Dark Places
written by: Teodora Vamvu
@teodora_vamvu
February 15th, 2017
Dear Diary,
Do people still write “dear diary?” Feels a bit childish, but I have to admit it’s comforting at the same time. I feel like I’m talking to someone actually listening.
Things are bad. Not worse than other times, but I realized that having something happen to you over and again does not make it hurt less. It’s like every little spark of happiness comes with a built-in eraser and it transforms you into an amnesiac. So when bad times come rolling in again, it carries the same element of surprise. Similar to when you have a bad cold: you lay in bed for days, shivering uncontrollably, unable to keep anything down, and after it passes, you go back to dressing in tank tops and shorts in the middle of winter. You forget the bad with the illusion of good.
And it’s exactly like that when Mom goes into one of her dark places. When she’s fine, she’s wonderful, so lively, caring, and loving. Warmth emanates from her so fully that it makes people turn to her like fresh leaves to the sun. And it gives me blinding hope that everything’s going to be okay.
And it never is.
Dad’s away on one of his yearly business trips. It occurred to me that either he’s absurdly lucky or is an expert in dodging Mom when she’s like this. My guess is the latter. The thing is, he’s not just dodging her – he’s abandoning me too.
Today I stepped into Mom’s stuffy room and felt instantly claustrophobic. She keeps her windows closed as if she’s allergic to fresh air. It makes the sight of the blanketed lump even sadder. I feel like an intruder in my own mother’s room and that’s because, most of the time, I am. When I really needed her, all she could muster was a low, almost inhuman growl and a dismissive flick of the hand. She couldn’t even open her eyes.
So Tess, my therapist, told me I should keep a journal, that maybe when Mom’s better, it will be easier for me to tell her all the things I didn’t get to. To tell her I want to be here for her, I want to help, if she’ll just let me. If she’ll tell me what to do to make it better.
It will help with college too, which I’m supposed to start next fall and I’m honestly dreading. I’m also excited, but how can I leave Mom and Dad when everything’s such a mess?
***
March 25th, 2017
Dear Diary,
Mom’s better. She’s waking up early, and making breakfast. Her blond hair is styled into a straight-cut bob that bounces slightly above her shoulders. She’s putting on make-up and even took me on a trip to the mall to buy some new clothes. I chose a couple of pairs of dark skinny jeans, simple T-shirts, a hoodie, and a new pair of black Converse sneakers. She wants me to wear more feminine clothes, to start showing off some of my flawless, still beautiful skin. Her words, not mine.
Her eyes are lit up, and she’s so gregarious it’s hard to imagine the lows when the high is so high. She’s fun to be around, even if her cringe-worthy remarks about boyfriends and high school gossip mortify me, as she insists I tell her every bit of what’s-what in my class. I can’t find it in my heart to tell her the closest thing I have to a friend is the school’s counselor. So I surprise myself by concocting juicy and funny stories that I haven’t even been a part of.
My heart fills with the sound of her laughter, and I think I might never have heard a more beautiful sound. So I’ll do whatever it takes to hear it, and hopefully, it will never disappear again.
***
April 13th, 2017
My hand is trembling as I try clutching the pen between my fingers. It keeps slipping and I have to break away from the page and wipe the sweat off my hands. I can’t seem to think straight, there’s a ringing in my ears, and hot coals of rage burn with such force I fear I’ll spontaneously combust.
And it’s all because of Dad, who yesterday I saw coming out of Johnny’s Restaurant on 6th, his hand nauseatingly affectionate on a woman’s lower back, both oblivious to the fact that I could see them from across the street. Her long hair was cascading down, and she was wearing a fire-engine red dress. She didn’t look much older than Mom, and she was trying to fight her age so ostensibly it was downright ridiculous.
I might have let it pass for an unprofessional business lunch if it weren’t for the kiss. They kissed! ON THE LIPS!
