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The smell of steaming rice and the fumes of teriyaki sauce being painted on soft, juicy chicken enter the room, setting the mood for the usual dinner. Mother always cooked like this of Fridays. This is the only day of the week that Father would come home early from work and the only time where I can converse with him.
It's quiet in the kitchen at this time. Mother and Father isn't on good terms right now. The absence of Father from the home worried Mother. She would come up with the most rational reasons in both positive and negative worlds to why he was at work so often. Last week wasn't so great. Mother got so worried when Father didn't show up for Friday dinner even though he promised to come every week. She got so worried that her rational reasons became irrational and their positive outlooks were bombarded with constant negative views. This is why it's so quiet around dinner time.
I can remember the first time where the quiet atmosphere was absent, and I consider myself lucky that I wasn't in the crossfire. That was two years ago. In the summer after graduation, around the last Friday of the month of June, Mother found that Father was coming in later and later. He came in so late, that both me and Mother were asleep when he came in.
Instinctively, my mother awakens due to the opening of the front door. She turns on the light to both the hallway and the den, finding a half-awake husband entering the front door. I can't say who was the first to attack but once the front door was closed, the peaceful midnight hour turned to chaos.
I could only hear from inside my room, adjacent to my parents room and down the hall. I was already awake when I saw the bright outline of light penetrating through the cracks between the door and the door frame. And because we live in a 25 by 22 foot apartment, the fight breaking out outside my room seemed to be only a couple feet away.
What I remember from two years ago is that I first heard the high-pitched scolding of my mother, and a concerned but angered attitude behind it. Seconds later, I could hear the low tones of my father screaming back. An argument was lit and since the moment it started, I hoped that it would die down soon. But put an intoxicated man and a concerned, almost paranoid woman, and put half-awake into the mix, you have yourself a fourth-floor catastrophe, yielding a couple hundred dollars worth of appliances and home decor.
The fight took only ten minutes, but to me it last for more than thirty. With a screaming scold to begin, and a slamming of the front door to end it, it would have a significant impact on me. Around the ending moments of the fight, in the midst of sound of crashes and screams, I took it upon myself to get out of bed and peek at the chaos. Nearing the door, I felt like I was going to be closing on to a war zone. I know that Mother and Father never fought like this before. Before I could grab the brass doorknob with my left hand and turn it so it would open, a large, sudden crash shook the door. I would find out tomorrow that Father took one of the dining chairs, and threw it straight onto my door, nearly missing my mother by a few inches.
The loud crash told me to back away from the door. At the time I thought that Father was so mad that he had to unleash it all on me. I ran from the door through my dark room and darted for my bed. I climbed into bed, covered my body and finally my head with my blanket and wait it out. Too scared to uncover myself, I went straight to sleep, wishing that it wasn't a dream.
The next morning was like any common morning, but with a few differences. Mother would be in the kitchen usually and Father would be out to work, just as usual. The different part of it though is that the whole house was in shambles. In some parts the wallpaper would be peeling and some walls had holes through and through. The couch was covered in glass and sawdust as well as the floor. Outside my room, the remains of a wooden chair lie in a neatly gather pile in the corner. A clean path was cleared from my room to the dining table, probably by Mother. That day or any other day that I ask her what really went on that night leaves me with no hope in knowing what happened.
Anyways, Mother stays in the kitchen cooking the meal for the evening but occasionally glances from the open sink top/bar to the den where my father sits reading the newspaper. Mother at least has a glimmer of hope to see if anything has changed in my father's attitude. But to her discouragement, Father stays the same as we have seen him before. Her only hope lies in the closed door leading to the outside hallway.
I live here if you haven't guessed already. To be precise, I lived here. On the fourth floor of a six-floor apartment building on the corner of a typical-looking residential street, I make my home here. Mother anxiously waits for me to come walking through that door and I know that she has become impatient in the quietness of her household. It's because of me that both Mother and Father are still in good terms, but I doubt that things will be as there were before.
Call it a connection, but whatever my mother thinks of me, she will tell you that I'm her lifeline.
Gert
- 05.02.2023
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