The Finer Points of Becoming Machine (4 page)

I walk around for the rest of the day in a coma. My head is spinning from lack of sleep, pills, and the visit with my mother. Is it really possible that she has no damned clue why I am in here? Did she really think that the memories would just go away when the ink dried on the divorce papers? Was I too hard on her?

I remember her eyes, and how many times they’d cried, and I think that maybe I was. I am stricken with guilt and catch myself on the verge of tears all day.
I
am a bad daughter, I tell myself. Is it so wrong to want someone to understand what the hell I’m going through though?

‘EMMA!’ I snap out of my thoughts to the unpleasant sound of someone yelling at me. I look and realise that it’s dinner time and I’m still slumped in my chair, not at the table like I am supposed to be.

I’m a child again, hearing my father’s voice yell at me to come for dinner. Mom runs into my bedroom wide-eyed and grabs my arm, practically dragging me out of my room and out of my little fantasy world of dolls and houses, to sit at the dinner table and listen to them fight some more.

‘Emmy, what’s wrong with you?’ my mother asks me. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Now you’ve upset your father
…
’

And the familiar feeling of knots return to my stomach as we walk down the hallway to the dining room.

My father’s steel-grey eyes, eyes that match mine, shoot razors at me from his seat at the head of the table. I start to shake. My mother sits me down at the table, at my father’s left side. I attempt a smile, a shy,
unsure, crooked hint of a smile, and I say ‘Hi Daddy.’ No smile meets mine, just eyes that cut through me and leave me feeling smaller than I am.

‘EMMA!’ I hear the voice again and realise that I have been standing, paralysed, in the middle of the room. Everyone turns to stare at me. Just like my mother had done, a nurse comes and grabs me by the arm and half drags me to sit at a table for a dinner that I don’t want to eat. She sits me down next to Ricky, who moves his chair over to make room for me.

I feel everyone staring at me and unconsciously smile the same shy, awkward, hint of a grin I did that day back at the dinner table. My eyes blur when I see nobody smiling back at me and I am ashamed of myself for being so afraid of them that I am ready to cry.

I clear my throat and I stare at the tray intently. I think it’s meatloaf. I make a face when I notice the unnatural
ketchup-red
colour that it is on top, and the burnt, 
crusty black it is on one side. I pick at the meal with my spoon, the only utensil I’ve been allowed to eat with since I threw the Christmas tree at the nurse.

After what seems like forever at this uncomfortable table, I pick up my tray and go to place it back in the steel carts they came in. The same nurse who dragged me to my seat eyes the barely touched food and looks at me. ‘Sit back down and finish eating.’

‘Sit down and finish eating, Emma. That’s good food you’re letting go to waste,’ my father tells me as he eats another forkful of his own. I freeze and stare at my plate in a panic. I can’t finish eating this plate of food, it’s too much and I’m so afraid of being here that I can hardly swallow for the lump in my throat that threatens to break into a sob.

I stare down at my tray and tell myself that just a few more bites will do it, just do what they say so you don’t get into any more trouble. I sit back down. Ricky looks
at me. He leans over and whispers, ‘You OK, Emmy?’

Paul’s fork freezes in mid-air and he kicks me under the table to get my attention. ‘You OK, Emmy?’

My father stares at my mother, as if this is somehow her fault.

The colour drains from her face and she forces a smile. ‘Emmy, finish your dinner,’ she says, trying to be gentle, her voice starting to crack.

I’m aware that something bad is going to happen to her if I don’t finish eating this mound of food on my plate. I begin to take bites, tiny bites of food as my family stares at me. Time seems to stand still as I scoop up the food, put it into my mouth and swallow.

Ricky nudges me in the ribs. ‘Emma…’ he starts and I am again here in the hospital. I begin to take bites of food once again. The same knots are in my stomach, and I feel like throwing up.

‘What the hell is wrong with her, Teresa?’ my father snaps at my mother. My father turns to nobody and starts yelling, ‘I work twelve hours a day to make sure we have food on the table and you ungrateful brats won’t even eat it! Well fine, nobody is leaving the table until Emma is done with dinner.’ My father crosses his arms and stares at me. They all stare at me, the rest of them pleadingly.

My mother is trying not to cry. ‘Emmy, you’re being selfish
…
’ and my father grabs the fork out of my hand, scoops too much food on it for a little girl and forces it into my hand. My cheeks burn red and I give up. I start shovelling food into my mouth, barely chewing now, just to get it down.

I stare at a smudge on the wall across the room, and begin to shovel food into my mouth until I can’t eat any more, until I’m sure I’ll throw up if I take one more bite. I blindly stand up, choking on the world’s shittiest meatloaf and a head of bad memories and put the tray back into the metal thing. The nurse nods her approval
and I think to myself that
she
could probably stand to eat
less
dinner. I sit down for a few minutes before I realise that dinner is going to come back up.

