Sophie's Smile: A Novel (7 page)

I could control this part of my life and I thrived on it. I held onto this ability, numbing my sanity along with it.

I wasn’t able to control my parents’ love for each other or stop them from getting divorced. I wasn’t able to control Justin’s immature actions. I wasn’t able to have my spontaneous sister or artsy mother move back. I wasn’t able to escape my dark depression and my ability to feel, all too strongly, the emotions of those around me.

I found myself starting to give up on myself—on life—all too willingly, as if accepting my fate—to live alone and in a constant stream of sadness.

5

Dad worked hard the next few years in order to move out of John’s place and into a place closer to town.
A place of his own.
Of course, a few days were harder than others and on those days he hid out on the recliner—with a beer in his hand, eyes, glued to the tube.

Time seemed to pass without much change. Days, months, and years seemed to blend together with equal despair—closing our eyes and ears to the unhappiness that loomed over us like a dark impending cloud.

A glimmer of hope arrived the day we finally bid John farewell with one last
carne
asada
beer bash. Worried the long-awaited sun would sink back behind the thunderous
clouds,
we anxiously packed up Dad’s truck with our meager possessions, and headed out the next morning.

The place was decent for the two of us: one-story, 550 square feet, built in the ‘40s, walls were lined with flowery paper, yellowed with age, and torn at the corners—this was the first to go—oak flooring, caked with decades of floor wax and neglect but otherwise solid, bathroom needed an overhaul (rust was evident around the faucet and shower head, toilet needed to be replaced, handy plunger was always near), but it was the kitchen that won him over. It was the crowning jewel to this old, decrepit place.

Large range, sub-zero fridge, extra-deep cast iron sink with high gooseneck faucet, stainless silver appliances, white cabinets, tile backsplash, slate floors, granite countertops, and a corner island for extra counter space. Recessed lighting transcended a radiant glow to the black, white, and gray color palette lending nicely to the colorful knick-knacks that Dad enjoyed.

Cooking was Dad’s activity of choice and the kitchen was his retreat. Owning a restaurant was his dream—far-fetched in his eyes, but to me, it seemed achievable like a ripe fruit just waiting to be plucked. He was a wonderful cook, especially when it came to Italian cuisine—Pizza Pie, his specialty. Like me, he was cast in a shadow of despair, lost in the depression to which he all too easily succumbed. Sure, there were roadblocks that led him there, hard losses, and negative twists of fate, but he had a choice and he chose wrong. I took after him in many ways…learned his ways…all too accurately followed his mistakes.

At times he would toy with the idea of what his restaurant would look like, how he would run it, what would be on the menu. He even went so far as searching the listings in the newspaper or scanning the “for rent” signs as he drove back from work—taking the long way home—waiting for the perfect venue for his restaurant.

I would occasionally join in, excitedly, candidly expressing my approval and pitching in my own ideas to bake desserts for his restaurant. But in the back of my mind I always feared that this dream would be just that, a dream, and would never amount to anything more. That he would never be able to open up a restaurant.
That his
depression
wouldn’t let him.

This terrified me. Although I loved my father and he had been my hero since I could remember, I inherited his negativity, and bluntly, his bad luck. I strongly believed that my fate would mirror his and I would live the rest of my life in pain, despair, and…loneliness. I thought I was destined to be alone; the future seemed bleak and unwelcoming.

Sporadically, the sun sprayed its rays upon us, but having spent years under an opaque mask suppressed our ability to enjoy its warmth.

Sometimes, it seemed too easy, too enticing to resist escaping this desolate future.
To take my own life.
Once in a while, depression overtook my sanity, and I was close…too close…but I controlled the urge to finish what I started when I felt the pain I would be inflicting on my family.

That pain shielded my depression long enough to make me stop.
Long enough for the knife to fall from my shaky fingertips and the thick blood that oozed from the self-inflicted wound to clot and blacken. Long enough to regain composure and hate myself for it—hate
myself
for being a disappointment.

6

Today seemed like one of those bleak days. It was the morning of my twenty-first birthday. I’d been on a hiatus for the past year; dropped out of UC San Diego, got dumped by my girlfriend, quit my job as an intro-level software developer, quit my next job collecting tickets at a museum, then at FedEx, and then 24 Hour Fitness, and now I was just hiding out for a while taking odd jobs for my father whenever he needed an extra hand at the construction site.

Fall was in the air—crisp and clean. Yellow, red, and orange leaves colored the branches outside my window. October was usually my favorite month of the year, not only because it was my birthday month but also because it held one of my favorite holidays. Halloween was the day you could be anything you wanted. You could be a wrestler, gremlin, or fireman. It was fun, creepy, and scary. There were tricks, treats, and excitement.

