Part One:
June 2010
Coming Home

It was the first Christmas party I was allowed to go to in my fifteen years of life. I had been to parties for New Years’ and Easter and other Christian holidays with my family, as they knew that it would be more of an easy-going event, but never for Christmas. Mother and father always thought I was not old and mature enough to go to one.
There would be more people, more crowds, more noise, and more things to tempt me into sin. But now, at fifteen years old, they believed I was mature enough for one. And I did not even have to beg to get in. Truth be told, that would have prohibited me from going to one until I was eighteen years old. And that was because I would become a legal adult- it would have been my choice and no one could stop me.
No doubt they would regret that decision for the rest of their life.
It began normally, as other parties would go, except for the fact that there were more people than I had been expecting. I went with my mother, father, and my then eighteen-year-old sister Melinda to a house that was owned by friend of my dad. The friend had decided that he would throw a party for all the church patrons. William was his name- he was famous around the church world for his generous soul and childish ways but also for his seedy past. No one knew exactly what had happened in his past, however, and everyone suspected that the people who did know muddled with story so no one would really know what exactly happened.
I had worn a new dress for the occasion- a brown and white floral dress that had a square neckline, a brown trim on the waist, and pleated sleeves. I thought it was pretty and modest, but not so modest that I might as well wear a burka. I had easily gotten my mother’s permission to wear the dress, but my dad was a tougher nut to crack. He feared that the tight trim around the waist, in addition to the one-inch heels I was wearing, would invite the wrong attention.
But mom told him that my dress went past my knees and that the neckline did not dip too far down- it was perfectly fine. She had said it was a sort of thing she would wear at my age. Dad ended up giving a grump of an agreement. When my mom said a particle article of clothing was modest, no one dared disagree with her.
　Melinda, as I recall, wore a pink colored ruffled dress that went past her knees with cute little Mary-Jane shoes. Meanwhile, mom had worn… what did mom wear?
Mom wore an ankle length dress in white, a pure white that had not a stain of dirt or dust on it. I remember it now- I remembered because of the color. It was a sparkling white… until I had laid a bloody hand on the skirt of her dress.
As soon as we arrived, Melinda ran in to find her fiancé of two months, Andrew Fisher, a darkly handsome twenty year old. His eyes were intense in color as it was a dark brown, almost an onyx black that contrasted with his fair skin. It was a stronger color than brown and made you notice the color of his eyes from far away. His dark brown hair was thick and glossy and his profile was strong and sharp. His nose was tall and straight and his jaw, masculine. Andrew’s body also invited talk, even when he had covered up for church. You could still see his broad shoulders and powerful built and height even at church. No one could deny Andrew’s good looks even when the church itself had declared that it was a sin to look at the opposite gender with lust.
Though I was fifteen years old, I still knew that Andrew had been an excellent catch for Melinda. He was handsome and intelligent… or so we thought. I watched Melinda and Andrew walk off in the garden together. No one then knew exactly what kind of a man he was- his dark good looks gave people the idea that he had an air of mystery and allure.
I knew that Melinda was head over heels in love with Andrew. She would’ve taken a bullet for him if she had to. I knew from the moment they locked eyes that Melinda could have tolerated anything Andrew could’ve thrown in her way as long as it meant that she would be with him.
After that, I remember that mom had gone to find her church friends, leaving me and my father to find our own way in the party. Dad went off quite quickly to talk to another church friend, Mrs. Wright.
William greeted me as soon as I was about to find a friend of my own. “Hello, Victoria,” he had said. “How are you today?” He threw his hand out, as if inviting me to shake it. I did so, but it was he did all of the shaking.
“Fine, just fine,” I mumbled as we shook hands. “And how are you?”
“Excellent,” he replied. His tone just sounded… off. As if he had to think before he could say a single word. I felt uncomfortable seeing him in church, and I felt even more uncomfortable now. “Now that all the guests are here, I am content. And thrilled to see you.”
“That is wonderful to know,” I had said. I felt so uncomfortable about his voice and his stares that I had to say, “William- why are you staring at me?”
“Staring? Was I staring at you?” He had said. He let out a chuckle. “I am sorry, Victoria. I did not mean to. Would you like something to drink?”