After I’ve finally finished eating, and the kitchen is cleaned up, my parents begin to argue about something miniscule, something I don’t remember, and I feel bile burn the back of my throat.

I run into the bathroom and don’t quite make it before the vomit begins to pour out of my stomach, my hand clamped over my mouth to keep it in so I can get the bathroom door shut and nobody will hear me.

I throw up dinner, every last bit of it. My body heaves, over and over again, to get that poisoned dinner out of me, and tears run down the side of my face…

I stand up very fast and begin to walk quickly to my room. When I hit the end of the hallway, I burst into a dead sprint and make it into my room in just enough time to feel the dinner coming up.

I hit my knees too hard on the bathroom floor and throw up hard in the toilet. Tears run down my face and blur my eyes.

I throw up until there is nothing left. I feel only slightly better, and I rinse out my mouth and take a swig of the
neon-green
mint mouthwash that burns my mouth every time I use it. I splash water on my face and sneak out of the bathroom quietly.

Shaking from the effort, I am finally done throwing up and I flush the toilet and quickly rinse my mouth out. I brush my teeth in record time and walk back into the main room.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I realise that everyone is engrossed in a movie that has apparently just been put on, and that my absence has gone unnoticed. I sneak into a chair and a few minutes later some kid I don’t know the name of hands me a folded slip of paper. I stare at it, puzzled, when the kid sighs and shoves it into my hand.

I unfold the tiny piece of paper and peer at it intently in the dim glow of the television set, to read the scrawled words.

I sigh. Well, my absence had
almost
gone unnoticed. Ricky had noticed, and had written me a note.
Are you OK?
–
Ricky
is all it says.

Are you OK? I read the words at least ten times before they sink into my brain. I stifle a laugh that I know will turn into a hysterical crying fest should it crack my lips.

A crayon is passed back to me covertly. I hold the green stub in my hand and look around to make sure nobody sees me writing. I write my response and refold the paper. I bother the kid in front of me again and whisper to him to pass the note and crayon stub back to Ricky.

I roll my eyes at the movie choice. It’s some stupid Christmas movie about a kid who wants a bow and arrow set for Christmas, or something like that. I feel staring eyes, and 
I look up. It’s Ricky. He frowns at me as he shrugs and lifts his hands up slightly in a
what the hell?
kind of gesture.

I had been too tired and my head too full to deal with his well-meaning but unwanted question, and I had written a single word in reply –
yes
. Obviously he doesn’t believe me.

I ignore him and focus on the movie, half asleep, half awake, lulled to a
not-quite-awake
state by the dim lights and the fact the heater has finally kicked in after a whole day of having my ass frozen off.

I focus in on the sound of the television and drift off, my mind imagining some other family, some other Christmas I did not experience. I hear everyone laugh through my haze. I chuckle with them softly, though I don’t really hear what they’re laughing at. It is a nice feeling to laugh at something, even if it isn’t real.

I hear whispering become a dull roar and a nurse comes in and yells at everyone
to be quiet or she’ll turn the movie off. Everyone quietens down, and again I am left alone to dream of cookies and trees and presents wrapped under the tree, and – most importantly – nobody fighting.

I let the feeling enfold me, and picture my family at Christmas, Paul and Rosemary and Mom and my father all laughing and giving each other presents like the family on television. I remember my dogs, the ones that Rosemary and I had to leave behind when we moved into the only apartment my mother could afford after the divorce, running through the house excitedly amongst the friendly commotion.

I swear I can smell gingerbread when the lights are turned back on.

‘Awww…’ everyone complains in unison. My eyes strain to open and I begin to breathe too fast when I realise where I am. I am not part of the quaint family movie we’d just been watching after all.

Everyone begins packing up the main room as the nurse rewinds the movie on the tired VCR player. Everything in this damned place is tired and broken. I am no exception.

As I shuffle off to my room, my roommate bouncing annoyingly cheerfully ahead of me, I am tired and disappointed with myself for getting lost in some picture-perfect fantasy of a happy family.

It’s not that I don’t love my step-dad, and it isn’t that I’m not glad as hell that my parents have finally divorced and I don’t have to watch their hellish fights any more. No, I just wish that it had never been that way at all; that my life wasn’t so miserable that I had to pretend that I was someone and somewhere else to feel comforted.

I don’t even feel the cold water on my face as I get ready for bed. I am still thinking of my mother and feeling torn about our meeting today, part of me feeling guilty and part of me feeling justified in standing up for myself the way I did.

‘Lights out!’ I hear someone say, and wearily I walk to my bed. By the time my head hits the pillow, I have already fallen asleep.

