“Just so you know,
Gabe is picking me up in
the morning and taking me
to work. I’m supposed to
be at the barn by eight.”
Pretty good friend to get up so early for you on a Sunday.
“I guess, and I’m grateful.
I need to make some money.
Dad’s on the run. . . .” I fill her in on the evening’s ugliness.
Anxiety creases her forehead.
What are you going to do?
“I don’t know, but I’ll
figure out something.
For sure I’m not leaving
Sonora. I’ve got an actual life here, which includes you.
It’s a year before I turn eighteen, but maybe I can emancipate.”
You haven’t talked to your mom?
I gave her your number.
It was Monica? “Why did
you do that? I figured it must have been Syrah, not you.
And, no, I haven’t talked
to her. I’ve got nothing to say.”
She crosses her arms. Snorts.
Maybe not. But she’s got plenty to say to you. I don’t get why you won’t listen. Don’t you want to know who you are?
Stamp “pissed” across
my face. “I know who I am, Monica. I don’t need Maya
McCabe to explain it to me.”
You only know what your dad’s told you, Air. You don’t even know what your birthday is.
“What are you talking about?
My birthday’s October ninth.”
She shakes her head. That’s Ariel Pearson’s birthday.
Bulldozed
October 9
is Ariel Pearson’s birthday. And I’m
not Ariel Pearson.
Meaning October 9
is probably not
my birthday.
Spicy hominy stew gurgles in my stomach.
Churns acid.
My entire backstory has been fabricated.
Birth certificate.
School records.
Driver’s license.
Social security card.
All bear the name Ariel
Pearson.
But I’m not
Ariel
Pearson.
The Truth
When delivered so abruptly
is impossible to ignore.
I fall back on the bed, nestle my head into the Monica—
scented pillow, and my best
friend settles beside me.
I know it’s totally up to you, but my advice is to talk to her.
A huge sigh escapes. “She left my dad for a woman, Monica.”
So what? She reaches for my hand.
You left your boyfriend for me.
“That’s true.” I have to smile.
“But I don’t want to leave here.
I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to have to go live with her.”
You don’t have to go anywhere.
Ariel might be seventeen, but Casey is eighteen. You were three when your dad took you away.
This Revelation Sinks Like Lead
“What? No! That’s impossible.
I might not know my birthday, but I know how goddamn old I am.”
Do I?
“There’s no freaking way Dad could convince me I was younger than I was! That makes no sense.”
Or does it?
I’ve always been considered big for my age, but I always thought it was because
of my height.
Monica shrugs. Remember that time with Zelda and the coffee and he told her he drinks it black?
On my not-birthday.
You could tell she was all confused, like she’d never heard that before.
But he swore she knew all along, right?
How can I forget?
There’s a word for what your dad did. It’s called gaslighting. If he could convince her, how hard would it be . . .
“To convince a little kid.”
Bits and pieces of memory flash like multicolored neon—people, mostly women, asking my age. Dad correcting my fingers.
Until I finally got it right. Did I argue my name with him, too?
Or was I simply content to become the Little Mermaid?
My childhood is a jigsaw puzzle, with chewed and misplaced
pieces. I’ve always known that.
What I didn’t realize
is that even if every correct piece was fitted perfectly into place, the resulting picture would’ve been interpretive art.
Gaslighting
A quick search on my phone reveals a lot of information.
Gaslighting is:
a sophisticated manipulation tactic used to create doubt in the minds of others.
Check.
The word comes
from an old movie
(and earlier play)
where:
(paraphrased) a shithead husband tries to convince his wife she’s going insane.
His tactics include isolation and making stuff disappear, then telling her she’s to blame, though she can’t remember it.
Check.
There are many
ways to create
said doubt:
create self-doubt through intensity of conviction; if that fails, toss in a little self-righteous indignation; skew actual facts with distortions that can’t be proved or disproved.
Check.
Check.
Check.
At least until
someone who
might very well
disprove them
appears on scene.
And overall:
the best liars deceive by repeating stories that are mostly true, while leaving out (or adding) a fact or two that represents truth.
That’s my fucking dad, okay.
My father, master of lies, who raised me with affection.
Except when he reminded me, with sharp words and the occasional slap across the face, that I was, in truth, little more than his possession.
What all this gaslighting information neglects to mention is the power of warping love to accomplish a goal.
Which Begs the Question