Settle Road
by Morgan Rose-Marie
A couple of weeks after we moved into a house that was flat, my father left it. He left us too, but I didn鈥檛 know what that meant then.
A couple weeks after my father left, we finally did too. We emptied the flat house that never held much of anything and that had never felt like home鈥攏ever had a chance to. My mother returned us to the first place I remembered living, the small village of Mariemont.
My grandparents had bought a perfectly square brick house to rent to Mom. It sat at the very edge of town, on the very end of a street called Settle, and that鈥檚 what I hoped we鈥檇 be able to do there. But months passed, and I learned divorce wasn鈥檛 something that happened. It was always happening, happening, happening.
Mom went back to working nights at the hospital like she did the last time we lived in this town when I was just a baby. She scheduled her shifts for the weekends my sisters and I spent with Da since the court decided they should split time this way.
Da also picked us up on Wednesday nights for short evening visits. Because our new home was not a house he鈥檇 ever lived in, he didn鈥檛 come inside for these visits. Instead, he took us to get pizza at Mios, where we played games on the butcher-paper tablecloths, or dinner at Frisch鈥檚 Big Boy, where we colored the disposable playmats. Then we went to the park.
I assumed Da would eventually figure out something better to do with us. He鈥檇 invented The Evil Cloud game and The Chin, after all. His eyes were still hazel, his chin still stubbly, his grin still higher on one side than the other. He spoke to me the same way, in a child-like tone, and said the same words he always had. He had been gone for a while, but he had also come back, so he鈥檇 come back to himself. I just had to wait.
Da鈥檚 own apartment was too far away to drive to on Wednesday nights, so one evening he took us to Sarah鈥檚. After his denial that she was anything more than a colleague, this choice seemed like an unspoken admission. I was curious what she鈥檇 think when she saw me, what she鈥檇 say, what she鈥檇 do. But she wasn鈥檛 home. I was disappointed and, at the same time, relieved. I was safe from something, though I wasn鈥檛 sure what exactly I was afraid of.
I investigated the small living room to try to get an idea of who she was. There were no pictures on the walls. No knickknacks on the tables. Every surface was bare, the modest furniture unremarkable. From what I could tell, if I were to check out the apartment next door, it would all look the same. She was absent in so many ways.
Still, in the short galley kitchen where we made tuna salad for dinner, I accidentally learned one thing about Sarah. My meal tasted dry and bland, so I mixed in more mayonnaise, hoping this would fix it. It did not. I tried a bite, and the fish was softer but also an empty kind of sour. I added spoonful after spoonful of mayonnaise, tasting along the way, until the mixture was soupy and remarkably still flavorless.
I couldn鈥檛 make heads or tails of the disaster until the blue of the jar鈥檚 label caught my eye. It was all wrong. I read: Miracle Whip.
鈥淲hat is this?鈥 I asked, holding it up for Da to see.
鈥淚t鈥檚 a healthier kind of mayonnaise.鈥
鈥淚t does not taste good.鈥
鈥淚t has less fat.鈥
I realized then how I鈥檇 ruined my tuna, each of my attempts to fix it making it worse. 鈥淲here鈥檚 the regular kind?鈥
鈥淭here isn鈥檛 any. This is better.鈥
I shook my head, not sure I even believed that Da believed what he was saying. His coworkers called him 鈥淛unk-Food Johnny,鈥 and I had only just learned 鈥淒a Cookies鈥 were actually called Oreos.
I opted to throw my tuna-flavored bowl of Miracle Whip away. Eating no dinner at all was better than choking down this concoction. Maybe the best Da could really do was take us out to eat and to the park. Maybe I was waiting for someone to come back who was truly gone.
I woke up to the face of Medusa. With green skin and glowing eyes, she resembled the creature in a picture book Mom had to read to us called, 鈥淕o Away, Big Green Monster!鈥 I didn鈥檛 meet her gaze. Not because I feared her piercing stare turning me to stone, but because I was transfixed by her hair of writhing snakes. They didn鈥檛 scare me. They disgusted me.