Eager to get rid of this man who was known for his generous spirit that I could not find or see in him then, I said, “I ought to get going now.” Without letting William speak, I spun around and ran as fast as I could towards the living room.

For some teenagers, the last day of school is a gloriously happy day. It means no more schoolwork for two to three months and a summer of fun with the family. They’ll question each other and wonder, “Shall we go camping next week? How about going on a vacation to Hawaii? What about a month long trip to England?”
But in this boarding school, the mood here is different: it is a glum and sullen mood that cannot be explained. It is obvious that many of the girls here are not happy to go home. Why? I guess you can say this is the place where unloved girls go. Most of them, at least- you could say that some of them come from loving families.
I do not.
Maybe it's because I make friends with the extroverts- they can never seem to get a firm hold of their emotions like the lonely introverts do- or maybe it is simply because this is a school where all of the miserable teenagers go. We have been shipped here against our will. Many of us, as girls, are unwanted. Sure, there are some girls who are content, but not many. Girls are by default the weaker and unwanted gender in the Christian family. Nothing these girls can do to avoid that bitter fact of their sorry lives.
As we all pack our large suitcases filled with our personal items, we say good-bye to the friends we made here in this year of school. I give my quick good-byes to Val and Maria and Janet and then leave their dorms to let them pack. But I make sure that I say good-bye to my roommate of the past year- Eleanor Hindley, a seventeen year old- just like me.
"Morning, Tori," she says as she sees me enter our dorm. Her voice, normally melodious, is low and in monotone. Something is bothering her.
“Good morning,” I reply as cheerfully as possible. What else is there to say besides repeating what Eleanor had just said?
"So how are you holding up on your last day of school?” she asks. “Are you doing better than I am doing?"
"Well, it can be worse," I admit. "But I’m fine… at least, for now I’m alright. But I will probably change my mind once I see the exit for LAX! It's going home that I am not happy about. How about you?”
"Not so great. I’m actually dreading going home,” she admits. Now her voice, which had been dull, was now starting to animate with life like the real Eleanor.
“Oh, Eleanor! Why?”
“Can you feel the air of melancholy around this school? It is giving me a headache just thinking about it!" She exclaims. Her fingers fly to her forehead and she presses on her temples.
Even from here, I can still the faint glitter of her burgundy nail polish. Though I try to understand what Eleanor was saying, her nail polish was interfering with my ability to concentrate on Eleanor's fancy English words. No doubt she has no idea that I cannot understand what she is mumbling about- she is always the one to speak in complicated English. No doubt that if she could get away in speaking Old English, she would have done so.
“An air of melancholy? Why do you feel this ‘air of melancholy’?” I ask doubtfully.
She doesn’t hear the doubt in my voice and goes on in her speech, as if nothing has happened. "Not that I'm not sorry to see my family again,” she begins, “It is just that this past year has been so much fun. And that I will be switching schools next year for college. At least, that is what I think I will be. My family has been pressuring me to go to college or I will have to married.
“What’s a girl to do in a situation like this? I had rather not go home and go straight to college than to worry about what middle aged guy my mother may fix me up with because they aren’t sure where I would be going. They’re not even sure if I can make it to college!"
I would smile, but I knew that Eleanor would not appreciate that. I end up standing still with a face of stone so Eleanor will feel better. "What do you mean they’re not sure that you’ll make it to college?” I ask. Since when did Eleanor get poor grades? Maybe her parents are thinking that she’ll just commit suicide in a non-Catholic school.
“Have you seen my grades?” she asks.
“Yeah. You got a B+ in French and an A- in AP English Literature. What other courses did you take?”
“I had American History…”
“Oh, yeah. And let’s not forget the A you got in American History. AP American History, mind you. Honestly, I don’t know how you take three AP courses in your junior year. I take the honors courses and AP English Literature and leave it at that.”
She scoffs. “You didn’t see the C- in Algebra II and the C in AP Chemistry then. Those scores ruined my GPA! And now my parents don’t believe I’ll make it to a decent Christian university because of that C- and the C.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “Sacred Heart is an excellent school. Besides, the Chemistry class you took was an honors class, right? That’s worth far more than a regular class.”
