Photo by Florencia Potter on Unsplash
A trickle of hot sweat from my damp face falls onto my father’s watch on my wrist. I’m in the stifling garage, at the exact spot where my father used to sit fixing God knows what or smoking his cigarette. A quarter to four reads the golden watch by the time I finish repairing the tires and rims of the old classic city bicycle. This means I would be late for work, and I may even lose my job. With my hands contaminated from the black tire rubber mulch, there’s no way for me to clean up, put on my uniform, and ride the bike for over three miles to start work at Target at four o’clock. It’s just plain impossible. Still, my two-wheel chariot remains useless unless I inflate the tires, useless like my father’s old Black & Decker screwdriver beside his dust-covered boots when left uncharged.
There’s one possible solution, however: my mother’s young, muscular-looking husband, who has just returned home from work. All I have to do is knock on the master bedroom door this very second and tell Theo how sorry I am that my language and temper were uncalled for. Then, he’d be more than willing to drive me no matter how tiresome he feels. Except, I’m afraid this may mean another altercation—another damn fight with Theo on top of the one we just had two days ago that damaged the bicycle.
See, it was just two days ago I learned this painful lesson: the big gap between imagination and the actual thing itself—reality. I took my fury on the bike instead of breaking Theo’s teeth and bones amid the verbal assaults I found myself throwing at him. I broke the promise I’d made to myself to get physical with him the next time he came between me and my father’s belongings inside the garage.
So, what did happen to that tough-talking girl with all that posturing and chest-thumping? Well, well, well. Guess what? It turned out that I couldn’t even scratch Theo’s yellow Jeep sitting in the garage that day. A fear unlike any other had paralyzed me: if I were to drive Theo away, Mom would still be a mother to me, but we just wouldn’t be friends anymore—that sacred, natural bond that’s supposed to exist between daughter and mother.
Mom loves Theo that much. I’m old enough to know that it’s a lot more than physical: she’d miss a lot more than his warm touch, like the time he takes to bathe her after a long day from work like she was handicapped or paints her nails with red or indigo nail polish to make her look even more beautiful. And I must confess that Theo has never laid his hands on me. Oh, one more thing! He also doesn’t mind going over budget just to get me the perfect birthday gifts. Harry Potter books; personalized photo mugs; all in that order. What stepdaughter wouldn’t fall in love with the silver necklace around my neck, huh? He bought it for me several months ago for my sixteenth birthday when he and Mom went to Mardi Gras in New Orleans.
I suppose I still miss my father the way I used to when I was a little girl before starting high school back in 2004. About a month ago, Mom and I talked about how he used to read The Little Match Girl in his baritone voice to put me to sleep. Yet, I don’t remember him well enough. I was still in kindergarten when he passed away. All I have left of him are pictures, the garage full of his construction tools and sorts, including the bicycle in question. I don’t expect anyone to understand this, but I feel a lot closer to Dad whenever I touch, ride, or sit on that bike.
On Saturday, I join Mom on the opposite side at the dining table. It’s her day off that morning, and she loves making buttermilk blueberry pancakes because Theo likes them. (No worries! I was late for work the day before, but I wasn’t fired.) I drop the slick leather lanyard that holds the key to my new bicycle lock on the table. It’s a monster lock I hope will keep Theo away from my bike. Before I can settle on two pieces of French toast—screw the bacon because it doesn’t feel right in my mouth anymore—I ask Mom how she’s holding up this morning with a half-smile. Otherwise, if I let her open her mouth first, I sense she would not say “Good morning, Lyssa” but instead, “Have you settled things with Theo yet, Lyssa?”
Reading the Palm Beach Post with her wayfarer glasses, she doesn’t answer but glances up at me and notices my bare shoulders and that I’m wearing her blue jeans, her sexy dotted vermilion crisscross blouse, and her cartwheel hat. I swear there’s no ulterior motive here, like seducing Theo, who can be mistaken for my big brother or some college boyfriend. Her outfit just happens to look spectacular on me. According to several fashion experts at school, I look too damn phenomenal in them with my angled Bob hairstyle without any sunglasses.