The thick girth of the snake鈥檚 bodies where thin strands of hair should be made my fingers jump. I reached out and grabbed hold of one and pulled it loose. The snake detached from her skull with the sound of smacking lips. I discarded the creature whose corpse ended abruptly in strange flatness. On Medusa鈥檚 head, hair sprouted from the spot, as though the strands were contained fully grown within the snake鈥檚 body. I pulled another. And another, until there were no snakes left. I鈥檇 pulled them all.
Panic launched me from my bed and to the bathroom. Brushing my hair back, I could see the bald patch above my right ear hadn鈥檛 grown any bigger. I leaned in toward the mirror, tilting my head so I could better see my scalp. I touched my skin with my index finger.
On the edge of the circle of balded skin, I found a hair that was too thick. I gripped it lightly and ran it between my forefinger and thumb a few times until I couldn鈥檛 stand it anymore. Then I plucked it out. I felt again, finding another hair that was rough, and removed it. Over and over again. There was always another strand that irritated. Then my finger came away stained red.
This wasn鈥檛 a dream. I recoiled my fingers and pressed my palm to my head. Blood was supposed to stay inside. What if it didn鈥檛 stop? I couldn鈥檛 fit a band-aid to my scalp. I ran back to bed and slept on my left side, hoping I wouldn鈥檛 bleed out before morning.
Upon waking up, the first thing I did was find Mom standing at the base of the steps. I didn鈥檛 want her to know about my bald spot, but I needed her to assure me I wouldn鈥檛 die. I pulled my hair back to show her the fresh scab and tried to sound calm when I asked, 鈥淲ill this be okay?鈥
For a moment, I thought everything was fine, that I would live and could go eat my breakfast and read the back of the cereal box while I did it. Then Mom gasped. And fine was just a memory from years and years ago.
鈥淲hat have you done?鈥
What had I done? I was about to protest that I hadn鈥檛 done anything, but I didn鈥檛 know how to explain that something inside me made me do it鈥攕omething that wasn鈥檛 me. This didn鈥檛 even make sense to me, so I just started crying.
鈥淲ill it grow back?鈥 I asked.
鈥淚t might grow back red and curly.鈥
I cried harder, not understanding this was a lie. 鈥淒on鈥檛 tell Da,鈥 I begged. She promised and again I believed.
The next time Da came to pick me up for visitation, the first thing he asked was, 鈥淗ow is your hair?鈥
Da got flaky about visits a few months in. I鈥檇 sit on the step where our front walk met the sidewalk, watching for his Pontiac to turn the corner onto Settle.
When pickup time came and went, Mom was sent scrambling through the house. She grabbed the phone, dialing Da to see if he still planned on coming, pacing the house while it rang, checking out the front door just in case.
鈥淚 have to leave for work!鈥 She announced while she waited for him to pick up and we waited for him to show up. He didn鈥檛 do either.
Mom dialed another number, trying to find a sitter to watch us for the night. Her hair got messier and her voice higher with each call. Finally, when it was clear no one could come on such short notice, she called in sick to work.
鈥淲hy didn鈥檛 he come?鈥 I asked after she arranged to stay home.
鈥淚 don鈥檛 know.鈥 She threw up her hands and let them drop so they made a clapping sound against her thighs.
I thought of all the potential reasons. He had car trouble. Or worse, he got in a car wreck and was injured. Or maybe it was because last weekend I complained too much about having to go to church. Maybe it was because I snuck half my scalloped potatoes onto my sister鈥檚 plate and the rest I stuffed in my mouth and then spit out in the toilet after excusing myself to the bathroom. Maybe it was because I鈥檇 asked to go to the bookstore, then asked to get a book there. Or because I wanted to play on his laptop for too long. I was always asking for things, always wanting. Maybe it was finally too much.
Later we learned he had a business trip.
Soon, missing became a routine. I came to dread the waiting.
鈥淲hy doesn鈥檛 he just call?鈥 I asked.
鈥淚 wish I knew,鈥 Mom said.
鈥淐an鈥檛 you ask him?鈥
鈥淚 have. Many times.鈥
鈥淎nd what did he say?鈥
鈥淭he trips are last minute.鈥
On Fridays we just waited and hoped. I learned you can鈥檛 call in sick forever鈥攖he only thing you can be forever is gone. After a few no-shows, Mom quit her job and went to work as an assistant at Granddad鈥檚 dentistry so she could be home when we were鈥攁nd when Da wasn鈥檛.