She shakes her head. “Try telling that to my parents. I guess if I don’t get straight As next year, it’s either ‘get lucky and go to a good university’ or ‘get married’. And you know how I feel about that.”
“So what you are saying is that you wish that it was not the last day of school today because you are afraid of what might happen once you get home, even though you miss your family. You are afraid that your grades will mean that you’ll have to marry soon," I clarify. I am trying to understand Eleanor’s entire speech- she always had a knack of never going straight to the point of things. "Am I right?"
"That’s it!" She sighs. "You must think I have such a complex! I want to stay here, but I miss my family. I have not seen them in six months and want to see them again, but I fear what I might find at home. I want to go to college, but I know my grades aren’t good enough. But I know that if I don’t, my parents will pressure me into getting married. Oh, Tori, I’m scared! I don’t want to get married now or go to college just yet! I want to stay here!"
If you look at Eleanor for just her appearance, you would think that this Goth girl, with her naturally ebony colored black hair and her dramatic way of dressing all in dark colors, would be a girl who could show just how tough and strong she was to the world. But in reality, she just a little girl at heart, wanting to please her parents but wanting to find her way in the world. She would be brought to her knees before she could truly stand up for herself.
Eleanor looked valiant and fearless, but she was in reality just frightened of doing the wrong thing. In her own way of finding a defense mechanism, she put herself in the imaginary world of novels and plays. When she exited, she would act eccentric to those she did not know well, but kind, sensitive, and soft-spoken to ones she did. She was what Jane Bryant called a gilded girl: tough and smart on the outside, but weak and sensitive on the inside. A girl who played tough but was complete mush on the inside.
"I completely understand," I say. But I don’t understand. If she knew my family and was in my place, she would have a different opinion than the one she had now.
She would be glad that her parents care so much about her that they would be willing to find a suitable husband for her- they still considered her well enough to try to help her get married.
My parents? They think I ought to rot in Hell.

Home. What exactly is the meaning of "home"? If we went by the dictionary, which says that a home is the place where “one’s domestic affections are centered”, that would mean my home is here, in this boarding school at La Canada Flintridge.
But a boarding school- a home it is not. It is where I would rather stay, but let’s face it: a school is a school, no matter whether it is a public school or a private school or a boarding school.
My real home is a Hell. There, I have said it. And I don’t care if it sounds like I am exaggerating, because I'm not. I know I am not. And if you think I am- tough luck, then. You’re wrong.
I guess the only thing I can do now is to buck up and to be strong. There is nothing else I can do, really. I can complain all I want, but I have be strong it if I want to keep on living.
Letting go of my emotions, dying on the inside, and losing my senses is just not an option.
After packing my bags- all six of them, all of them weighing in at more than fifty pounds, I decide that I ought to see how Eleanor was holding up. God knew that if she was not checked on, she could have been found dead in the bathroom, bleeding and in shock, due to slashing her wrists because of her terrible frights.
It was then I decide to give Eleanor my going away present for her- a little key chain with a photo of us when we had gone to the fundraising party for the school from two months ago.
The photo shows us smiling at the camera as we sit behind a counter with a dozen different pies- apple, pecan, pumpkin, peach… a sign on the counter shows "fifty cents will be donated for every dollar spent". What the customers didn’t know was that each six-inch pie would cost five dollars rather than the three they were expecting. And that only twenty five cents rather than fifty cents was being donated. It was a good cause, and it did give away over four hundred dollars to charity in just one afternoon, but most of the money that could have been donated freely to charity was eaten up by the church.
Eleanor smiles when she saw the keychain. True, I had bought the keychain for three dollars on sale, but I had printed out the picture myself. "You did not have to give me this," she says. "Why, I don’t have anything to give you."
"You don’t need to give me anything, Eleanor. There is nothing that you can give me as a present that I need." And truly, she does not have to give me one. Knowing that she appreciates the gift was good enough.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” She asks. “I feel horrible about this. I can go out and buy you something in the gift shop down the street.”
I laugh. “No, don’t get me anything at that gift shop!” I cry. “It’s not necessary, Eleanor. Just promise me one thing. Can you do that?”
Eleanor hesitates. We stare at each other awkwardly; I fiddle with a loose string on my knit jacket. I will have to fix that on my mom’s sewing machine back at home. I won’t have any tailors at home to fix it and I know my mom considers sewing a womanly task.
