Fifteen

I was only fifteen. I still had braces on my teeth and frizzy hair. My refuge was a night with my friends; talking, laughing, playing the role of normal. My friend, Tony, was at the helm of this adventurous night, and pulled into my driveway to drop me off.

My house was sage green with white shutters and a large yard. The outside was pristine. Lined with my mother’s flowers and neatly trimmed boxwoods, the grass freshly cut. The windows glowed with warm amber tones. Fog on the windows from a home cooked meal, and laundry spinning in the machine. If you looked from the road, it was easy to assume there was laughter and conversation inside. But inside, it was nothing like that.

I giggled and waved goodbye to my friends as I opened the garage door. They probably thought I was so lucky.

My mother sat on the staircase and greeted me, “Go upstairs and look at your father.”

I walked up the first flight of stairs of our tri-level home. Through the living room and past the built-in shelving with the trellis wall, I turned the corner to the next flight of stairs. The door to his room was cracked open. I could hear the television. Jeopardy. Red shag carpet at the doorway. I gently pushed the door open to reveal him hunched in his chair with a gun pointed at his head.

“Papi?” My voice was small, like a mouse.

He looked up at me and instantly I saw his pain. A near empty drink sat on the table. Gold liquid coated the softening ice, and shimmered on the crystal glass. If you stared too long, it was almost blinding.

“Jennifer. I’m sorry.”

I stood in the room, frozen. I watched him drink the last of the gold when he sighed as he examined the bottom of the glass. He put the gun down and left the room to get a fresh drink.

While he was in the kitchen, my mother entered the room. She grabbed the gun, and walked out. I followed her, unsure, panicked. I could feel my stomach. It wrestled with my anguish and I could taste vomit in my throat as I heard him returning. She took too long. It was too late.

My father was coming up the stairs as my mother left the room, gun in hand. They made eye contact, and he set his fresh drink down on the built-in shelving with the trellis wall.

He charged at her. They wrestled in the hallway for the gun. My mother got a hold of it and threw it down the stairs, into the carpeted living room. It hit the ground. Thump, thump. My mother yelled for me to get the gun and get rid of it. I was only fifteen.

I ran down the stairs, grabbed the gun, and ran out the front door. I had never held a gun before. It was so much heavier than I imagined. I threw the gun into the yard as far as I could, and sat on the front stoop. A car drove by, likely admiring our well manicured house.

I don’t remember crying. I don’t remember my thoughts. I don’t remember breathing.

I’m unsure what happened to my mother at that point but I assume he hit her. He came outside and sat next to me. He begged for me to tell him where the gun was. He said he needed to know in case a kid in the neighborhood found it in the morning. How ironic. He didn’t want to endanger the neighborhood children.

I don’t remember coming inside. I don’t remember seeing my mother. I don’t remember what happened to the gun.

The next few hours were spent in my father’s lazy boy recliner. I sat in his lap. He told me he had failed as a father. He wanted to die. He believed we would be better off. He apologized for not having the money to buy me a car. I stroked his head and begged him to not feel that way. I told him it was ok, I didn’t need a car. I cradled his balding head while he cried. Sobbed, actually.

Finally at 3:00 a.m. in the morning, my dad went to bed. My stomach felt exhausted, like I had wrung it out to dry and violently shoved it back in. I went to my room and found my mother curled up, crying in my twin bed. I laid next to her. She told me she was scared and wanted to sleep with me. I cradled her, and she cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, Sunday. We all got into the car, my father at the wheel, and drove to the grocery store to do our weekly shopping. And we never, ever spoke of it.

I was only fifteen.