I open my eyes to the smell of homemade cinnamon buns and hot coffee wafting through the house. I’m warm, snuggled in my quilt, next to Paul and Rosemary, who aren’t awake yet, but will be as soon as they feel me stir next to them. I try to stay very still and enjoy the quiet. I look at the window and it’s frosted over on the outside, but the coming sun has started to melt it and tiny drops of water run and crisscross the frost, erasing it. Everything is calm and beautiful.

We’re all asleep in our new pyjamas, a tradition that happens every Christmas Eve so we’ll look nice in the pictures my parents 
take, pictures that when they get developed three months later, will be critiqued and criticised. Only the best ones will make it into the photo album. I don’t like pictures, and they make me nervous. I never seem to look quite right in pictures, always like a deer in headlights or not smiling right.

My thoughts are interrupted by noise. I hear my parents talking. I frown and try to make out what they’re saying. Paul stirs next to me. Rosemary has the unfortunate habit of sleeping slanted and taking up the whole damned bed, and the lower half of her body is crushing my legs and I fight the urge to kick her.

I become still again so I don’t wake Paul and Rosemary yet. They’ll immediately start talking, and then I won’t be able to hear anything, and then my parents will know I’m awake and the rest of the day won’t be this still, quiet peace that is rapidly drifting away from me.

I roll my eyes when I hear my parents arguing and I bite down on my lower lip,
hard. I am so frustrated with them that whatever happiness I had knowing today was Christmas has left, along with the melting frost, all but gone from the window now.

I hear another noise, and then I hear the dogs whining and shaking their collars, and I realise my parents have let them into the house. I look down and Paul is opening his eyes. Damn. My peaceful little place is gone now. Paul feels Rosemary’s legs on his too and he kicks her legs off him.

Rosemary wakes up and instantly starts to whine. Immediately I interrupt them both. ‘It’s Christmas you guys!’

They stop whining. The child-like look of wonder is quickly replaced by doubt as Paul looks at me and asks me, ‘Are Mom and Dad awake? Can we get out of bed yet?’ Before I can answer him, the bedroom door opens and our dogs run into the room, followed by Mom, smiling.

The dogs jump on the bed and roll all over us before jumping back down to the 
floor and running all over the house. Paul and Rosemary jump out of bed, both of them managing to elbow and knee me in their excitement.

Paul runs past Mom while Rosemary clings to her. I carefully examine Mom’s face; no bruises, no tears. Apparently, whatever they were arguing about a few moments earlier wasn’t very important, and I am relieved.

Mom ushers us into the bathroom where we brush our teeth and comb our hair. Now that we look acceptable, we can go into the living room where the presents and the Christmas tree are. We hug our father who is half awake, hair mussed up, a cup of coffee in his hand and his favourite green robe on.

‘Oh no, breakfast first!’ my father says as we run up to him to give him a hug. He’s not really angry right now though, just half asleep. We sit at the table and even though Mom’s cinnamon buns are amazing, we eat them at lightning speed so that we can go back into the living room. I mean, 
really, what kid wants to eat first thing on Christmas Day?

We sit and fidget at the table until my dad is done eating. Halfway through his cinnamon bun, he looks up, sighs, picks up his plate and walks back into the living room, muttering to himself.

My father never looks quite right in pictures either. He never really smiles in them. It’s a trained smile he gives for the camera, and it looks alien and uncomfortable on him.

Mom shoos us from the table, and Paul and Rosemary giggle and chase after my dad. I walk around the table and I kiss Mom on the cheek. ‘Best cinnamon buns ever, Mom.’ She smiles gratefully at me.

‘You guys are holding up Christmas!’ my dad yells. Mom and I head into the living room. Mom scolds Rosemary and Paul for being too hyper and tells them to sit quietly on the couch while she hands everyone one present at a time. We open them neatly and 
slowly, in turn, so my parents can take pictures.

Rosemary usually gets to open a present first because she’s the youngest, and she’s whiny and fidgety sometimes, and my parents expect my brother and me to behave better than that. Today is no exception, and she’s busy unwrapping a present while everyone else sits still and watches.

You have to act excited when you’re opening presents. If you don’t act excited enough, you could get yelled at. When you’re done unwrapping your present, you can stare at it in awe for a few seconds before you have to hold it up for the rest of the family to see and take pictures while you smile. You can never not like a present, even if it’s a hideous sweater two sizes too small that you will never ever wear.

Christmas is always like this for us. The day becoming ever more excruciating until Dad decides to take a nap and Mom starts cooking dinner. Then, and only sometimes,
we stop acting like Stepford children and act like normal kids who squeal and rip through presents excitedly in a colourful tornado. For now the lie continues.

I look over at my dad and he’s petting Noodles and talking to her softly. Noodles is wagging her curly little tail and sniffing his face. He scratches behind her velvet ears, ears that have been rubbed so much because of their softness that they’re starting to go bald in spots.

