The Family Façade | carlymarie

My home was nothing special. Stunningly average, actually. A classic farm house,- that’s what my mother calls it- a perfect family home. Mother also calls us the perfect family, but that isn’t true either. Fake happiness, a façade, that’s our family. But each day that passes, more paint chips from our cheerful masks: in the same way that the white paint chips from our dismal house.

It’s not exactly like we have to be happy, though. We have no neighbors to impress, no pestering relatives that pop in for visits; there’s no one. Our “perfect” house is perfectly placed in the middle of nowhere. The closest house is almost a mile away from our own, and its two and a quarter miles to town. Nothing in sight except the rolling fields of tall grass and wheat.

Honestly, I enjoy the solitude. Our house looks like it belongs here, nestled in the yellowing grass, tall and proud. The sturdy oak tree that stands to the back left of our house gives it a sense of stability and comfort. Having the wrap around porch was Mother’s idea. She adores it. The idea of sitting outside on a bench watching the clouds roll by makes her a happy woman, and to that, I’m glad. She needs the happiness in her life.

Often, you will hear my father’s tirades from down the road.

My Father was not an angry man. In fact, he was the prime example of a perfect father. Kind, caring, loving, supportive. He would walk through the front door every evening at exactly 5:27 pm, kiss my mother on the cheek, and hug Elsie and I. The four of us would then walk together to the kitchen where Mother had dinner ready on the table. We’d laugh as a family and share stories. Elsie would ramble on about her wild kindergarten stories, Mother would tell us gossip about the other town women, and I would explain what my friends were like in school. Father would always sit and listen with the biggest smile of his face, eager to hear what we were saying. Things continued like that for years, and everything was picturesque. We have tall stairs in our house, the kind with the banister that is fun to slide down. Elsie and I would slide down this banister all the time, into our Father’s waiting arms. He had found the sliding to be hilarious, and loved the looks on our faces. Elsie always had the biggest grin, and her tweed colored hair would fly out behind her into my face. Once, I fell off the banister and tumbled down the remaining five stairs. Mother had said “no more sliding”, but we did anyway, because it was our favorite family activity.

All of us would be laughing.

Those days were the good days. Now, if anyone so much as cracks a smile, Father quickly shoots it down with a nasty glare. This usually is pointed more at me than Mother.

"Sorry," I say, looking down at my half-eaten breakfast. It's oatmeal again.

Mother doesn't defend me. Or she's too lost to notice. She's always just sitting, sadness clouding her normally warm eyes. Occasionally she'll sniffle or whimper, and Father will soften for a brief moment, before returning to the cold-hearted attitude he's developed.

"Must you treat everything as a joke, Evelyn?" he muttered furiously, venom dripping from every word.

"I'm sorry, Father," I whispered, still staring down at my oatmeal. It was cold now.

"Please… Finish," Mother quietly requested. Finish what? Oh, the oatmeal. I immediately picked up my spoon and resumed eating the luke-warm mush. Father also continued to eat.

Most mornings were like this. It didn't really come as a surprise to me anymore. Mother would make breakfast, we would eat in silence, I would attempt to say something to lighten the mood, Father would become angrier, Mother would ask us to finish our food. The same cycle.

I stand up, take my now empty bowl over to the sink and wash it meticulously, same with the spoon, before placing them in their proper cabinets. I could feel Father watching me closely, waiting for me to slip up. I, luckily, did everything correctly. He groaned and moved his chair away from the table to also clean his dishes. I would never stick around to see him finish that. School was still something I had to do.

Grabbing my book-bag, I hugged my Mother goodbye, and headed for the door.

"Don't mess up your school work," my Father commanded. He said this every day. I knew what he was really saying, though. You are a failure to us. No matter how hard you try, it won't be good enough, and that is a disappointment.

"Yes, Father." I closed the door softly behind me.

School itself was never really an issue. People normally stared at me, but I'm used to it by now. I keep to myself anyway, friends aren't something I'm interested in having. Elsie was the only person I needed.

Unfortunately, she's no longer around. About three years ago, she fell ill to the Spanish Influenza. One day she was laughing happily; the next, she never woke up. She rests up the road from my house, under a bed of daisies and roses. I try to keep that from hindering my life.

School makes me feel like I'm wasting my time. I get perfect marks on every test and assignment. I take a level higher than I should and it still comes easy. The teachers want to move me up another level, but Father had said no. That was the end of that conversation.

Two and a quarter miles is a long way to walk home. That's all there is to it. In autumn and spring, I don't mind the journey. However, since it's halfway through January, I despise the walk. My teeth chatter and my fingers ache and my joints shiver. I'm cold completely through. A human icicle. Winter does make our town look beautiful, though. We don't have a ton of trees, but the ones we do have seem to glow when they're coated in the glittery snow. Snow really is beautiful, even if it's cold. I knew I'd be home soon enough and that was fine for me. Mother still made the most delicious dinners, and the heat of the oven would warm me up. I am always home before Father, which is good for me, since he would never allow me to warm in front of the oven. If he caught me hovering near that warmth, he would be furious.

"Mother? I'm home," I called out into the house. I knew she was here, the house was warm.

There was no response.

