bye”

“Bye.”

She closed her bedroom door, wishing it had a lock, since her mother would probably come knocking on her door soon. She opened her journal.

6:33- Yeah, what will they do about Angela?  

Closing it again, she slid it and the pen under her mattress, squeezed Spunky to her chest and pulled her comforter over her head into a dark cocoon, ignoring the knock on her door and the morning sun that lit up everything around her.