Surviving This Afternoon

Aug 03, 2006 19:01

Minutes after typing the finishing words of my last entry, a bright flash accompanied by a shotgun-like sound appeared before my window. Almost falling out of my chair, I ducked to the ground, unplugged the computer from the wall, and quickly backed away from the window. I was surprised to see the window still intact.

"What was that?! What was that?!" my mom screamed.

"I saw a bright flash outside my window," I said to my mom. "I think I almost got hit."

"What did I tell you?!" my mom lectured. "Did you unplug the computer?"

"Yes, Mom."

I wrapped my brain around the situation for a few minutes. The window didn't shatter, so the lightning didn't strike my window. It couldn't have hit that close to me; otherwise, I'd be injured. Did lightning strike my car?

A flash of light illuminated the windows, followed by sounds of thunder.

"Get away from the windows!" my mom shouted.

I wasn't about to argue, since I wasn't sure how close I was from suffering a massive electric shock.

"Do you want to go in the family room?" she asked.

"No windows," I said, "but that also means no ventilation. I can't breathe in there."

More rounds of lightning and thunder ensued.

"I'm going in the family room," said Mom, bringing her battery-powered fan with her.

"You can't breathe in there," I insisted, standing near the entrance.

"Yes you can," she said, placing her face next to the fan.

She left the room seconds later. "I can't stand the smell," she claimed.

My mom took a blanket and placed it on the hallway floor. "Sit down," she insisted. "Sit down!"

"I remember how you'd get so scared and how we'd sit in the hallway," my mom began. "Brings back memories, huh?"

My back was turned to her; my eyes fixated on a distant knick-knack in the living room. I didn't want to tell her that she was wrong, that she likes to make things up about me to make her happy. She wouldn't believe me anyway; it's all true in her mind.

Lightning didn't scared me. I'd sit next to the window during a thunderstorm, watching the flashes in awe. My mom would pry me away from the window, screaming at me to get away and sit in the hallway. I'd get mad when she wouldn't let me watch the storm, but she doesn't remember that. Maybe it's best that she remember it differently.

She wanted to talk to me, but I wanted the storm to end so I could resume what I was doing.

"Did you buy your plane tickets yet?" she asked.

"No," I said, still not taking my eyes away from the living room.

Mom began talking about her memories, and not all of it was false. She mentioned the time my car broke down on the highway with Maria. She made fun of me so much that day and lectured me on how I should be more responsible.

"It wasn't your fault," said Mom, still recalling her memories.

That's not what she said three years ago; she remembers herself as the sympathetic mother for some reason. She doesn't remember how much she and Dad hurt me that day. I started getting angry at her distorted memories, but I continued focusing my eyes on the knick-knack.

After the storm passed, she tried calling Dad, but she had to use her cellphone because the house line was dead.

"Lightning hit the Cavalier?" said my dad as he came home. "Give me your keys."

"They're in your room, Dad," I said angrily. "You never gave my keys back, remember?"

Ignoring me, he searched his dresser for my keys and walked to my car.

"Your car starts fine," my mom said, watching my dad from the window.

"Lightning didn't strike my car-" I began.

"-it hit the telephone line," my dad finished.

Dad called a number (using his cellphone) to have the telephone line fixed, but no one would come to fix it for the rest of the day.

With the phone line dead, I couldn't buy my plane tickets or resume what I was doing, so I sat back in bed and opened a book. I desperately wanted to leave the house and hang out with friends, but I didn't know who to call. The day just didn't feel right.

"Lou! Lou!" my mom kept yelling. "Come quick!"

I walked into the living room to hear my mom speaking to my dad in broken sentences.

"Ants crawling in her nose... Tina, under the Nissan..." she said with a shiver in her voice.

Tina's our chihuahua. She's about nine or ten years old, and from the reactions I observed from my parents, Tina's dying.

"I'll need a soft washcloth and-" my dad began.

"You're not going to bring her inside, are you?" my mom said hysterically. "She's suffering so bad! You can't-"

"I can give her a bath and get the stench off her; that'll get rid of the ants."

"You can't bring her to a vet?" I asked, but I already knew they'd never be willing to take any of our pets to a vet.

"There's nothing they can do," my dad said. He hinted earlier that he wanted Tina to be put to sleep, to end her misery.

I walked back in my room and drowned out their voices with cartoons and commercials. I could still hear a few words here and there, every few minutes or so.

"Dig a hole in the backyard... she's been with us for so long."

"She needs to be put to sleep... you want her to keep suffering?"

Their recent phrases suggest that Tina has already died. I don't know how to feel about that. My parents didn't take great care of her, but I never did anything for Tina either. She's been kept in the backyard and in the garage for so long that she became invisible to me. I haven't gotten to care for her since she was a puppy. I don't really feel anything; I guess it feels like Tina's already died a long time ago.

My laptop lets me type these thoughts, but I won't be able to post this until the telephone line is fixed. I think the sooner I leave for Milwaukee, the better. I've held onto it for so long; maybe I'm ready to leave the past behind.
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