Let Me Pretend

Let me pretend that on Sunday afternoons my dad would relax into the driver’s seat of our rusty Ford Mustang with one callused hand draped outside the rolled-down window and the other over the steering wheel as we made our way to Bellwoods Park for a picnic. That he stole boyish glances at my mom, who sat upright in excitement while in the passenger seat applying her shimmery pink lipstick. Pretend that they spoke softly as they reminisced about their youth back home and laughed so hard and so effortlessly it felt like the entire car floated. That I sat in the backseat, pressing my five-year-old thighs together, then watched as I slowly peeled them apart while my older sister punched her bony knuckles into my shoulder and yelled, punch buggy no punch backs.

Let me pretend that my dad only drank water or soda or coffee. That he hung up his work uniform to break in a tailored suit for my high school graduation. That he clapped too loudly when I walked across the stage to collect my rolled-up diploma, and that he confidently shook hands with my teachers even though he struggled to speak English. That I was mortified when he hoisted a VHS camcorder onto his shoulder, but was later grateful to see grainy footage of me with a bad perm that had burned the back of my neck, and wearing a white, puffy-sleeved dress that made me look like a bride. Pretend I was sandwiched between my proud mom and gleeful sister as we smiled and awkwardly waved at the shaky camera.

Let me pretend my dad interviewed every boy I brought home. That he stared straight into their eyes until they got the message. Pretend he taught me how to pick those with good manners and even better intentions. That because of this, I never lay on the couch, broken hearted, for weeks.

Let me pretend that my dad didn’t storm our house, kick our front door until it caved in, nor did he stab it with a steak knife. That my sister didn’t pace the hallway, head down and shaking. That as I peered outside, barefoot and confused, the police officer hadn’t noticed me. That his expression hadn’t turned from one of relaxed indifference to one of concentrated sadness that froze my veins. Pretend I didn’t see my mom holding her head in her hands and rocking back and forth, and that I never heard her say, he’s going to kill us, he’s going to kill us.

Let me pretend.

He always says he will never leave me

and I believe him, or at least I pretend to, because I’m used to making excuses for the wrong people to stay, just like my mother did when she lied and said she’d made the strawberry cheesecake for her boyfriend when she’d actually bought it at the Nova Era bakery, then later purchased her own engagement ring to make his proposal better than it was, and eventually paid off his debts when he died even though they’d been a surprise, and afterwards she cried and cried because that’s what widows are supposed to do, and I cried and cried because that’s what stepdaughters are taught to do, until his absence started to feel better than his presence; however, I never said this out loud because mourners aren’t supposed to be happy or feel relieved, and even though I felt both, I hadn’t learned my lesson yet because I found someone who also liked sweets, barely acknowledged my birthdays, and kept his finances hidden, and still I ignored these similarities because he made dinner, lingered in the morning, and planned beyond tomorrow, but he stayed too long and I stayed too long and I didn’t admit that I enjoy meals for one, prefer quiet mornings, and didn’t need someone to tell me what to do next weekend or next year, and if I could just trust myself enough, then I wouldn’t have to look at his sloppy smile when he finished his second bottle of wine, and be able to look at myself in the mirror without flinching, because when he always says he hates that he has to work late and then tiptoes inside when he thinks I’m asleep and lies his head on the pillows, her perfume drifts to meet me, and I swear it smells like strawberries, and tastes like freedom.