the good daughter

I came home from work exhausted, smelling like popcorn in a wilted white shirt splattered with movie theater butter, and found all my things in trash bags on the frosted December grass. My entire life, all 17 years of it, fit into a few bags meant to contain the waste for trash day. The Gods used my Stepfather one last time to scream at me, his cruel words floating into the cold gray sky in great puffs like smoke signals. I think he has been signaling for help, but nobody else can see it or they simply choose to look the other way. They told us in school once to yell, “Fire!” when you need help because people are more likely to come to your aid. I’m not convinced that is true.

The grass crunched beneath my feet like eggshells as I loaded the bags into my car. A car so old the interior caught beneath my fingernail leaving a permanent scratch behind, my first experience with dry rot. I sold a lot of movie theater tickets to the rich kids I went to school with to buy my relic on wheels and popped gallons of popcorn so they could toss it at each other for me to sweep up later. You could fill a swimming pool with all the popcorn I’ve popped over the last three years. Popcorn sounds a bit like eggshells when you step on it, the butter is slippery as hell and it’s a tough smell to get out of your clothes but it sure beats being at home. To this day I cannot catch the scent of popcorn or crack an egg without thinking of my childhood.

You might be wondering what horrible crime I’ve committed to warrant being tossed onto the streets as a teenager. Did I run away for three days smoking, drinking, and doing drugs with friends like my middle sister will when she turns 16? No. Did I skulk in my room and talk back to my parents like my youngest sister will, repeatedly, until she leaves without a word one day at the age of 20 never to speak to anyone in the family again? No. Did I break the law? I believe you’ve guessed by now that the answer is, no. I have, in fact, been a good kid. Oddly enough you will find my Stepfather stating just that many years from now like an old tale that’s told around a campfire for friends and family. “The good daughter,” he will call me with a mixture of wistfulness and unspoken regrets, not on this day, but one day. My crime is not so easy to explain so I will instead share with you my experiences and let you decide.

Here I am at the age of three:

Mommy says he will be my new Daddy and I get to wear a fluffy white dress. I will be the girl with the flowers. We will sing and dance because marriage is the beginning of a journey that must be celebrated, or the Gods will be angry.

Maybe I didn’t do it right? The singing, the dancing, the celebrating...

I started kindergarten at age four:

My new Daddy is super smart! He knows how to catch a chicken and showed me the best way to slop the mean hog without getting hurt. He says I’m to get the eggs each morning, feed the hog and clean up after the dog before I go to school. He even plays the guitar and promised to teach me one day! I always wanted a Daddy who would teach me things. I’m excited to show him that I am a good girl and I deserve to have a Daddy too!

Maybe I didn’t do it right? I’ve never had a Daddy stick around before, but my friends say they protect you from monsters...

The Gods are angry. Do you think they didn’t like my singing? I won’t sing anymore, I promise. Something strange though, the floors are lined with invisible eggshells. I can’t seem to walk without breaking another egg and upsetting new Daddy. This is how I know the Gods are angry because they took over his body, his usually kind face twisted to look like a monster. He became a terrifying puppet, kinda like Pinocchio, moving on strings that shake with fury and sadness.

At five I was still trying to figure it out:

Maybe I didn’t do it right? I wore my slippers to protect the eggs and did all my chores before school...

New Daddy was drinking that stinky adult stuff when I came home from school today. He let me try some once at a party, it tasted kinda sour and smelled like socks. I don’t know why he likes it, but his friends thought it was funny when I made a face and I do like to make people laugh. He is super strong when he drinks that yucky juice and he made Mama’s favorite chair fly through the window. He looked a lot like The Hulk which would have been cool if it weren’t so scary. Mama cried while he screamed in my face about my “worthless piece of shit father,” I don’t think he meant himself. I’m pretty sure it was really the Gods trying to tell me that I am worthless. Do you know how hard it is to cry without making any noise? It only angers the Gods more when I do cry but I can’t help it. I want to be a good girl and help them find happiness again, so I try to be quiet.

Maybe I didn’t do it right? Mommy says there’s a new baby in her belly, but they still want me...

I don’t think that babies know how to avoid eggs or their broken shells. I’ve only been around a few babies and they all seem helpless to me. I think I’ll have to take the blame if the baby breaks any. I’ll be brave, I’m a good girl.

At eight I thought I had a way out:

Maybe I didn’t do it right? But the rules keep changing...

I got on a plane! Old Daddy wanted to see me so I got to ride the plane and help the pilot, they even gave me gold wings and told me I could be a flight attendant one day because I am a really good girl. I asked why I couldn’t be a pilot like them, and they said I was too cute to hide in a cockpit. I didn’t get to visit for long though, old Daddy says all little girls need to stay with their Mommy.

He has lots of pretty girlfriends and they loved my curly hair, freckles, and green eyes. I think one of them wants to be my new Mommy and then I can stay longer. They told him how adorable I am when he took me to the bar and let me drink something called a Shirley Temple. It tasted way better than the adult juice new Daddy drinks, but I don’t think Mommy would like it. None of old Daddy’s girlfriends look like my Mommy with her long dark hair and unpainted skin. They like to paint their faces and nails like they are going into battle. I watched a show on Indians, and it reminds me of them. I did not tell old Daddy what new Daddy said about him.

Maybe I didn’t do it right? Old Daddy never called me like he said he would...

Mommy seems sad, I think the Gods are angry with her too. I’m getting really good at avoiding the eggs, maybe I can teach her? The rules change faster than the big board of letters and numbers at the airport but I’m smarter than they know. I have new spidey senses just like Spiderman and now I can tell when an egg is about to break!

Four long years later:

Maybe I didn’t do it right? The Gods are angry no matter how good I am and I am really good!

Don’t...

ask questions,

read those books,

speak too loudly,

look at me that way,

forget your chores,

anger your...

Father.

Just.

Don’t.

Age 17:

Maybe I did it right?

The Gods called me selfish, ungrateful, and worthless as I drove away, bald tires spinning on the icy road. I left my childhood somewhere along the eggshell littered battlefield, and a tiny piece of my soul went missing, barely noticeable in the right light. Driving away from the prison I called home, I celebrated my Freedom Day by slipping on the special mask I’d been making to keep the Gods from noticing me. Strips of happiness painstakingly collected, one for each year of sacrifice, held together with a paste of tears and dusty memories. Hidden from the world under my new mask of protection, tears of relief mixed with trepidation rolled down my cheeks.