Dressed As My Mother, the Scariest Costume of Them All
I read once that when girls grow up they fall in love with boys who exhibit the same kind of behavior as their father. I was always scared of that growing up. I would never have called my father a bad parent. He was always present and never made me doubt his love for me. I only ever doubted his love for my mother.
The idea that I would be stuck in a loveless marriage terrified me. My parents may have loved each other due to the lives they created and the story they had written, but they certainly were not in love with each other. Their relationship was hard, and not just on the outside. If love was a battle, they fought on opposite sides of the war. Most girls hope to be loved hard and intensely. I only hoped to be loved softly.
I tried to avoid arguments in my relationships. I was afraid of the harsh words I had heard come from my father’s mouth. I was afraid of having the same tears come from my eyes that had come from my mother’s. I was naive to believe that a relationship could go without disagreement.
As the door to the basement swung open, we were met almost immediately with cold cans and drunken encouragement to down them as soon as possible. Not wanting to disobey the orders of both our friends, I gave him a reassuring smile and let the cold liquid coat my insides. This side of me was new to him; he never saw me in an environment where I truly allowed myself to let go. I waited for him to repeat after me, to pop the top of his bottle and tilt his head to the sky, but instead, he gave my hand a quick squeeze before letting it go. I thought nothing of it, my only focus on what my next flavor of choice would be.
Stumbling to the ping-pong table where he stood, flicking his arm in a manner that I doubted I could, even if I had my fine motor skills in tact, I grasped onto the deep red of his sweatshirt as if I needed it to be transfused to me. My vision blurry from happiness and the drinks, I clung to him in a way I had never before. I trusted him to keep me standing. I trusted him to love me like a pillar, steady and stable. I also took into account that what makes a pillar stable is when the concrete hardens.
He took a step away from the table after his partner’s ball had missed the inside of the red Solo cup for what seemed like the dozenth time, still holding onto my waist. “How are you feeling? Do you think you’ve had enough?”
As I contemplated the question, I noticed that he was still comforting the same can we were handed when we entered the basement door. Not only that, the condensation from the bottle had started to drip along the green table’s surface, creating an unknowing advantage for him and his partner
“I’m good, I’m good.” I wondered if I was reassuring him or myself. “How are you feeling?”
I expected to be met with one of his warm smiles and a similar response. Instead, he flashed me a smile to make it not seem alarming when he asked me to step outside.
As the cold October air hit the back of my neck, I began to wonder if the air would be the only harshness that I would be met with. The light from the basement window illuminated the expression on his face. He looked different than I had seen him before. As if he were a bar of chocolate, for the first time, I questioned if I would bite into sweetness, or be struck with the harness of the same razor blade that had tricked my mother.
“Are you upset with me?” I had quickly become aware of the situation. I was waiting for the cruel words to pop out from between his lips and frighten me. I was waiting for my tears to dress me as my mother.
“Baby, no. I’m just worried about you.” He wasn’t upset with me. He didn’t take me outside to berate me in the darkness of the night.
It was as if all possibilities of darkness escaped, and his entire being was laid out on a platter of shining gold. His sweat-covered palm engulfed my waist, connecting us impossibly more in this moment. As my cold, condensation-drenched fingers found his, I traced my eyes over his body. He stood, nursing the same can, his fingers fidgeting against the aluminum. He took me into the quiet to silence his nerves.
I looked him in the eyes, painfully aware of the height he had gained on the level pavement. Without meaning to, I eased both of our worries in the matter of seconds.
“I love you.” It came out quick, punching through my imperfect teeth and mixed-drink stained lips.
The words seemed to hit his face softer than they had left my mouth. His demeanor started to mirror mine, letting the effects of my words drunken him. Every inch of his body began to relax, letting my affection flow through his blood stream. The delayed response would have led me to worry if the smile he displayed hadn’t given himself away.
“I love you.” At this point, his smile had lifted his rosy cheeks so high that his chocolate eyes were forced closed. For the first time, I wished for his smile to fade. I wanted nothing but to lock his eyes with mine, to let ourselves become one in this moment. Reading my mind, he opened his eyes.
Lilian Mahoney is a sophomore at The Pennsylvania State University, majoring in English. Along with her major, she is currently pursuing a minor in Journalism. Lilian plans to complete her teaching certificate and follow her dreams of spreading her love for literature to any and every country that will listen. Away from academics, Lilian prides herself on being a music fanatic, being able to name any Beatles or Pearl Jam song on only the first five chords.