I walk over, with the big brown blanket that I was wrapped in, and curl up next to my dad, who gives the dog a final pet and then wraps his arm around me. All is well right now, and I couldn’t care less about the presents.

Rosemary squeals and holds up a doll. Mom takes pictures. Rosemary runs up to Mom and kisses her on the cheek and throws her little arms around Mom’s neck. Mom whispers in her ear to hug her dad first next time she opens a present.

Rosemary seems to baffle my father, and he is always slightly aloof with her. She’s much more like a
normal
kid than my brother and me; she cries and whines and pretends, and gets my brother and me into trouble all the time. Her childlike nature confuses my dad, I think, and he doesn’t know how to deal with her. She was a fussy baby who only wanted Mom to hold her, and cried whenever anyone else tried to pick her up, including my dad, who was so confused as to why his own child didn’t want her dad to hold her that he finally quit trying.

Rosemary runs and quickly hugs my dad and thanks him. Dad pats her on the back and Rosemary runs to sit on the floor and play with her new doll. Mom picks out a present for Paul. Paul opens the present, which is some army action figure, and says ‘wow, cool!’ before posing for his picture. He runs over to my dad. Paul throws his arms around my dad who lets go of me and they start play wrestling.

My dad was always trying to toughen Paul up, even though he wasn’t into sports 
or anything else considered manly. So when he showed an interest in action figures, my dad had no problem encouraging this new interest.

I sigh, jealous. I am a tomboy; I like sports and the outdoors and wrestling around and bows and arrows and guns. But I am not a boy, and though my dad will get frustrated with Paul and eventually start to play with me, he always wants to play with my brother first.

‘Emmy, it’s your turn.’

I look over at Mom, who has seen me being slighted by my father and calls me over to her. I open the small present, certain that it is a book. It is one from my favourite series, a science fiction book for adults. I never read children’s books; I’m not allowed to. They are too retarded for me, my parents say. I am too smart to act like a child, they say. But they encourage my love of books, and Mom has gone through my bookshelf and found out which book I don’t have, and has picked out the latest one.

I smile for my picture and hold my book up, and then hug Mom. Nobody is watching me. Rosemary is playing with her doll and Paul is still wrestling and laughing with my dad.

Mom and I sit on the floor, united in our sudden invisibility to the rest of the family. ‘You picked the one I wanted Mommy. Thank you.’

Mom smiled, a soft sad smile. ‘I know things aren’t always easy for you and I uh
…
’ she stopped and suddenly remembered how things had to be. ‘
…
I just wanted to get you the right one Emmy. Now go hug your dad.’

I walk up to my dad and hug him from behind. He looks slightly startled.

‘Hey kid, what’d ya get?’

I show Dad the book.

‘A book huh? Is it a good one?’

‘Yeah Dad, it is.’

My dad stares at the book for a second. I have never seen my dad read a book. ‘Well, good for you,’ he finally says, and his eyes dart past me, past my book, and to Mom.

He stands up and goes to the tree and rummages around for a box wrapped in the comics section of the newspaper. He hands it to Mom, who smiles, kisses him and opens it. It is a cranberry-coloured sweater dress.

‘I uh, ya know, thought that’d look good on you Teresa,’ he says, suddenly unsure of himself.

I feel bad for my dad, who in the midst of his family, and this holiday, had felt
…
what? Ashamed that he hadn’t wrapped the present as well as Mom had wrapped the others?

Suddenly he is a tired-looking man, beginning to look older than he should, unsure of himself amongst his own family. He’s confused by books that his daughter reads – that I will later come to suspect he couldn’t – confused by his son’s femininity 
and his youngest daughter’s apparent dislike of him, confused as to why his wife flinches every time he goes near her.

My father sits back down quickly and busies himself with drinking the last of his coffee. His vulnerability has disappeared and is replaced by his grey, distant stare, a faraway look that sometimes comes to his eyes and leaves you wondering where he wishes he would rather be.

Slowly, the rest of the presents are passed out, books and dolls and action figures, socks and sweaters and odd gifts, like a gallon of cheap drugstore bubble bath that Paul had saved his allowance for, so that he could give it to Mom for Christmas. Like any mother though, she loved it and hugged Paul, whose hazel eyes matched hers, and promised to use it that night.

That afternoon, after my dad lies down to sleep and while Paul and Rosemary are busy playing with their toys, I go into the kitchen with Mom to help her with dinner.

She brews another cup of coffee and pours me a half-cup for helping her. We sit and peel potatoes and carrots together, whispering and laughing quietly, sometimes so much that we have to cover our faces with dishtowels so we won’t be too loud and possibly wake my father. Mom puts the towel in her lap and wipes a tear of laughter away. She hugs me and smiles.

‘Oh, Emmy. You’re my best friend Emmy.’

I smile back at her. ‘You’re mine too, Mom.’