How to Be a Hero

How to Be a Hero

By Valentina Rivera

                  You hate asparagus. However, when Mommy slaps a helping onto your dinner plate, quickly shovel it down your small mouth and remember to chew with your mouth closed. Daddy asks that you don’t smack nor complain at the table. Every day, make an effort to eat all your food groups, mind your manners, keep your toy box organized, and keep from teasing little brother. If you do so, Daddy will ruffle your hair with pride and say, “That’s MY girl!”

Every evening, patiently sit on the curb at the end of the driveway. This way, you are the first one to welcome him back to home sweet home. His cheek might be scratchy and rough some days with hair stubbies, but when he sets his briefcase down to lift you up into his arms, press a kiss to it anyway. Eagerly wave the masterpiece you created at school that day in front of his round nose and warm, brown eyes. It’s worth mentioning to him that this work of artistry was crafted using nothing but thick, globs of Crayola paint and the teeny tips of your tiny fingers. Beam with pride when he uses smiley face magnets to stick your creation at the center of the refrigerator door.

“Picasso who?” he’ll say with a wink.

If you’re a good girl, Daddy will have no reason to ever stop loving you. You’ll always have a warm hand to hold when you cross the street, a high five to catch (before you’re too slow), a victorious throne upon his shoulders after winning a soccer game, a lap to curl up on when your eyes get sleepy, and most importantly, a special tea party guest. Daddy will always find the time to sit at your plastic, Tinkerbell table, making conversation with you in silly accents as you use a teapot to pour two cups of chocolate milk—your shared favorite drink.

“Cheers to my princess!” he’ll bellow as he lifts his pinky to the sky and takes a slurp. You will happily drink up, wishing to always be Daddy’s little princess, and him your hero.

                  When a few years pass and Mommy falls real sick, it is important that you try and continue to be a good girl with a big heart and small but helpful hands. Without being told, you should keep your bed made, help with the dishes after supper, brush your teeth, and comb your hair.  When Daddy has to stay at the hospital with Mommy and can’t pick him up from school, walk little brother home. Forget about going to Jessica Reeney’s house to play UNO with your third-grade peers. Remind yourself that she always cheats anyway and Mrs. Reeney’s healthy, vegan snacks taste bland.

                  After a few, short months, you will notice that sometimes prayers go unanswered and Mommy just can’t fight anymore. Don’t talk about it. The word “cancer” is a dangerous word. It rolls off the tongue accompanied by sharp daggers, and upon mention, the nasty word leaves Daddy weak and wounded. Do not waste your breath with questions either. There is no use in asking Daddy, for he has developed a habit of leaving your questions hanging and dangling in midair, unanswered. After the funeral, your relatives from near and far will leave you, little brother, and Daddy in a dark, empty, house that seems to have gone cold. Do not seek warmth wrapped tightly in Daddy’s arms, close to his beating heart. It has gone cold there too.

                  In order to numb his pain, Daddy buries himself in work and later, drowns himself in liquor. When crossing the street, do not panic when he clutches his briefcase and not your hand. Take your little brother’s instead and drag him along as you walk quickly at Daddy’s heels. Do your best to keep up. Keep your chocolate milk on the left side of the fridge to make room for the neatly stacked cases of beer that have found a home on the right. Don’t bother waiting for him to get home from work anymore. You are in fifth grade now, so it’s best to retire your seat on the curb at the edge of the driveway. Tell yourself that he isn’t coming anytime soon. Almost every night, he’ll call to tell you he has to stay late, reminding you of the frozen pizza that can fill you and little brother and to lock the front door before going to bed. At first, it’s okay to set an extra placemat at the dinner table and save two slices of peperoni for him. But after a while, leaving his placemat in the drawer and making a mac and cheese dinner for just you and little brother is okay, too.

