Multiple Scars
by Tony R. Rodriguez
Mother and Father are fighting again. Awakened from my nap, I stretch my back and scrape the rundown carpet. In a tired voice I speak in a language only Father seems to comprehend. I can understand everything they’re saying—yet this time too many words refer to things they did outside of the home, abstract moments of them walking down the Mission earlier today. Mother tells Father that he’s self-centered as she flings a DVD at his face. Father remains silent, pretending this isn’t happening, an escapist he is. He walks over to me when she flings another DVD at his head, just missing him by inches, complaining that he’s spending too much money on such things.
“Why won’t you talk? Are you ashamed that I’m right?” Mother says with eyes determined and set in their forever ways. Again, there’s no response. He walks over to me and picks me up, gently petting my head and telling me that it’s OK. I feel his fingers piano sweetness on my scalp, gently scratching spots where fleas irritate. His nose comes crashing tenderly around my ears and I forget what’s happening with Mother. All I feel is his love. All I know is that he loves me and treats me as his only child, even though there’s no blood relation.
The mailman slips some bills and advertisements through the slot of the front door and I leap from Father’s strong grip, quickly running to the pile of interest. I smack a small package and bite a few envelopes with flimsy plastic that covers the address of our home. Father walks over to me, blocking out more of the harsh words Mother is saying to him. He picks me up again and says that everything’s OK. Giggles and more words of hurt leap from Mother’s mouth, sticking everywhere around Father and me, creeping out of the windows and into the Mission District. But we’re invincible from her maltreatment. His protective care for me allows her words to ricochet off us. This is why she continues to complain: she hates the attention he gives me.
And Father takes me outside for a walk. Mother thumps the door behind us, creating a sound any person who lives along the Mission is used to hearing. Together we walk to a nearby park. I never leave his side. The charms from my necklace jingle as we stroll together in unison down the cracked sidewalks. And I listen to him as he sings a poem from Lewis Carroll. And I’m lost in the words. I stay by his adoring side, skipping my quick feet, oblivious to the fast-paced life on the streets, rubbing my sides on his shins with utmost affection. I’ve never run from him whenever we take our walks, nor disregarded what he’s said during these times together. I’ve always enjoyed our little walks because it proves his true fatherly qualities.
He leans down and picks me up after he finishes the poem, again rubbing me with his nose. I wish I could speak to him in his language and tell him not to worry about Mother. I know he understands me now, but I’d still like to tell him. I want to tell him that he’s a good man, a good father who doesn’t deserve such treatment. I can only speak to him with a vibration he enjoys—he understanding and wiggling his nose deeper into the back of my neck. And we’ve forgotten about Mother. She’s likely still inside screaming to the walls, but we’re outside now, bonding and watching the sun slowly retreat west, casting brilliant colors across the San Franciscan hills.
“I know. I know,” Father says to me. “We have to face this and talk things through, but I’m nervous about how Mother will handle a conversation attempt.”
Poor Father. Poor little man who embodies so much guilt. How he absorbs the rage of others with passive eyes. I wish I could speak to Mother in a language other than non-verbal. Father understands, but she doesn’t. I want to tell her to loosen her actions and hurtful words and remember the many times celebrated with Father. She won’t listen, though. I’m merely her prop. I’m her mouth to feed when Father forgets. My existence is only one for a conversation topic. Sure, when company comes over and Mother becomes scared that her guests are becoming bored, she turns to me and says cruel things to me, her adopted child. She thinks I’m not listening, but I am. She believes that I can’t understand, but I can. When such conversations arise, Father usually interjects by picking me up, speaking of my improvements with my chores. He brags about the silly father/daughter games we play together. The guests can’t believe any of it, yet some do. But I have been working on a lot of things around the house. As the company would continue to laugh at Father and his stories of me, he would take me in his arms and rest me in his lap, more proud words dancing from his lips to guests who think he’s mad, but he’s not.
We continue our walk around the park and neighborhood, completing a massive few blocks, stopping in front of our home where Mother waits inside patiently like a spider with no need for a web.
I maintain my vibrations and Father says that we should walk around once more and continue to talk about life. He sets me down and I follow at his side, intermittently skimming his shins. He speaks a great deal of Mother, how he cares for her, how she doesn’t understand who he is, and his kind of love for life. He tells me that I’m such a great listener. He says I’m his trusty counselor.
Cars drive past us staring. Some high school students in a red Toyota Camry stop and say that we’re the cutest things ever. One girl pulls out a digital camera and asks if it’s OK to take a picture. Father nods and tells me to smile. Immense vibrations come from my ribs and neck and I wish I could have a copy of the picture. Too bad these high schoolers don’t know of the recent argument Father had with Mother. If they did, they would probably say that he’s a strong man, a caring father.
We complete the massive block again and he picks me up and says that things are going to be OK. Looking into his eyes and feeling his nose caress my neck I know he’s right, because he’ll take care of me. He points toward the sky and says that life is what you make of it.
We reach home and he opens the front door after unlocking three locks and says aloud to Mother, “We’re back.”
Nothing.
Silence can mean a disregard for what was said.
Father holds me tight and walks around the house and whispers things in my ear: reassurance that life is wonderful. We enter my bedroom with pictures of famous children like me. There’s an old picture of Toonces the Driving Cat from early Saturday Night Live sketches. There’s a cartoon of Garfield being cruel to Odie. And one picture I adore of that cat in Shrek 2. I leap from his arms and run into my room, kicking my toys into the corner where they belong because Father said that’s where they should go when I’m done playing with them. He pets me and tells me I’m the greatest. I go about my chores and he leaves, slowly walking to the bedroom only she’s allowed to decorate.
“What?!” snarls Mother when he reaches the bedroom door. He stares at her with passive eyes and asks if she wants to talk. She gets up, screaming again at him with anger and madness. He wants to know where all this aggression is coming from, but she only says that he should know. But he doesn’t. She needs to explain things to him so he could change whatever it is, but she chooses not to. Or maybe he’s never listened? I peek my head out of my door and whisper something toward him. He turns and smiles, winking at me that everything’s going to be OK. Fury in Mother. Rage in the form of tough steps and broken thoughts come crashing past Father, darting toward me with determination. Mother picks up a nearby magazine on her dresser and fiercely jets it my way, screaming with force, “You love that damn cat more than me.”