I don’t talk to anyone outside of work except Mrs. L once a month when I drop off the rent check. She’s good at asking loaded questions meant to flush out substance and emotion. I recognize the approach, I’m a counselor. She’s so kind and caring that I find myself swallowing back the honesty that wants badly to escape and replace it with vague evasiveness that pacifies instead.
I miss Faith. I miss her so much. I used to watch her come and go from her apartment. Studying the way she walked, the way she carried herself with such graceful, unassuming confidence. And admiring it because I know it’s not a product of her upbringing. She invested in herself and manifested it. That’s remarkable, a thing of beauty. I don’t watch anymore because studying her soon felt like stalking her. The torture of not being able to have her in my life distorted observation into forbidden leering. I’m not a creeper.
I call my kids every evening. Sometimes I get to talk to them, and more often than not there’s an excuse as to why they aren’t available. It makes me furious that Miranda has this control. My fury should be calmed with words, talking to someone I trust but that person is Faith, and I can’t, so most nights I calm my fury with alcohol and a sleep aid my doctor prescribed. It doesn’t dispel, it only erases consciousness for a few hours. I’ll take that. And when I do get to talk to my kids my body is on such a rollercoaster I feel exhausted when I get off the line. I’m happy beyond belief to hear their voices, but they sound distant, the kind of apprehension that’s a reaction to sadness. That breaks me. They used to tell me they wanted to come home, now time and complacency to circumstances beyond our control has worn them quickly until all of their hard edges, their personality traits that made them so distinct, are being smoothed over to blend them into Miranda’s bland, strict world—a world where children don’t exist as children. There’s no fun, no creativity, no fostering of individuality because none of those things serve you well in a world of money-focused, soul-sucking, career-driven existence. Rory’s dropped his accent. Kira’s sweet chatter is gone, so is Pickles the cat. And Kai is silent; silence not related to introspection, but the scary silence that is the surrender of self and motivation.
She’s sucking the life out of my kids.
I keep the conversations positive, encourage them with every word whether they acknowledge my comment or not. Talking to them this way was second nature all their lives, even if I felt like shit or my mind was muddled in the chaos of adulting in Miranda’s world, talking to them was always easy. They were my light, my fire that I never wanted to dwindle. I wanted it to grow stronger, brighter, bolder, so I fed it by the day…by the hour…by the minute. Because that’s what parents do, without even thinking about it, that’s what parents do. They fill their children with love and understanding and compassion and knowledge so that when they’re adults no one can extinguish them. They’ll burn so bright they can’t be brought down.
Feeding now takes effort because their fire has been reduced to a small flicker leaving only an ember that I feel like I’m trying to ignite with water-sodden branches and soggy newspaper.
And it’s generating only thick smoke.
That I’m choking on.
So are they.
I used to write them a letter every day and mail it. They never saw them. I know because I asked. I’m sure Miranda’s housekeeper intercepted the mail and gave the letters to her. I even sent a few certified. A signature was refused, and the letters were returned to me. I still write the letters I just don’t mail them anymore. Instead, I keep them in a shoebox that I’ll give to my kids when I see them next. She can delay communication, but she can’t shut it down entirely.
Sulking in the cesspool of villainy
present
Thanksgiving.
It’s finally Thanksgiving.
My first visitation since Miranda stole custody.
School’s out the entire week, so I pack up the car on Tuesday morning with a suitcase of clothes, a cooler of food and water, the shoebox of letters to my kids, and a heart full of hope I’ve missed for so long, and I drive north.
I drive eleven hours before I give up and stop at a rest area and let sleep consume me for several hours making the final few hours of driving possible.
My legs ache when I pull up to the gate in front of Miranda’s address, and eyestrain has launched the indignant insurgency taking place inside my skull, a violent thumping.
The pain is easily pushed aside by excitement, though. My kids, my kids, are on the other side of that fence, inside that house, waiting for me.
I call Miranda’s cell. No answer.
I call her house phone and the housekeeper answers, “Buckingham residence.” Her accent is thick.
“May I speak to Kai, please?”
She knows it’s me on the line, but she keeps up the air of formality, even through her broken English and heavy accent. “Kai not here.”
Something feels off, even with the formality. “What? This is his father. I’m here to pick up my kids.”