“What is it?” She replies.
“Be strong for the summer. I want to see you alive and well when you come back in the fall. Oh, now, Eleanor, don’t cry! I can stand anyone’s tears but yours." I reach out to hug her and she reciprocates my hug by not pushing me away. I know it takes her a great deal of effort to reach out like that.
And I am glad that I had someone to think about beside myself for the summer.

If there is one thing I am glad of, it is that La Canada Flintridge is not that far from LAX. Sure, it may take forty-five minutes to get there, but I find it fun as I get to take a ride with the other students who take the airport to get home.
Plus, as an added bonus, the actual plane ride to Phoenix, Arizona isn’t that long: just a little more than an hour long. Not bad, especially since we still get a bag of pretzels or nuts and a half-cup of the juice of your choice. If I’m lucky, I can sweet talk my way into asking the flight attendant into giving me an extra bag of peanuts or pretzels. If it’s a man, I can flirt my way into requesting that extra bag of snacks. Even though I don’t consider myself beautiful, I know how to make myself appear that way.
I exit the airplane with the only piece of luggage than was under the airplane’s rules for baggage- why it is that only one of these inadequate pieces of luggage are free to carry on-board, I don’t know- and I haul that for what seems that half of the entire Phoenix Sky Harbor airport. My arms are getting tired from dragging this old thing around, but I’m not going to rest until I find someone I know.
So far, no signs of my family, even as I observe every corner of the airport. I didn’t expect to see them at the other end of the tunnel waiting for me eagerly, of course, but I hoped that they would be on time.
I’m not going to be happy if they forget about me entirely- I did speak to my mom over the phone yesterday to explain to her what we were going to do.
After searching through all the baggage claims to find the one for Los Angeles, California, I saw my brother smiling in the middle of two of the baggage claims- the baggage claims from Los Angeles and Oklahoma City.
"Michael!" I scream. I couldn’t help but drop my luggage and run towards him. I enveloped him in a sisterly hug. I noticed that my now sixteen-year-old brother was now taller than I was. I was considered tall for a girl at 5’7’’, but it seemed that my brother had finally passed me. "You look like you grew," I say as we walk back to get my bag, which was lying in its side.
"Three inches this past year," he declares. "I am convinced it’s from the swimming."
"It definitely was," I agree. “Now let me take a look at you. I have got to know if you changed much in these last few months.” Since Michael was not a girl, I don’t order him to twirl around. I just take a quick look up and down at him so not to make him feel uncomfortable. Michael said he grew three inches; he must have been about 5’8’’ or 5’9’’ now that he was sixteen. Like me, Michael has light brown hair and greenish-hazel eyes. We are both on the thin side, but swimming as made him stronger than me. I would not be taller than Michael anymore, nor will I be the stronger one. My baby brother had turned stronger than me now that he is sixteen years old and nearly full-grown.
I, on the other hand, was now seventeen and long past my growth spurt.
"Now, where are mom and dad? And sissy?" I ask. I pick up my bag and Michael and I walk our way towards the Los Angeles baggage claim.
"Mom and dad are waiting in the car, but mom is coming to find us. Melinda is staying home. Andrew has got her convinced that she ought not to exert herself unless it is necessary."
"How much longer does she have?" I ask. “Before the baby comes, I mean,” I add as I see Michael’s blank stare.
"She’s due in early September," he replies. "So that makes it… what? Maybe two months? Two and a half? Besides, she has barely moved since May, save for her daily walks. If Melinda lifts so much as a pot, someone’s there next to her to tell her not to exert herself."
At first, I don’t say a word. I think I see one of my bags on the carousel. “Why doesn’t she move? It is supposed to be healthy for a woman to exercise… gently during pregnancy. I don’t understand why. Some women even do-” I stop. I do see one of my bags coming towards me on the carousel. “Michael, can you get that one for me? The blue one?"
Michael reaches out to grab my bag. Swimming as sure made him strong, I thought. That damn bag must be about seventy-five pounds, but he grabbed it as if it was seven pounds. "How many bags do you have?" He wonders.
"Four more," I answer. "They’re all about this size…" I point to the bag he had just lifted off. "And they are all different shades of blue.”
