Groundhog Day

Groundhog Day

It was the same as every day. James came home from work. Late, again. It had stopped being a random occasional occurrence; he might as well have changed his hours on the family calendar. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing at work for that long. Nothing important. It never was. Although his superiors would run around ranting, stressed over deadlines that had now been moved up, or a meeting that didn’t go the way they had planned. Their stress led to James and his other coworkers receiving unnecessary scolding to “do better” it was an endless cycle of meaningless work that did nothing but benefit the inhumane cooperate machine. But he needed money to live and provide for his family, so another day in the machine it is.

There seemed to be no space for peace or stillness in his life anymore; maybe that was the hidden message in the warnings everyone always issued about growing up. Don’t rush to grow up; that’s what parents would always say, and he never quite got that until he was already there, living it. Too late to go back now and try to slow down time. He was home now, which should have made him feel better, relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and he could have a much-needed break. That wasn’t the case. Home required a whole other set of work and problems he must face and accomplish.

Before James even started any of those bothersome tasks, he walked to the kitchen and scowled as he passed the cluttered counters, dishes left out and dirty, the sink piled up with them. All that work he did, and yet this place is always left a mess. All he wanted was to come home to a calm, clean house one of these days. He doesn’t touch the mess, it’s not his to fix. Instead, he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer, cracking it open and tossing the cap in the trash, and taking that first long sip. That sip finally allows him to breathe for the first time, possibly all day.

His phone had died on his drive home, so he left it plugged in on his nightstand for now while he busied himself with his tasks. Thawing out the meat for burgers later. Fixing the leaky faucet his wife texted him about earlier; apparently, she couldn’t tighten that up herself. He could do it; it barely took more than a few minutes at most. He had the basketball game on the TV in the background as he started working on the hamburger meat, his eyes kept flicking up and staying on the screen for minutes on end. It was a good game. He hadn’t been to a basketball game in years now, another one of those enjoyable outings you give up with your youth when you take up responsibility instead.

His own dad used to take him to games when he was a kid. One of those few good memories he had of his dad. Before his dad started to slip away into anger, into alcohol, into spending all his time yelling and threatening with his fist rather than bonding with his own son. He remembered promising himself that he’d never be like that when he was a father. Instead, he stood now, half-watching the game and half-working on his part of dinner. He hadn’t even noticed in his hour at home, he’d already made it through four beers. He never counted. It wasn’t about the number, it was about dulling that constant ache in his head, silencing that part of his brain that was always buzzing. He made burgers often; it was almost a mindless activity for him at this point, but Katie always loved them. Said it was the best thing he made. She must’ve said that years ago, when she was still little enough to praise everything he did, no matter how old she was; he still always made those burgers for her.

Time ticked by as it always does, faster than you ever notice, and his burgers were finished cooking and the game just called for halftime. He made and plated the burgers, extra sauce, cheese, and lettuce on Katie’s. No cheese, lettuce, or onions for his wife. He set them on the table and made his way to Katie’s room and knocked on her door. She didn’t answer, didn’t call out, he pressed his ear to the shut door; no sound of her moving around or music playing as it usually would be.

“Katie, sweetheart, dinner’s on the table,” he called through the door. She didn’t answer. “Katie?”

He opened the door, slowly, carefully, not wanting to intrude, but the room was dark, she wasn’t in there. She’s not home? He walked to his room and turned on his phone, the black screen flashed to life now that it had been charged, his screen was full of notifications. Seven missed calls from his wife. Even more messages from her. He clicked them open and felt his stomach begin to twist into something sickening and ugly. It twisted until it opened a pit that he knew he wouldn’t be able to fill.

The texts were short and angry, but all told the same story: it was opening night of Katie’s play and the play started an hour ago.

He missed the entire thing.

He didn’t text back; the phone just fell out of his hand and landed with a soft thud on the bed. He followed, sitting down on the edge and lowering his head into his hands. How could he have forgotten? It hadn’t even crossed his mind. He could picture Katie’s face, that sad look in her usually bright blue eyes, the way she’d smile and try to pretend it was fine when he knew it wasn’t. He didn’t mean to forget—he never meant to. He didn’t want to hurt her. The pit in his stomach grew at just that thought, twisting through a wave of nausea. He didn’t stay there for long, he had to do something to distract from the ever-present buzzing of his own thoughts that never seemed to dull, he put the burgers in the fridge so they could be eaten later. Tossed the empty bottles into the recycling, only to grab open another from the fridge, and then he waited on the couch. They’d be home soon. He’d apologize to Katie, and he’d listen to Emma scold him; he always did.

******

The car was cold compared to the stage. It was spring, but nothing compared to the full body warmth felt under the bright lights of a stage. She pulled her sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands, as if that could fix the cold that seemed to quickly seep back into her bones now that she’d left the play. Her mom was talking. Fast. She couldn’t even register the words as fast as they were flying out of her mouth; if she had focused harder, she could have heard, but she didn’t want to. She knew the speech by now; she could recite her angry tirade by heart as well as she recited her lines on stage tonight. She didn’t want to hear it again tonight. She didn’t even want to be going home tonight, but she didn’t have that choice; she didn’t have a car, she couldn’t even drive, and she couldn’t wait until she had both. She was sick of constantly having to return to the very place that hurt her the most.

The drive went by faster than she wanted it to. Her mom was out of the car in a flash. She paused before opening their door, instead turning to Katie and placing her always gentle hands on her shoulders, “You did great tonight honey, I’m very proud of you, alright?”

