Trapped in Forever

6 ~ More than just a Summer

“Not tonight, Steven.”

My dad grinned, just slightly more forced than the last one, holding a thin packet of Orville Redenbacher microwavable popcorn in one hand and the movie Twister in the other. “Oh, come on, Diana,” he said, excitedly, “It’s Friday! It’s movie night! And I rented Twister.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at Mikayla, slouching, like usual, in the oak chair at the table, poking at her mashed potatoes with her fork. Twister was her favorite movie. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look like anything as she suddenly dropped her fork, which hit her plate with a clang, and slumped against the barred back of the chair.

Mom twisted her lips, glancing out of the corner of her at Mikayla, as she chewed her roast beef then swallowed. “Not tonight,” she repeated.

Ever since Mikayla was arrested, the house seemed to have shifted or something. Mom was constantly on edge or frustrated, rubbing her temple or sneaking disapproving looks at someone. Her lips were in a constant thin line as she clipped coupons for Payless Shoe Source or when she’d flip through the channels in the afternoon, skipping over The Ellen DeGeneres Show or Dr. Phil, with one with Hannah Freedman’s self-help books cracked open over her lap (The Devil in Your Teen.)  And then there was Mikayla. I always knew she wasn’t that cheerful but it wasn’t until she was around so much (because of the grounding) that I realized how sullen she was all the time.

Having a movie night was only one of Dad’s attempts to ease, if not get rid of altogether, the thick, dense air between Mikayla and Mom. A few days ago, he tried to cook everyone breakfast, on a Sunday, with pancakes (“See, they have blueberry smiles!”) with whip cream (“Use as much as you want, sweetie. Go ahead!”) and bacon (“Now this one looks like a U, doesn’t it?”) But, no matter the amount of pancakes he could try not to burn or U-shaped pieces of bacon, in the end, all he got was Mom, sipping her sugared coffee in an orange mug, flashing him a brief smile as she swallowed, telling him that he did a good job and Mikayla nibbling numbly on the bacon before shoving the plate away. And he’d smile, anyway, but each smile looked tenser than the last.

“But, Diana, it’s Friday.” Smiling, he laid out the popcorn packet and Twister on the table, by the steaming peas in the white bowl and roast beef. “We might even have some candy lying around here somewhere.”

Mom sipped her water. “No.”

I looked at Mikayla, staring at her plate in front of her, her peas dispersed throughout her meal, hiding under her mashed potatoes and on top of her beef. Then she looked up at Mom. “Can I be excused?”

Mom looked up, smiled almost, and nodded. “Yes,” she told her then added as Mikayla started to stand up, “Thank you for asking me.”

I saw her eyes flicker backwards as she muttered, “Don’t be. You’re the one making me ask.”

My mom’s shoulders seemed to sag as Mikayla passed behind her, arms crossed over her black tank top, bare feet hitting the shiny, tiled floor as she headed for the stairs. Mom dropped her fork down, more quietly than Mikayla said, and sighed, staring hotly at her beef, like that was the problem, not Mikayla. “I don’t know what to do with her,” she said, pushing her chair back, which squealed against the floor, reaching out to grab her plate then my dad’s then mine. “She’s just impossible.”

Dad stood up then, following Mom over to the sink as she turned on the hot water, twisting the knob until it reached its limit. He placed both his pale hands on either one of her shoulders, and she paused, and, slowly, he pressed down on her skin, smoothing his thumbs over her arms, and pressing in with his fingers.