I felt faint and thought I was going to throw up. How strange that I chose that particular day to skip Math. Would I have gone on forever not knowing, if not for that bone-aching boredom and the inexplicable pull to make a journey downtown?
My God, Dad. All merry and joyous at dinner last night, making small talk and babbling on about a deal or other at work, as Mom gazed with rapt wonder, clinging to his every word. I watched deadpanned as he curled spaghetti around his fork and grossly slurped it up, sucking Bolognese sauce as if he was a bearded vacuum. I could picture myself upturning the plate directly on his head, shouting: HOW COULD YOU?
***
April 25th, 2017
I haven’t even told Tess yet. I don’t know how to start.
My dad’s having an affair and I hate him for it. Seems like a good enough place to start.
But what turns my stomach upside down and blurs my vision with tears I don’t dare let fall, is my blissfully unaware mother. She’s going about her life without a clue and the guilt’s been gnawing at me. My insides churn every time Dad swoops in the room and kisses her cheek, makes a stupid joke, laughs as if it’s the funniest thing in the world, and then hypocritically professes his love for us.
Like a rubber band tugged at from both ends, I find myself torn between protecting and trusting her. I’m afraid of shattering her already frail heart into thousands of tiny shards, but she’s also deserving of the truth and she’s a grown-up. So do I tell her something that’s sure to destroy her and just hope she can handle it?
Just five words.
Mom, Dad’s having an affair.
***
May 1st, 2017
I told Mom.
In a matter of milliseconds, the spark went out of her eyes, their light dimming and her blue irises darkening until they resembled the ocean after a heavy storm. Her face turned ashen, darkness clouded her faraway gaze, and a shiver ran up my spine as she said in a cold, steeled tone: “Oh.”
OH?!
I almost jumped at her. I wanted to shake her, scream at her, anything to get some semblance of a normal reaction. To get her to start hysterically crying, or at least shedding a dramatic single tear, anything but this ironclad coldness that made every single strand of my hair stand on end.
In truth, I wanted her to take me into her arms and tell me I did the right thing, to tell me everything would be fine, that I didn’t just ruin her life.
But with a flick of her hand, she dismissed me.
***
May 15th, 2017
Dad’s funeral was last week. It was a small gathering, somber and elegant. That woman didn’t make an appearance. I can’t even imagine what Mom would have done if she did.
As it is, I heard her take a sharp breath and felt that now familiar anger radiating off of her when she spotted Detective Sanders lurking some feet away at the cemetery, dressed in a black suit and crisply pressed shirt.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” I haven’t heard Mom curse before, ever. It was pretty clear what he was doing at the funeral, but I tried as best as I could to calm her and help her regain her composure.
Because unlike me, or my now late father, she’s too easy a prey to her own emotions.
***
May 21st, 2017
These days, sleep comes in sparse bits, and when it eventually does, it’s fitful and nightmare-ridden.
Did I make a mistake in telling my mother? I now know I did.
Do I say something now? How could I?
As I close my eyes at night, the smell of burning cotton fills my nostrils, threatening to choke me. It still clings to me, even after so many showers and baths, sweetly scented creams slathered over each centimeter of skin, and bottles of perfume splashed freely over my neck and hair. The smell of my father’s bloody clothes as she put them in a bin, poured gas over its contents, and dropped a lit match inside.
Ghosts of that terrible night come in different forms. Scents, blurred visions, and a faint discoloration on my fingers from that stubborn dirt I tried scrubbing with such fury I bled for three days straight.
Swampy dark thoughts swim through my mind, vivid flashes of memory passing before closed lids so fast I can’t be sure they’re real. Memories of a warm embrace from Mom I can’t grasp since it’s but a figment of unfulfilled longing. A reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes since it never fully formed on her lips.
The frantic flick of her hand, overturning soil and mud and shoving the sullied tarp as far down as it would go.
I can never talk now.
I’m trapped, in this dark place with her, forever.
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