I began therapy with my Beanie Baby donkey, Lefty, complete with a hand-crafted bridle made of string. My therapist had white hair and a face like Einstein鈥檚, but his office felt more like a living room than a clinic. Rather than reclining on a futon, I sat on the floor in front of his fireplace. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. When I spoke, mine was quieter. But neither of us said much. Instead of talking, we drew.
He sketched two hills separated by a valley in the middle. A Billy goat perched on each peak. The story he told didn鈥檛 have a troll or a bridge or even a plot, so I didn鈥檛 think it really counted as a story, but in its telling I realized the point of the exercise. The picture and story were an analogy for my family鈥攎y parents on either side and me in the middle. It felt pedantic even if I didn鈥檛 have that word for it then.
I decided to make up a story that had no connection to my situation and drew mice.
When the therapist asked for my story, I explained the mice鈥檚 parents were dead, and one mouse was left to care for its younger mice siblings, venturing out from the safety of the burrow in search of food.
When I finally met Sarah, I caught myself right before I said, 鈥淵ou look like Mom.鈥 Her long blond hair was pulled back in a half-ponytail, just like I鈥檇 seen Mom鈥檚 in an old picture from college. I wondered if Da noticed this.
Da didn鈥檛 introduce her. When we walked into his apartment, she was just there. I guessed I鈥檇 heard her name enough that it was obvious, though he didn鈥檛 say, 鈥淭his is my girlfriend,鈥 either. Maybe that was supposed to be obvious too. I wondered if they lived together. If she lived here now, but I knew he鈥檇 never say. It was as if history didn鈥檛 exist for them.
I got why he lied about Sarah before he left. Now, it made no sense to me. He鈥檇 made his choice, and she was standing right in front of me. This seemed like the moment to stop pretending if ever there was one.
Sarah didn鈥檛 say, 鈥淗i,鈥 just sort of nodded at me. She didn鈥檛 smile, and I got the sense that she wasn鈥檛 thrilled to be here. Or maybe she wasn鈥檛 thrilled that I was here. That makes two of us, I thought.
I wanted to ask her what she thought of kids, of Da having kids, of me specifically鈥攁 kid of a woman she鈥檇 met once, of a woman whose husband she鈥檇 crossed a line with. I wondered if she thought about Mom or me at all. I guessed not, though.
It would take me a while longer to believe the same was true of Da. I didn鈥檛 yet understand how the interests of adults could compete with the interests of their kids鈥攁nd, in the case of such conflict, that the kids鈥 interests wouldn鈥檛 automatically win.
I left the silent living room occupied by the silent adults and walked into the kitchen to look at the fridge. There, Da had posted a printout of the weekend schedule. I reviewed it line by line, the days divided into hours, each one filled, every meal planned. It was as if he was counting down the time we had to share like I was. I wasn鈥檛 surprised to see that I鈥檇 be eating tuna and canned pears. I made a mental note to check the mayonnaise jar and then began the wait for the weekend to end.
I worried about Mom being alone. One night she ordered us pizza for dinner, and I noticed the delivery guy appeared to be an eligible young man. After she鈥檇 tipped him and closed the door, I asked, 鈥淒id you think he was cute?鈥
She laughed, but I was being serious.
鈥淎re you interested in him?鈥
She was not, which I thought was too bad. I told her I didn鈥檛 want her to be lonely. Mom assured me she was not lonely. 鈥淚 have you guys.鈥
I鈥檇 seen how upset she was after Da left, so I didn鈥檛 fully believe her. I also wanted to ask her how she felt when we were gone, but I had a feeling she wouldn鈥檛 give me the answer I suspected I knew.
As we got ready for bed that night, I found a paperback on the shelf that had a satyr on the cover and handed it to Mom.
鈥淢y second-grade teacher gave me this on my last day before we moved.鈥
鈥The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe is one of my favorites.鈥
鈥淵ou know it?鈥 I was surprised. Then I added, 鈥淢y teacher said the same thing.鈥
Mom smiled and opened the door to Narnia. Once through, I saw no reason to leave and couldn鈥檛 understand why the Pevensie children ever did. Each night I waited for the next chapter, wanting to learn more about this fantastical land that rightfully belonged to Aslan, the lion. The world was falling apart. A witch had taken over鈥攂rought a winter that never left. Still, all that was going to be fixed by these four kids. They would save the realm and then rule it better.