My favorite part as a kid was going with Dad to the pumpkin patch down the street and picking two or three dilapidated pumpkins. The ugly, lumpy pumpkins always worked best for carving the grotesque, grimacing, contorted faces that were not only my trademark, but were an art form I found to be excruciatingly amusing. The last time we went on a pumpkin adventure was the Halloween before the divorce; since then I hadn’t carved a single pumpkin.

Birthdays were different. Halloween seemed to get better with age but birthdays never were as good as when I was little. When you’re a kid, you get tricked by the excitement of turning a year older, of the showering of presents and love from your family, the piñatas filled with candy, the vanilla cake and marble fudge ice cream, the power you get from feeling special…that all deteriorates when you grow up. Divorce ages a kid. Birthdays now just reminded me of each year I was alone and depressed.

There was a hard knock at the door. As I walked past the kitchen, I noticed a note scribbled on a single napkin that was held in place with a single, white-frosted cupcake.

Happy Birthday Bud!

Sorry, I won’t be back to celebrate until late tonight.

Go out and have fun.

Love, Dad.

He always took up extra jobs around the month of October. I think it was his way of avoiding this month altogether, our month. That was okay. I understood.
The memories are sometimes too much for me, too.

“Knock! Knock!” Someone behind the door was becoming impatient. I opened the door without checking the peephole to see who it was (I wasn’t afraid and I didn’t care). To my surprise, Justin
Knoxx
stood at the doorway. His eyes were cast down, shoulders slouched, his hands in his pockets.

Sheepishly he said, “Uh…hey…I mean, Happy Birthday.”

I was surprised, so I just stood there.

Shuffling his feet, he shifted his weight from his right side to his left. “Um…so I went to John’s and he told me that you guys moved,” shifting again from his left side back to his right, “Can I…come in?” Justin’s eyes were still cast down, tracking the threads of his boots as he scratched out invisible symbols onto the door mat.

I opened the door wider and stepped aside. I walked toward my room and Justin followed. I sat down on the floor and waited.

Justin’s eyes scanned the unfamiliar room as he chose to lean against the window. Looking out toward the bright neon signs of the taco shop across the street, he seemed to be collecting his thoughts; apologizing wasn’t high in his vocabulary.

“So—I’m really sorry about how I acted and not calling or anything. Uh…you understand…?”

He continued since I didn’t reply. “I’m sorry. Okay? Can you just forgive me?” He was looking at me now, irritation peeking through.

Unaware that I was holding my breath, I heard myself exhale, “Sure.”

I didn’t really expect a better apology than that, nor did I care for one. I just didn’t feel like being alone on my birthday.

Exchanging manly fist bumps and a hard pat on the back, we buried the hatchet.

“So, what do you want to do?”

Justin grinned. “I got a plan.” His eyes twinkled, which was never a good sign. Justin was back and I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it.

Justin hung out with me while I washed my used ‘87 gold Volvo sedan. It was pretty beat up when I got it, but dependable. I needed something dependable in my life. We caught up on the last eight years or so of estrangement. He had two and a half girlfriends since—the half, being a one night stand—the current, being his on-again, off-again girlfriend Kelly Johnson, a real looker who wasn’t too bright in the noggin’ based on what he was telling me. She had already tried calling him six times since he came over. He promised that she wasn’t allowed to attend tonight’s festivities. I believed him. Justin was always very loyal to his friends and if Kelly wasn't willing to accept this, she might as well give up now and not waste her breath.

7

I got ready to go out. I wasn’t sure where Justin was taking me, but he told me to dress nicer than usual and that he’d be back around five o’clock to pick me up. At ten past four I dropped down to complete a set of fifty push-ups, hopped into the shower, shaved, put on layers of deodorant, and searched through my meager wardrobe until I settled on a blue button-up striped dress shirt, black slacks, and shiny black dress shoes—I still had a couple of business suits and shirts from my software development days.

I walked to the kitchen, ate the generic supermarket cupcake, turned the napkin around and wrote a note to Dad:

Hey Dad,

Justin’s
taking me out for my birthday.

I’ll be back late.

Love, Liam

As I waited for Justin to pick me up, I decided to play Brian
Setzer’s
Stray Cat Strut
on the guitar. Belting out the lyrics, I was just getting into my groove when—

“Meow-
ow
-OWWWW!”
I heard in stereo from the porch.

I stopped playing and turned toward the door. I heard two sets of laughter outside. One was definitely Justin and the other was probably Lance Greenfield—a mutual friend of ours whom we got to know through Little League. I placed the guitar back on its pedestal, grabbed the keys and headed out the door.

“Hey guys. Nice harmony.” I smiled, trying to look pumped up. “So where are we headed?” By this time, I was curious.

Justin and Lance looked at each other and belted, “TJ!” They started dancing around me with imaginary shaker instruments in their hands, the
Macarena
, their song of choice.

I was already prepared for a wild night for three reasons: Justin was in charge, I just turned twenty-one, and we were guys.
But TJ?