 When years go by and you finally begin your glorious years as a young adult in high school, remind yourself that you are mature now. Because you are a mature young woman who puts others first, it is important that you try to be happy for Daddy when his old buddies start to come around again. You have always called them “Uncles”, but their rude humor, pathetic mid-life crises, and loud, drunken poker nights will make you glad they aren’t real family. Try to ignore the fact that Mom always hated Dad’s buddies. Try to ignore the fact that your “uncles” are kind of pathetic, beer-gut oldies with the heart, soul, and alcohol tolerance of a frat boy, beer pong champ. When you are invited out to a sleepover on Friday nights, you and your friends will wake up to the sweet aroma of buttermilk pancakes and the sharp sound of bacon grease crackling on the stove. But at home on Sunday, the living room morning fragrance will smell of stale whiskey and bar peanuts. Accept that breakfast is usually a no-go. Don’t risk waking up the grimy uncles that lay sprawled out on your couches. They are sleeping in because they are either a.) Still drunk, b.) Too hungover to pry themselves from the cushions c.) Avoiding their wives at home, or d.) All of the above. Ignore the whiskey on Dad’s breath that smacks you awake when he mumbles good morning. Refrain from asking him why grown men go bar hopping like they turned 21 all over again. Before you mockingly reply to his morning greeting with the words, My Hero, bite your tongue. 

At your high school soccer games, do not listen for Dad’s cheer. Focus on your breathing, the clumps of dirt collecting between the spikes of your cleats, the sudden shift in the opposing team’s defensive line. Focus on the steady tapping of your foot against the ball as you weave your way past blurs of jersey and ponytail. And when you come face to face with the last blur and the large, rectangle goal post, hold your arms out wide, finding the balance you only seem to find on the field. Swing your leg back sharply, bend your foot to prepare your laces for contact, aim for precision, and kick. Hard. Kick the soccer ball so hard, the goalie dives to the wrong side, confused by its power and direction. Or maybe attempting to dodge it. Kick it so hard it slings past the white posts and into the net. Fast and in one fluid movement. Kick it so hard, you leave the ball, along with your anger and frustration, at the very back of the goal. As you turn around, avoid looking in the stands when the crowd cheers. If you do anyway, only to find his absence, repeat the process.

However, all the running, shoving, and kicking in the world is not enough to ease what has now become agitating frustration. Try your best to ignore a heavy pain. When you sit and wait on the hard bleachers for 30 minutes after a Friday afternoon practice, waiting on Dad’s vehicle to pull into the parking lot, remind yourself that you’ll be getting your license in a matter of weeks. Remind yourself that when that happens, you will be fully capable of putting as much distance between you and him as you please, whenever you feel. Just as he had done. When 30 minutes turns to 48 and you see the volleyball girls climbing the bleachers towards you, accept the ride they offer. Once smooshed in middle seat of a tiny Toyota, they ask you if you’re going to Jacob Ness’ house party. Play it cool and shrug.

“His parents are literally visiting his older sister at college. It’s literally going to be boys, booze, and a pool. All night,” announces Karen from the passenger seat. She touches up the eye liner that was left splotched by sweat during practice. Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool. “No fucking lame ass parents. It’s literally a dream”, she adds, now struggling adjust her spandex while sitting. Pray silently for Carol, who is driving recklessly, swerving in and out of lanes, distracted by her own reflection in the rearview. On second thought, throw yourself a silent prayer too.  Over the bass of the blaring music she yells that you can come home with her, go to the party with her, and stay the night after.

“That way you can drink all you want. Your parents will never have to know!” Drink. Nod your head. Instead of calling Dad to inform him of your ride, ask to turn up the music.

Go to Jacob’s house party with these girls. Drink the first beer handed to you by a boy with perfect teeth and gel-coated hair. It tastes sour and stale. Look around at all the hands clutching cans of their own. Force sip after sip and pretend its chocolate milk. Throw your head back, tilting the can and letting the last drop slide across your tongue. When another boy dangles a cold, unopened one in front of your face, take it. And another one. And maybe another. Eventually, it tastes like water. When you’re nice and fuzzy, laugh and laugh and laugh. Fall back and let yourself sink into the sticky cushions of a couch.