"Mother? Are you alright?" Still no answer. I stood still and listened for any noise. I could hear faint sobs coming from upstairs. I knew it was her. This wasn't unusual either. I actually found her like this a lot, crying over a photo of our four-person family, happy. I didn't have to say anything, I would just hug her and let her get it out. She never had much opportunity to cry like this. Father was such a demanding presence. He required more attention than a small child. She only cried when he was gone. Whether she cried for Elsie or the man he had become, I had no idea. Perhaps it was both, or perhaps it was neither, but I sat and let her cry without questioning any of it. That was my job. I knew she appreciated it. She never had to say anything, I knew.

Often, I would be the one to actually prepare the dinner. Mother cries for a very long time, and she deserves to, so I make the food. Father doesn't know this either, but he doesn't need to. Food is one of the many ways he still shows love to Mother, by appreciating her cooking. I won't take that from her. Dinner usually lets us see a glimpse of the man he used to be.

He wouldn't come home until after 6. I knew that. He liked to go out and drink with his coworkers. After a stressful day, or even an uneventful day, he would go for drinks. Then, at approximately 6:30, he would stagger through the door and fall into the kitchen chairs. Mother and I, of course, would be sitting there, patiently waiting for him to join us. The first time we started eating without him was a terrible mistake. He'd been so angry, that he left the house and didn't return for days. Mother cried a lot during that time. In a way, I felt like that was my fault.

"Evelyn, pay attention to the conversation," he commanded. He'd noticed that I'd been distracted, thinking, again.

"I'm sorry, Father," I muttered. I made the mistake of letting a tear fall down my cheek.

"Are you crying?" he mocked angrily. I could tell he would be furious, "You have no reason to cry, you ungrateful child. After all we do for you, you have the nerve to sit and cry in front of me? You are the last person in this house that has a right to cry, do you understand me, little girl?"

"Yes Father, I understand. I am very sorry," I replied. I struggled to keep my voice steady. He was always the worst when he was like this. I still do not understand why he is so angry with me, though.

He pushed away from the table roughly, his chair scraped along the tile floor loudly, furiously. I didn't dare look in his eyes; I knew they'd be hard as rocks, ready to pierce my soul. Throwing his dishes roughly into the sink, he broke a plate. Mother whimpered, I flinched.

"It should have been you instead of her."

Elsie. That was who he meant. Elsie should be the one sitting at this table, not me. Elsie should be the one going to school and getting perfect marks, not me. Elsie should be alive, not me. That was what he meant. I understood now.

"Yes Father, I understand. I am very sorry," I whispered. My voice cracked and more tears leaked out. This only fueled his anger. He was about to retaliate when Mother stepped in for the first time.

"James, enough," her voice hard and commanding. "You've said enough." The last part was a desperate, strangled whisper. She'd reached a breaking point. She'd had enough of his anger and frustration and detachment. She'd had enough.

He looked at her, hard, for a long time. It felt like hours had passed by, when in reality, it was 32 seconds. His response was clear, definite, rueful, "I am sorry."

After that, Mother ran upstairs, and I just sat in the kitchen staring at my dinner. Father walked over to my chair. I stiffened, waiting for more verbal abuse, but it never came. He put his hand on my head and ruffled my hair like he used to. Looking up at his face, I could see a small, sad smile. "Evelyn," was all he said. He looked at me as if he wanted to say more, but he didn't, he just kissed my forehead and left.

The front door opened and closed again. I assumed he went to sit on the porch for a while. I went to bed.

When I woke up the next morning, Father was gone. He left. There was a note on the table, handwritten, messy, stained slightly.

Annie, Evelyn, 04/18/1934

I have caused you much pain. I see that now.

When Elsie died, I lost a part of myself. A part I will never get back. My anger was the only way I thought of to relieve my feelings. But it wasn't good for us. I see that now. Neither of you deserved the anger and pain I inflicted upon you, and I should have never said the things I did. So, I have left. Without me around, you will be happier, trust me. You won't have to deal with my anger and frustration.

Annie,

I love you. I have always loved you and I always will love you. You are my sunshine, my strength, my happiness. You bring me love and compassion, but all I gave you was anger and frustration. I will cherish the time we had together, and I will remember you for the rest of my life. You will be in my thoughts always. Remember the cat we owned together? Get another cat, just like him. He will be your link to me. Your way to remember me. Please continue on for Evelyn. She needs you. Just like I needed you. Knowing you, you've probably already noticed, but I took the pictures of you, Evelyn, and Elsie from the staircase with me. I could look at your beautiful face all day. My biggest regret is that I will not be able to grow old with you, to see our grandkids play in the yard, to sit on the porch and talk of nonsense and clouds and tall grass. I know these past few years have been hard. Please get past that and move on. I will love you for the rest of my days and every day following that.

Evelyn,

Forgive me, my dearest daughter. I can not even begin to apologize for my actions. Your sister was my pride and joy, she looked so much like your mother, and when she died, I felt as if a part of me had died. But just know that I will always love you, and I will always be proud of you. You have made me such a happy father. Find a good man, settle down, and have a beautiful family. If your kids are lucky, they will be half as beautiful as you are. You deserve the world, sweetheart. Go and get it.

Much love,

James Peter Davis.

Mother cried. I cried. We cried.

I had gotten my father back, but now he was gone again. And he wouldn't return.

And because of that, I would never heal.

**Okay, so I know it's not the best. I'm hoping to go back through it and edit it a lot. I wrote this about a year and a half ago, and there are a lot of agreement issues and stream of consciousness issues that need desperate fixing, but I really wanted to put this one out as well. This short story was my passion project for a long time, and it still is. I have big plans for this story, and I really hope to extend it in the future.