“You think they’ll be easy to see?” Michael jokes.
I laugh. “If you are having trouble finding them, I will move your head into the direction they're in."
“And will they all be this heavy?”
“Oh, yes, definitely! Girls always travel with more bags than boys do ‘because we have more stuff!” I joke. Then I change the subject, "Do Melinda and Andrew know whether the baby is going to be a boy or a girl?"
"They don’t know yet," Michael says. "Melinda says that she doesn’t want to find out. She claims that she wants to surprise everyone, but I personally think she’s terrified of finding out. But, of course, Andrew is convinced it’s going to be a boy. He claims that in his family, a baby’s gender will always be based on who is the boss of the family: the mother or the father. And we know who the boss in Melinda’s marriage is."
I smile sadly and drop my eyes. Of course we knew who the boss was. One look at Melinda and Andrew made it too painfully obvious. Melinda was the inferior one, the weak one. Andrew was all too dominating for weak little Melinda. Melinda’s name meaning- ‘honey’- was perfect for Melinda’s character. Sweet but soft, distinctive yet mild. Pure. Not affected by additives or unnecessary products. "Have they got names yet?"
"No, but, they do have some ideas. I know that Melinda wants Ethan or Robert for a boy or Audrey for a girl-"
“Audrey?” I repeat. “How did she come up with that?”
“Don’t know,” Michael admits. “I guess it was from Audrey Hepburn? Honestly, go ask Melinda if you really must know.”
“Victoria? Michael?" A female voice piped up out of nowhere. I turn around. It is my mother, standing right behind me.
I manage to say, "Hi, mom," as mom makes her way towards me and my brother.
She smiles, but there is no happiness in it. Whatever beauty or happiness my mother once had was gone. I had seen from old wedding pictures that I took more from my mother than I once thought- we both have light brown hair past our shoulders and partially down my back, large almond shaped hazel eyes, and arched eyebrows that can easily be raised in surprise. Her old wedding pictures proved that mom was once beautiful- somewhere along those twenty or so years, she had lost her beauty.
While I tried to make the most of my appearance, mom took no care at all. She looked older than her forty-two years with her laugh lines, loss of figure, and her crow’s feet. Mom never wore makeup except for a touch of sunscreen when the sun was heavy to be protected from sunburn. If she felt nearly sinless and felt light and merry in spirit, she would allow herself a swipe of Chap Stick. That was all.
Mom inspects me up and down quickly. "Should have known," she says sadly.
I know she is upset about my outfit. I had taken great care to look my best and my most beautiful, but I had overlooked how modest my parents would think I appeared.
I should’ve known that guidelines at home are stricter than at Sacred Heart.
I had dressed for the heat, as I wore a blue lightweight dress down to my knees and my most comfortable ballet flats for the journey. "Mom, is it my-”
“Clothes?” She finishes. “What else? Oh, Tori, I thought that school would help you. Why is it that-“
“Mom, it’s nearly one hundred degrees out there,” I interrupt. “I am not going out in a skirt that goes down to the floor. I don’t even know how you are not passing out in this heat."
"God gives me the strength to survive.” Closing her eyes, she crosses herself. "‘But Jesus beheld them, and said unto them, with men this is impossible, but with God all things are possible’. Do you know where that came from? Matthew 19:26. Remember that, Victoria.”
I ignore mom, not wanting her to go into a lecture, and turn towards my brother. "Let’s find my other bags."

As I expected, dad doesn’t speak a single syllable when I meet him in the car until we get back to our house. He merely drove the entire way back to the house and when we get in, he announces, "We’re home! With Victoria!”
I am not included as "we". We are supposed to mean everyone here- but I am not “we”. Thus begins the life of an outcast in your own family.
Melinda appears with her husband of a year and a half, Andrew Fisher. He holds Melinda’s shoulder- it was a sweet move until you realized how hard he had gripped her shoulder. "Tori, I am so happy to see you!” Melinda cries. We exchange smiles.
Melinda may be terribly innocent and defenceless, but one cannot deny her beauty. Unlike her, I worked hard to look my best, but for Melinda… even with her pregnancy causing her to be pale and have dark eye circles, she was still beautiful. Her large eyes would show every emotion she felt- but normally they sparkled so brightly that it seemed like there was a light behind her eyes. As if God was just behind them. Just like Audrey Hepburn, Melinda’s eyes made her other pretty, but classic facial features shine bright.