“Damn, I haven’t felt this good in a long ass time,” you inform the girls. Try not to wince when they respond to your statement with not words, but giggly squeals. When you feel your phone vibrating in your back pocket and pull it out to see your dad has called 12 times, toss it across the couch. Pray that it, too, sinks into the cushions of the sticky leather. Remind yourself that all Dad does is weigh you down. “I am as light as a feather,” you establish aloud, but not to anyone in particular. Holding another magical beverage, you stick your pinky up to the sky. Your new friends laugh. “Cheers! Here’s to being weightless!” You would call Dad back, but the laughs of your new friends, the clink of the cans and shot glasses and cups, the music—it’s way too loud to call back. Instead, just float like the feather you are.

 Stay at Jacob’s with these girls until 4 am. Join them at Allie’s party the night after. Play pong at Austin’s house on Sunday nights with their entire clique. Pregame in the parking lot for every football game after that, and maybe drink at Karen’s on Thursdays. Maybe at Carol’s on Mondays. Maybe even suggest a girls wine night for the days in between. Befriend these people. They are the connections. With every Karen or Carol or Austin comes a party or a pregame or access to a fake ID. Before going out, curl your hair and coat your face with liquid confidence. Lipstick too, on some nights. Stand by the pong tables and flirt with the boys on the winning team. Then, destroy them in the next round. Let the little dosages of weightlessness in smiley face shot glasses burn your throat numb. Just like Dad, find relief tucked in and folded at the bottom of a bottle. When coach pulls you from the starling line up for being late to every morning practice, remind yourself that being weightless beats kicking a damn ball. When you come home hours after curfew, leave Dad’s pestering questions hanging dryly in midair without answer. Walk straight to your room. When he yells, yell louder. When your average grade is a D+, display your report card in the center of the refrigerator door.

“It’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore,” Dad says to you coldly one evening. Don’t panic. Instead, shoot back.

“That’s funny,” you say. “I thought about saying the same thing to you after Mommy died.”

When you look up to meet him eye to eye, don’t be surprised when you see your words were like daggers that left him wounded again. It is important that you look away at this moment. But if you can’t, do not look into his cold, brown eyes. Remind yourself that you are not his princess anymore.

The next day at school, focus on your breathing. A 19 on the ACT won’t get you into college, but hyperventilating in the middle of study hall sure as hell won’t either. Try not to remind yourself that Mom scored a full ride and graduated with an engineering degree. What will be your major? Your interests included shots, pre-gaming and flip cup. In that order. At lunch, when asparagus is slapped onto a plastic lunch tray in front of you, hold your breath. Don’t cry. Missing mommy makes you feel heavy. Missing Daddy makes you feel heavy. When you realize that no one keeps a shot of Jack in their locker, and alcohol on campus is impossible to find, it’s okay to feel relieved. It’s okay to feel heavy sometimes too.

When the last bell rings, go straight home. When you see Dad’s vehicle in the driveway, stand on the curb and brace yourself for another fight. Gather the little strength left in you and swing the front door open, ready for battle. But when you see Dad on the couch, bent over, face in palms and tears streaming down each scratchy, unshaven cheek, kiss them instead. Reach for his warm hand and hold it tight. When tears begin to race each other down your own cheeks, don’t wipe them away. Instead, let Dad do it.

“I have let your mother down. I have let you down and I am so sorry,” he says, voice weak and trembling. When presented with this long overdue apology, you remind yourself that you can a.) Walk away or b.) Accept it. You choose neither. Do not push him away and do not run into his arms with forgiveness. Instead, stand up on your feet and pull him off the couch with you. Lead him into the kitchen. Together, you gather the beer, whiskey, vodka, and any other form of weightlessness. Can buy can, bottle by bottle, pour the contents down the kitchen sink. Watch as Daddy follows. As you watch the bubbles and sour smelling toxicity twirl in circles down the drain, lean against his shoulder. When you are sure that the last drop of alcohol in the house is sliding down the drain pipe, pull two cups from the cabinet and fill them to the brim with chocolate milk. Stick your pinky to the sky and watch as a familiar smile cracks Dad’s sad face.

“Cheers to my hero,” Dad says as you take a slurp.

                 

                  .