Greg and Anna

Greg

The slam of a garage door signals the return of Greg’s daughter. Greg himself is sitting in a bright, orange swiveling chair, watching videos on how to solve a Rubik's cube. He contemplates going downstairs and asking about her day, but he can’t bring himself to talk to her. He sinks further in his chair and gives the colorful toy another turn.

The sun descends down the sky as he listens to his daughter living her own life. Even while confined to the same house, their lives remain frustratingly adjacent and never intersect. Finding courage, he rises from his chair and moves towards the stairs. The shadowing creature behind him follows, oozing through divots on the carpet floor. As he reaches the stairs, a pot clangs in the kitchen, causing a sharp ring to echo in Greg’s head before fading- it’s the creature’s way of expressing disapproval. Greg turns around trying to vaporize the creature with his glare, but he only finds two gaping holes for eyes in the skull of a mouse with a spider’s legs and slimy skin like an octopus. He shudders and quickly hurries into the kitchen. 

He desperately wants to talk to his daughter, but he doesn’t know how to. The ideas in his head snake around each other, tangling into a giant mess he can’t convey, so he pretends his daughter doesn’t exist and watches the chasm between them grow. He grabs a plastic bag he has no need for and sneaks a glance at her. She is already watching him with an apathetic expression that his brain translates to disgust. 

He hurries to move out of her sight and brings the mess of a monster with him. When he reaches his room, he shoves the plastic bag into the depths of his biggest drawer, hiding another failed attempt. The monster lets out an unhappy cry for the crumpled bag, and Greg feels pain overwhelming his brain. Eventually, however, the ring stops. Greg forces himself to his feet and turns off the lights, so he doesn’t have to see the monster. He brushes his teeth, finds the bed, and collapses, squeezing his eyes shut.

Morning rays of light shine across his face, and he wakes to the sound of birds chirping. He opens his eyes and lets himself bask in their crisp calls. For a moment, he feels safe, but he opens his eyes and sees the disgrace of shadows patiently waiting under his bed. They remind him of today’s unfortunate events- switch day. 

Stripped with happiness, he dresses well enough to seem respectable but not enough to flaunt. The morning’s events are overshadowed with his worries of the upcoming interaction and plagued by wishes of his last chance to reach out to his daughter. Soon enough, eleven AM hits, and his daughter moves silently down the stairs. She moves in tandem with him, and for a moment, he feels connected to her. He silently photographs the moment in his mind, knowing he will most likely never have such a memory again. They begin the journey to Fremont, a midpoint between Dublin and San Jose, the midpoint between his daughter’s two parental figures. 

With nothing to do, an awkward silence settles. Talk, just say something, he screams at himself, but to start means to continue and he can do neither. He can only blame himself further and further. His thoughts intensify until he can only hear emotions, blaring and blaming him over and over. The minutes tick by, and he can only stop the car, watch his daughter walk out, and let her leave. 

He has failed. Again.

He hopes his daughter knows how much he loves her, but how could she, he wonders. Could there be a possibility, a dimension, in which she understands him? The version of him without a monster chaining him. The version of him that laughs and loves without hesitation.

He will try to break the wall that deprives his family of him. He swears he will try, but he has not been known to keep promises.

Anna

The fabric of my backpack straps digs into my shoulders, and I quickly open the garage door. It slams behind me as I drop my backpack to the floor. I didn’t mean for it to close so loudly, but I’m so exhausted I can only slump to the floor. I bury my head in my hands, and try to stop the pricking at my eyes. I’m not sad, I’m just exhausted, I tell myself. 

I blink at the ceiling watching it blur and refocus over and over, but warm streaks flow down my face anyways. I angrily wipe my eyes, disappointed in myself for the lack of control. I don’t want to cook dinner- I want to be able to rely on my dad for something in my life. Except I can’t, and I hate him for that. I hate him for not being present, for not trying, for not doing anything. Oh, how I hate him.

But more than that, I’m hurt by the loss of him or maybe more the idea of him with me.

I push the emotions aside and switch to comfortable apathy. I make my dinner and wash the plates. I accidentally hit a pot on the sink, and my heart drops. I’m thrown back into painful memories of my dad yelling about chipped plates like it causes him physical torment. I found him annoying for the most part, but I also found it scary, and it still scares me. At that moment, my dad appears at the bottom of the stairs. He walks slowly and unsurely as if any step could trigger an avalanche. A wave of fresh sadness engulfs me, but I refuse to show it. It’s not happening to me, I’m dead inside, I tell myself. 

He disappears quickly enough like he was never there. I wish his memory in mind fades as hastily as he did, but it doesn’t. It lingers like a lost child, peeking back, hoping to be called, to have a purpose. I ignore it, pushing the child away and watching it cry on the pavement. I sleep and hope the cries evaporate; it doesn’t.

The next morning passes passively; I don’t wake up until eleven AM prances in like an unwanted disturbance. I sluggishly pack my bags and prepare for the self-shaming car ride of silent turbulence to Fremont. I wish my parents didn’t choose Fremont as the meetup spot- it used to be my favorite place until they ruined it just like they ruined everything.

My dad and I move simultaneously as we both pack our possessions, and I can’t help but wonder if we could exist like this in another timeline. However, even if there was a peaceful universe, would I really forgive him and accept a different version of him? A sharp left turn tells me we’re nearing our destination, and a stupid part of my brain begs me to acknowledge him, cry, scream, something, anything. I don’t. Be the bigger person and forgive him, but I stay static and unchanging like an immature eight-year-old. And yet, I know that’s not what I want- I need him to speak first, reach out, and apologize to the eight-year-old me that he so cruelly left. 

The car rolls to a stop, and I step out silently begging him to tell me to come back. He doesn’t and so, I leave. I leave him with the memory of younger me, I torment him with what our relationship could be, and I don’t feel guilt; no, none at all.