At the Doctor's

He winked, part child-like, part gnarly. The last time I had seen him this uncomfortable, he’d just received his divorce papers: a pile he would come to treat with more care than his IPad, as if it could not just at any moment break, but also break him. He looked at it never for more than thirty seconds at a time, as if its spell was that of the Germanic Loreley, whose chants had to be heard sustainedly to hurt. Not rare for him, his fingers blueprinted the sheets with sweat—the kind that sticks, almost tear-like in texture—and I had to distract him with whatever something I had at hand: here a convincing weather report (followed, always, by a yawn, both his and mine); there a murky glass of overcold Merlot, which I would fetch from the garage’s fridge: my steps, too, serving as a sidetracking staccato.

Our floors were oak, but louder and less polished since she left. She knew exactly what to do with floors and beverages and fridges (here, how could I compete?)—but oh, did she fail in caressing him, like I did; in noticing the little dancing creases on his forehead, and taking in his wrath and his belt’s stinging tip when it was needed. Me, I’d count ten Hail Mary’s and pretend that the blood dripping wasn’t my own, but a stranger’s. Pretend, for just a minute, that the stranger wanted this, or was somehow to blame, at least in part, for all of it.

The prospect of blame made it easier.

Today was our first date and the sixth evening since she’d left—since she’d decided that the pain was too much for her, the reward trivial. Of course, it’s far more comfortable to be dead than alive. In life, I could never amount to half the woman she was, not even close to it. But I’d take comfort in my knowing that my bones were not stashed somewhere in the backyard; in knowing that, like she had told me far more times than she believed, what mattered was that I—unlike her—had a life beyond this, that I could break free and go live.

Still, I’d never taken mom for a little coward, and so I had to find out, before I could decide whether to kill or live.

Dad, I asked if you got mom’s voicemail?

He paused, again, his wink less playful this time. He knew she could have left him no voicemail; she couldn’t have done anything but lay, splintered, in the backyard. I, too, knew that this wasn’t my best strategy for living: that to pretend a yawn and then pretend-drink with him—to go on with the date, go upstairs to their bedroom, like she had warned me he would have me do, but I didn’t believe—would have been more effective.

And yet, here I was, foolish like her, about to share her fate.

Like mother, like daughter.

Except if, when he turns over, I turn gently, and pierce him. His skull would break (there’d be a cracking noise) and the fermented grapes would mingle with his plasma. Bubbles would foam and flies would fly by. Even in death, I know, he would continue to sweat like a pig. He’d die before he knew—really knew—I was courageous like mom. His pupils wouldn’t even dilate to their maximum potential, swelling with surprise at the same time death shrank them.

I’d bury his bones in the backyard, then sell the house, then go live.

He nods a no, I haven't heard from mom.

He looks into the backbone of my eyes, proud, almost, that I'd been growing up.

He starts caressing me and pointing to the bedroom. Not that he pointed himself—electromagnetic waves pointed us, we both knew: it was time. Did I want it? Was I to blame? For him, for mom, for me?

We walk up the stairs and our first date is his best yet: he’s all riled up, more than he’d ever been with mom, I’d bet. The difference being that I, at thirteen years old, loved him. She, on the other hand, had forgotten how to, around the time (I’d think) she slept with Nick.

I’d blamed her, naturally: dad, at least, had been an honest pig. All that he had ever wanted was for us to be one happy family.

I hold my glass of chilled Merlot (the murky kind that mom would cringe at: red wine is to be served at sixty-five degrees!) and I caress him, like an obedient daughter. He in turn brushes my hair like he did when I was little, then nuzzles the tips of his fingers against my back, back and forth.

I’m safe. He’s happy.

I stand up as if to rid myself of my top (standing, as it is, on the way of his gentle fingers), I take the wine glass and I break it on his neck. He resists, briefly, endowed as he is, for some stubborn seconds, with physical vigor, then lays still like he'd never lived before.

I stand up and I walk towards my bed, empty and calm. I nap like an untroubled child, parentless, now free of all adult guilt and all witness. I dream of oversweet cranberry juice and dandelions.

I wake up.

The house stinks.

I pretend that I know I’m not to blame, that the burgundy pool still widening on his bed is just a joke, the worst one I have ever seen.

Don’t you think, Dr. Glückman, that even after all those years, I should still give myself in?