Toward the end, I was shocked when Mom read of Aslan surrendering himself to the White Witch. Her evil entourage shaved his mane to humiliate him, and then they killed him on the stone table where he put up no fight. How could that be? Through my tears, I asked Mom why Aslan let it happen, why he went willingly to slaughter in the first place, knowing what they planned to do to him? She told me to wait and see.
The next night Mom read, Aslan returned. The stone table broke in two and he rose from it. He鈥檇 known how it would go all along. He鈥檇 seen further into the future than anyone. His leaving wasn鈥檛 the end. He was always going to come back. I discovered in C.S. Lewis鈥檚 novel a story I wanted so badly to believe in. Aslan disappeared but always returned, died on a stone table but came back even then. This was how things were supposed to end鈥攖hey weren鈥檛 supposed to end at all.
A few years after moving in, we would leave Settle. My mother would remarry and we would move to a house across from a wooded park. On a sunny day that my memory tries to color overcast, Da would arrive to pick me up for visitation and I would refuse to get in his Pontiac.
When the police came, they told me to get in Da鈥檚 car, and I did.
That drive to his apartment was the last one I made.
A few years before this, before Settle, before Da left, before the flat house that never held much鈥攏ot even us for long鈥攚e moved into the last house that felt like home for our family. Of course, none of us knew that. It wasn鈥檛 decided yet.
This house expanded like a pair of lungs under water. Its size took my breath away. Everywhere around me there was space to play and transform. I imagined running on all fours through this place pretending to be whatever animal felt right that day鈥攕o many possible me鈥檚 and plenty of room for all of them. I could be anything and everything here, I was sure of it.
In our very own backyard, Da applied his engineering skills to assemble a swing set. I watched him construct the metal structure with its bands of red and blue paint. After he finished, he put his hand on the leg of the set and proudly announced it was ready for use. I rushed over to test the swings.
鈥淧ush me.鈥 I grabbed hold of the rubber-covered chains hanging on either side and hopped into the seat.
Da walked around behind me as I got the swing started. Then he gave me a shove, shouting, 鈥淲eee!鈥 in the child-like voice he used when he spoke to me.
Higher and higher, I flew with each push, sticking out my legs as I crested. I heard the theme song to my favorite cartoon Underdog: 鈥淪peed of lightning/ roar of thunder!鈥 I was sailing through the sky. Da sent me up and little people below called, 鈥淚t鈥檚 a bird! It鈥檚 a plane!鈥 But, no, it was just little ol鈥 me. I could feel the wind whipping my cape behind me as I broke through the clouds and into a brand-new world where anything was possible.
And then the swing set stuttered. I felt it before I saw it. The shift from weightlessness to weighted as I swung toward the ground reverberated through the metal structure. My stomach stayed in the air as the rest of me flew backwards. My eyes bugged as one leg of the set lurched off the ground.
鈥淚t鈥檚 moving,鈥 I said, swinging past Da. He sent me forward again, and my head craned to watch the leg. It settled back down into the grass. But as I came down, it lifted again. I pointed at it. 鈥淚t鈥檚 off the ground!鈥
鈥淵ou鈥檙e fine,鈥 Da assured me. I didn鈥檛 feel fine. Over and over again, a diagonal pair of the set鈥檚 legs skipped like jumping rope.
鈥淲hat if it falls over?鈥
鈥淚t won鈥檛. I built it!鈥 Da laughed, sending me skyward. I saw he believed in his words, his work, in this thing he鈥檇 created. He didn鈥檛 see the danger I saw. I didn鈥檛 want to hurt his feelings, so I said nothing else about it.
I kept swinging, but it had stopped being fun. As Da pushed me up and up and up, I looked at the great expanse of sky above me and this new house that had seemed so full of promise. Instead of flying through it with my superhero cape trailing, I was falling up into it. This was what Shel Silverstein had warned about. This was a world where anything was possible.
As I swung downward, I hung my leg and dragged the toe of my shoe along the dirt to slow me, hoping to ground myself without letting him see.
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