The second glance Mom shoots at me, poker-faced at best, might be a sign that she’s proud of me, for I’m already her height—five feet, six inches tall. Or maybe, she resents me for not having any incentives since finding the job three months ago to treat myself—for instance, adding a pair of shoes or jeans to my wardrobe. I have only bought a few pairs of underwear thus far. It’s pretty clear by now that she knows I’m still using her hygiene products as well, instead of buying my own. Her shaving cream. Her L’Oréal soap, shampoo, and deodorant. Unless she breaks her silence, I’m afraid many of such little habits will go unchanged until I save enough money to buy myself a cute little sedan or use the funds for college tuition if I don’t end up with a scholarship.
“Morning, morning, my sweet ladies,” Theo says the moment he makes it into the dining room in his tank top undershirt. For a second, his oval-shaped eyes catch my half-open mouth; I’m rubbing the tip of my tongue against my upper teeth. I swear I’m not flirting with him. It’s just difficult not to wiggle my tongue around every now and then ever since I bit it during lunch break at work yesterday. See the problem here?
I watch my mother remove her glasses before Theo bombards her face with tender kisses. Her eyelashes flutter without control. Jesus, what’s with Mom? Is she blushing? Oh, my God, look at her eyes on those muscles like she just wanna eat him up. Holy cow! I bet she loves his new spiky haircut a lot more than he does. My mouth hangs an inch open, not just because of my mother’s fluttering eyelashes, but also because the smile on Theo’s face persists long after he sits and starts with the pancakes and a handful of fresh grapes. “Like mother, like daughter, huh?” he says a moment later to either of us, hearing the first piece of bacon that crunches between his teeth. “Believe it or not, when your mom and I went on our third date, she was wearing the exact same clothes. Don’t you remember?”
I shrug, realizing now that he was only addressing me. But then I lie with my voice strangled like a bitter kid on her first day of a long-grounded week, “Um, can’t say I do. Must have been a long time ago.” I was already thirteen at the time when that unforgettable date took place.
“Nope. To me, it feels like yesterday,” Theo says, now with the second piece of bacon in his mouth, his jaw muscles and high cheekbones moving with such subtle grace like they have a mind of their own. But he has turned his eyes away from me. He’s fixated instead on my mother’s reaction, her parting lips in a gradual smile like the two of them are communicating in a language beyond my comprehension.
My eyes don’t ever want to leave them. However, I scowl at him fast when he catches me in the act, gazing far too long, even as I think, Wow, look at them! Cute, cute, cute! So damn cute! And so goddamn hard for me to hate him for long!
“So, what are we gonna do about that garage, kiddo?”
I don’t say anything at this point but give him another shrug. Why does he keep calling me kiddo? Why not just say Lyssa or Missy or something? See?—I hate being called kiddo, but I’m not yet ready to tell him. I confess I like the puckering shape of his mouth with his emphasis on the letter O—kiddo, like he was about to whistle.
“Well, I was thinking—I mean, I have an idea. Why don’t we put your father’s things on one side? Whatever’s left of them, anyway. Then, me and Mrs. Cooper over here can use the other side. Let’s face it, it’s a pretty big garage. My Jeep can use it now and then after a nice little carwash. Come on, kiddo, what do you say?”
My mother narrows her wide set of eyes at me. Her twisted brows reveal nothing less; the next words out of my mouth better make a whole lot of sense.
“Okay,” I say to him with all my heart.
“And one more thing. I promise I won’t touch that bike anymore. At least not without asking first.”
“I’m sorry, Theo. Didn’t mean to call you an asshole.”
“Wouldn’t worry about it more if I were you, kiddo. Okay?”
I nod. “Thanks for breakfast, Mom. Gotta go.” I get off the table, grab the lanyard, and make a beeline for the front door.
“Don’t we get a kiss, a hug, or something?”
Theo’s voice halts me in my little stroll with my hands on my hips. Holy shit! Who am I kidding? Yes, it’s just so goddamn hard for me to hate the guy for long! “Man,” I say, “you’re really something else, aren’t you?”
Mom laughs, dropping the paper on the table, forcing me to meet them halfway. We all hug like I was going away off to college. They both kiss my cheeks and urge me to ride my bike with caution to the library.
Soidenet Gue is an emerging screenwriter from Florida with a penchant for writing about families. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dillydoun Review, Bridge Eight, Maudlin House, Drunk Monkeys, Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, among others. When not writing, he enjoys watching movies and reading. Find him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/soide.fred