f (foundling) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-06-04 04:24:00 |
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"You know what I learned, Daddy?" "¿Qué?" "The Pacific Ocean is the deepest of all." "¡Vaya! ¿Es verdad? Even deeper than the Atlantic?" "Mmmhmm!" "I bet it's cold." "Papi, all oceans are cold, 'cause they're so deep." "But, the Pacific's gotta be the coldest then." "No, 'cause the… Arctic one doesn't see the sun the same." "Ah, entiendo." "Do you think I can give my tooth money to… to… a… a conserv… a… save-the-animals place?" "Conservation? Sure, mi amor. You get to do whatever you want with it, however mucha it you want, huh? You can give 'em halfa it, which is—" "Five dollars!" "Sí. Or you can give 'em alla it—" "¡Diez dólares!" "Teresita." "Sorry." "You get to choose, hm? You wanna be generous, you don't. You wanna save it. Está en tus manos." "I wanna give all of it to them! For the dolphins!" "That sounds real nice, baby. The dolphins'll be real glad. Maybe they'll send you a thank-you letter." "Daddy! You're being silly!" "Me? Nah. I wouldn't do that." "You would! You are!" "Look at me. I look silly to you?" Quiet. "No, Papi. You look sad. Don't be sad. It'll be okay." They were sitting in a booth in a diner, Cris with a headache that was like someone beating a barrel drum in both his temples and with a viala dry-blonde strands in his jacket pocket, and Teresita leaned over the formica between them, her little shirt dipping into the ketchup on her plate and her black hair loose in it, but her daddy didn't even stop her. She pressed fingers into his cheek, her attempt at a caress, and he smiled at her, kissing at the tipsa those small, brown fingers, as she giggled and settled back down. And here he thought he'd been hiding it pretty good. He'd shaved. He'd showered. Clean button-up shirt, 'cause he had an appointment with the stupid shrink, nice pants, his nicer shoes, and he and his kid were getting burgers and milkshakes, playing onea their favorite games—penny fútbol, they called it. And up 'til then, he thought he was doing real good, keeping all his stuff in, outta sight. "Okay, I'll try." On his sidea the table, he nodded at his daughter—¿listo?—and he flicked the penny, jolta pain running through ruined knuckles, but, trying for the goal formed by her tiny, dark hands, pressed on their sides like she was making a U at herself. She giggled, stopping the thing with a miniature palm slapped down quick. When she shot it back, she overaimed, sending the copper glint across the room like a shooting star gone rogue, skidding on grubby tiles, and she was off, after it on hands and knees. It was useless to try and stop her, Cris knew, and after years of taking a kid out to eat, he knew it was better to just let her get it and come back, as long as she wasn't annoying anyone. He turned to watch her—and the place was plenty empty. She wasn't getting in anybody's way. He spread his fingers, wrapped in white around the knuckles, blood soaking through in five ugly blotches, fingers themselves swollen, mottled. The mirror in his bathroom was gone. Slivers and shards silvered to nothing, or stuck in dark skin, bleeding it like emotional shrapnel caught an artery there, somehow, picked out piece by piece with tweezers. He'd made the mistakea breaking sink from ceramic backsplasha the wall too, slamming down on it with all his weight, fingers over lip into bowl, and he'd ripped it, not thinking he could actually hurt it. But, it was an old thing without feet—just jutting from the wall, and—nope, he pulled it out, sent it crashing into chalky, chunky pieces, pipe coming out, screaming, with it like a spine shorn from body, spindled to brain to make death all the more painful before it went black. It shattered on bare feet bold, and that was a whole nother thing, wrapped toes, walking careful now.—But, he was destruction, right? Elena had said that, and Cris was starting to wonder if she was right, even here, ditsy diner, plastic pleather stuck to his lower back, his kid coming back triumphant with penny between newly-grimy fingers, and he told her to go wash her hands. She rolled her eyes and went, leaving Daddy the prized bitta coin, him glaring at it where it was abandoned in one upturned palm. He hated it irrationally, like it, somehow, just then, was to blame for all the stuff going bad in his life, and they were s'posed to bring luck, right? So, he was waiting and nothing ever happened. He prayed, nothing happened. Nothing but bad stuff, anyway. And he was sicka it. He didn't want Penny to listen to him. He didn't want Lou. He wanted Sam, and maybe he was childish, and maybe he had problems, wanting just that, but it was true. But her, he sent running. Every time. That sticky bedroom clung to the membranea his brain tight, shrink-wrapping it, and he fought to get free from it. In a fitta anger, he chucked the poor penny 'cross the empty dining area. It pinged hard against the window by the door, like somebody giving a sharp tap with the barrel of a pistol, and a waitress looked up, alarmed. Cris shoved back and away from the table, worried in an abrupt way that came with his fury, everything coming down at once, that something was gonna happen to Teresita alone in the bathroom, and he hurried over, stalka muscle beneath that shiny shirt.—But, she was coming out then, suds still clinging to her hands—and she stopped when she saw him, sneakers a stutter and Olaf's face damp from where she'd leaned against the sink. Her tiny face went bright with fear. Not of him, but that something was wrong. "What?" "We're goin'." He grabbed her hand, too hard maybe, and she squirmed away. "No! I wasn't done! I said don't be sad, not be mad—" "Teresa." "Where's the penny?" "Now." "Five minutes! ¿Por favor, Papi? Please? My shake—" "Now." There was a short staredown. "Fine. Don't yell." Cris threw money on the table, and as they walked out to the car, Teresa gasped, excited, and started a little song. "Find a penny, pick it up, and all the day—" "¡Deja!" She scowled at her daddy and he put a hand to her back, corralling her toward the door. She refused to talk to him on the ride to the shrink's office, but Cris didn't relent. She got stubborn in the backseat, not wanting to go in, and he carried her in, sat her down among the toy barn that had to be almost as old as he was and the blocks, and she protested, but he told her to just sit down and he'd be out in twenty minutes. If she wanted to read, there were magazines. When he came out, it was a good forty minutes later. Teresa had managed to stuff all the blocks into the barn, and Cris—well, looking at him, she could tell whatever it was her daddy and the bald white guy had talked about had been bad. Quiet this time, he held out his hand for his daughter's, and she took it. "Are we going home now?" "Yeah, baby." "Daddy, are you okay?" "I could use a hug, huh? You got one to spare?" She woulda laughed, normally, said, 'course!—but things felt weird to her, so instead, she drew in, face serious, arms up, like she was prepared to be lifted, and Cris followed through. Her arms around his neck and her forehead to his jaw, he carried her outta that building. "Tell me more 'bout the oceans, amor." She kissed him and cleared her throat like he always did before he started reading to her, and she started to tell him 'bout the dolphins, the ones she was gonna save with her tooth fairy money. When she felt some warmth, wetness where her little head met her daddy's cheek, she looked up, and she told him again, words she'd heard her whole life, all soft, breath sweet with chocolate, "Papi, don't cry. It'll be okay. I'll take care of you." "Okay," he told her. "I'll try." |