Katie nodded and smiled but her stomach knotted, knowing this was the last pleasant part of her night. She already knew how the rest of the night was going to play out; she’d seen it so many times before, while each was just slightly different because the circumstances varied, it was predictable in a way she dreaded. They headed up to the house when her mom paused and looked down at her empty hands with a deep sigh, she passed the keys to Katie, “left my purse in the car, of course I did, go ahead in baby I’ll be back in a second.”

Katie nodded and waited until her mom turned away to open the door. She had two pictures in her mind of what was waiting for her behind the door. Her dad on the couch waiting, knowing what had happened, tv on in the background because it always was for him, his foot tapping, anxious for them to return. He hadn’t touched anything because he was too sick thinking of what had happened. He’d apologize and mean it; he always meant it. That was part of the problem. No matter how sincere the apology seemed in the moment, he’d recite the same one in a week or two.

The doorknob twisted, and she pushed the door open slowly. She didn’t want to see what was waiting for her, her entire body was taut with anticipation because she knew it wasn’t the first picture. It was always the second one.

Her dad was on the couch, slumped back against it, beer bottle loose in his fingers dangling over the arm of the couch. There were another five empty on the table in front of him. She crinkled her nose at the sight, but then the pungent scent hit next, burning her nostrils as she inhaled. No matter how many times she’d come home to the same smell, it never stopped burning, never failed to make her stomach trip carelessly over itself and continue, round and round, until she had to pray not to throw up.

Her throat tightened, she wanted to yell, she wanted to cry, get him to snap out of it. To stop making it be like this. But what good would that do? She’s tried it all before. Her entire life has spun on the same loop. School changed. Friends came and went. New trends took over. But this was always the same, no matter what she did. She couldn’t stop him, but she could attempt to deter what always happened next. So that’s what she did.

She moved.

Her bag slid off her shoulders and thumped to the ground. She moved quickly, feet making slight, quiet thuds against the carpeted floor. Her dad stirred a bit, but she didn’t have time for whatever mumbled apologies or questions he was trying to get out to rectify the night; it wouldn’t help. What she’s doing could. She grabbed all five bottles in one hand and stole the halfway drunk one from his fingers too. She opened the window in the kitchen and dumped the rest outside on the grass below then shut and locked the window. She flicked the stove fan on, getting airflow in the room. She started brewing a pot of coffee. She lit a candle that was on the shelf, enough to attempt to mask the smell. She dropped the bottles in the recycling, but her hand froze before shutting it. It was over halfway full of bottles. She’d just emptied it the other day; there were maybe a few from yesterday that got added, but the others were from tonight.

She grabbed a plastic shopping bag from under the sink and shoved almost all the bottles into it, she left a few soda cans and two beer bottles in it, she kicked the drawer shut and ran now to her room, she opened her closet and shoved the bag of beer bottles in the bag of her closet, under boxes and bins she wasn't using, that her mom would never look for. She shut the closet and walked back out as the front door opened and her mom walked in. Her arms already crossed, already staring down her dad with that same look of irritation and disappointment. She can’t remember when she saw her look at him any other way, maybe she never did.

“I didn’t realize it was tonight,” he stared, looking between us both, “work ran late--”

“Work always runs late--” her mom tried to talk over him, but he kept going.

“I’m used to our routine, I got home I started making burgers, like we talked about, when I went and knocked on Katie’s room that’s when I realized, that’s when I saw the text,” he looked at me now, taking a few steps closer, his arms were slow, she didn’t know if he was tentative or if that was the alcohol, but they raised and lightly landed on her arms, “I’m so sorry Katie, I wanted to be there, I’ll be there tomorrow, I promise."

Katie nodded, opening her mouth to answer, but she was too slow, her mother beat her to it, “you’re always sorry James, you always promise, but she’s not gonna have another opening night is she!”

He huffed and rubbed his face now, “she’ll be in more shows Emma.”

Her mom scoffed at that, “You’re unbelievable, we all know the real reason you missed this, don’t we? How much did you drink?” She started looking around now, throwing couch cushions, looking under the table, storming to the kitchen, and checking the fridge, checking the trash, looking for evidence of the claim she always made that was always true. But it wasn’t there tonight.

Katie looked at her dad, eyes wide and pink around the edges, burning with unshed tears, she shook her head at him. The message abundantly clear between them.

Lie. Please.

He understood, “I didn’t have anything Emma, not tonight, it was just work that threw me off I swear.”

She came back, shaking her head, “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“There’s got to be something around here,” she muttered, determined and started down the hallways, “maybe you threw them out in the bathroom.”

He sighed. Then he looked at me, his eyes were sad, his brow was creased, set in that permanent guilt that always etched all his features, “I really am sorry Katie, you know I wanted to be there, don’t you?”

She nodded. Because she did know. She always knew. He cared. He loved her. Was she asking too much from him? He was busy. His job was stressful. He didn’t have many friends, and her mom wasn’t much help to him. He didn’t have his parents either, didn’t talk to either of them anymore. He provided for them, she had a nice house, food, clothes, all of the things she needed. Was it asking too much to want her dad to come to her show? To watch one of her soccer games? To remember the names of her friends? Her friends’ parents did those things, their dads showed up, she knew them, they remembered her, they came to games and shows and everything in between. Maybe it wasn’t too much to just wish your dad could show up. She started to learn that sometimes just loving someone isn’t enough anymore. No one understood her stories. No one else seemed to understand that pain that lived under her ribs every day, aching with every breath she took, intervening in every fight, the hours of her mother screaming and her father pleading every night, that she couldn’t go to parties because just the smell of alcohol made her sick enough to throw up and made her heart pound too fast. No one understood. Because her dad wasn’t mean. He wasn’t aggressive, he didn’t hit, he didn’t threaten, he never cursed or berated either of them. He wasn’t mean.

But he was never really there.