It was a pity that her pregnancy was making her look so pale…
But Melinda interrupts my thoughts. “It must have been months since we saw you last!" She tells me.
"It has been nine months, Melinda" I count with my fingers- from October to June. Nine fingers. "At least, I think it was. I haven’t been back since before the school year, right? It’s now June- I left in October. Or was it September? I guess it doesn’t really matter. Not anymore, at least."
"No, I guess it doesn’t any longer. But that’s because you’re finally back now! Our family has been reunited for the birth of a new generation!” Melinda exclaims. “Mom and dad will have their first grandchildren!” She rubs her pregnant stomach lightly and then turns her attention back at me again. “You know, Tori, I baked a red velvet cake with homemade cream cheese icing just for your return. I know it’s your favorite, so I just had to!"
"But I told you not to make it," Andrew says. “Don’t you remember? I told you not to go through the trouble.” His tone is light, but his words cut Melinda. She winces and lowers her eyes.
"I will definitely have a piece,” I say. “But I have got to unpack first. Has my room been left alone, mom?"
Nodding, mom says, "It has been. Do you need help taking your bags up? We can help- or Michael can help you if he wants to help. I am sure he would not mind-"
"Don’t help her," Dad warns. "She can do it herself."
Mom sighs. "Honestly, Joe! Her bags are at least fifty pounds!” She exclaims. Dad still looks unhappy, so mom adds quickly, “I would not be surprised if they were nearly a hundred pounds each! Have Michael help her- I am sure he wouldn’t mind. In fact, I bet he will be glad to help."
Dad thinks for a moment. "Fine," he snaps. "Let him help her if he wants to. I will be in my office. And don’t any of you bother me."
　
I had forgotten what family dinners are like until now. The cafeteria at the school was like a buffet- you could choose what you want and go back whenever you want for seconds. Most girls did not go back for seconds for fear that another girl would tattle and announce to everyone she knew that you were guilty of gluttony. Besides, most of the food was inedible. The pizza was oily, the salad was wilted, and if you were lucky, you would grab the day old sushi or eat the tacos before someone else’s greedy hands got them before you do. Most of us would go early to pick out the least scary items- the chips, cookies, fruit, and other cheap foods like Cup of Noodles and burritos.
But you could sit wherever you want- I always sat next to Eleanor and other friends of mine- Marie... Val... Anita… Janet... Hannah… any of them. I had no boyfriend to sit next to- and I would not have a boyfriend even if I had a choice to. There just did not seem to be a reason to have one.
Any of those girls would be a welcome breath of fresh air now that I am home. I would have taken any of them over one minute of sitting at this table.
For here at home, family dinner was like the event of the day, save for the prayers. If there was one place that you didn’t want everyone to be riled up, it was at the dinner table. Everyone had their own designated chair: dad and Andrew, as the heads of the household, sat on the ends. Melinda and mom sat to their rights as they were the wives and I sat next to dad and Michael sat next to mom.
A prayer uttered by either mom or dad would always begin the meal, unlike meals at school, where prayers were up to the student if they wanted to go through prayers or not. It was only required to have prayers on Sundays and at every morning. You could even skip it during mealtimes, but most of the girls there did anyways. This time, it was dad. "Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.” We all cross ourselves- forehead, chest, left shoulder, and right shoulder.
After the prayer, we are all silent besides for our occasional request to, "kindly pass the broccoli," and to, "please pass the smoked salmon." Occasionally, it would be, "Would you care for another glass of ice water?"
And then the moment I have been dreading.
"So, Victoria, how do you feel to be home?" Dad asks. Finally, these are the first words directed towards me. "Are you happy being home?”
I nod wordlessly, but I know dad wants an answer out of me.
“Are you truly glad to be home, Victoria?” He asks. I think to myself, I wish he would stop calling me Victoria! But I know he won’t. I became Tori the year after my attack when I went to the boarding school. There, my nickname was Tori. It sounded strong, powerful, and courageous to me, so the nickname stuck. Victoria became too feminine for me. Too soft. It reminded me of the attack, and I was determined not to dwell on the past as my family has done. What’s done is done, and nobody can change it.
I have been Tori ever since.
“Or do you wish that you were back at school?" Dad’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
"I am… content," I say. Without thinking and perhaps unconsciously wishing to hurt, I add, "But the question is how happy you are about me coming home."
I can see Michael holding in a laugh. He disguises it as a cough by holding his napkin to his mouth. Mom gives him a stern look and he puts down the napkin as he stares down on his half-eaten plate of food.
"Is there a reason why I should be happy?" He asks bitingly.
"Joe…" Mom warns. “Let’s not start this again…”
But dad doesn’t listen to mom. He cuts her off with a wave of his hand. "I am sure you wish you were still at school," he says. "I can tell, you know, and I understand why you feel that way. But the truth is that we also wish you were back at school. You have only been back for a few hours and you have already disappointed your mother in how you dress. We thought that the boarding school would curb your sinning ways and make you into a true Catholic.
“Is that how you greet your parents on day one? How are we to know that you are not going to be a nuisance while you are here?"
"Dad, it was over ninety degrees when I came in. I am not going to dress so heavily that I will faint if I walk quarter of a mile.”
“How would you know that you are going to faint whenever you walk on the street in modest clothing?” Dad asks. “Your mother and Melinda have never fainted. Why can’t you follow their example?”
“Dad, I’m not going to dress like mom or Melinda,” I say. I am amazed that I am keeping my voice so firm while arguing. Wasn’t my voice supposed to shake, like Melinda’s, or start getting louder, like dad? Perhaps I’m like mom… “You can’t force me. No one will force me to do anything I don’t want to do again."
"Your mother did it. Why can’t you?" Dad asks as he cuts his salmon into thirds. "You used to be so obedient, so sweet, and so innocent… what happened to you? I don’t understand-"
"Dad, I’m not mom, nor am I like Melinda or Michael. I can’t change who I am. If you don’t like who I am, I apologize, but I have to be like this. Events have forced me to be like this. I will never be that innocent fifteen-year-old that you long to have back again."
We all know what I am talking about. And it’ll be my fault if all goes in awry if my words hurt too much.
"So we are back to this… again… aren’t we?" Dad asks. "We will never be rid of this… problem… will we? Well, I will have to change the subject then… before we all go insane." He takes a large forkful of his salmon.
"Please do," I spit. "This conversation makes my head spin, not to mention that it annoys me that this ‘problem’ will always come between us. It is in the past, and none of us can do anything about it. So let’s drop it, ok? There is nothing we can do about it anymore about it. None of us are at fault- except for that son of a-"
Melinda interrupts me. "Would anyone like some cornbread?" She asks. She sounds desperate to put everyone in a good mood. "I made some earlier when I made the red velvet cake. It’s fresh. And I should know- I took a small bite of it. It’s good."
We all stare at her as if she has gone insane. Even Michael, who is normally the calmest and the most rational in this family, stares at her.
Now close to tears from the quizzical stares from her family, Melinda asks, "What did I say? All I asked was if anyone wanted cornbread!" Even with her pregnancy reaching early in the last trimester, she gets up from her chair and runs off with uncanny speed as she bursts into tears.
Andrew gets up from his chair and chases after my sister- his wife. “Melinda, come back!” He cries. “Please, don’t cry! Come back! Don’t harm the baby!”
Andrew disappears and all I hear now are footsteps and sobbing.
Dad pushes his salmon roughly away from him. "I don’t want to eat this anymore," he announces to no one in particular. Then he too gets up from his chair. "Tell Melinda that I will eat her cornbread and her cake later if she really wants me to."
Now it is only me, Michael, and mom at the dinner table. It is all quiet now. Mom sighs and continues eating her herbed salmon and her boiled broccoli. Michael and I eat in silence, not even looking at each other. We stare at our plates and eat slowly.
Finally, when we can’t stand just sitting here, Michael and I cast a watchful eye at each other, but we don’t say anything. Though we have not seen each other for months- last September was the last time I saw my family- we can communicate without opening our mouths. He knows I am a changed woman; I have my own opinions now. So does Michael- but he is a boy, so he is allowed to.
But I am a girl, so in this family, I should not have an opinion.