By Isabelle Mongeau
Issue 78
My mother wouldn’t look at me. She washed my father’s yogurt bowl in the sink, her back to me, while I fidgeted in the doorway. The words screamed in my mind: Turn around, goddammit.
Won’t you hug me?
Won’t you say something? Mom, please. Please.
The plea died as she scrubbed my father’s coffee mug, shoulders tight, face down.
“Bye, I guess,” I forced out.
She nodded once. Grabbing my duffle bag, I left.
My father and I began the two hour drive to Newport, Rhode Island where I would spend the summer working, writing and living alone. It was June of 2016, and I had just barely passed my first year of university. At nineteen, I had never spent a full day in Newport, knew no one, and had less than a grand and no car to my name.
But compared to the multitude of sleepy and stretched out beach towns that dotted the Eastern Seaboard, Newport felt manageable—a small, walkable city on the water. It promised a plethora of bars and restau- rants and streams of vacationing New Yorkers ready to tip. And I always loved the beach.
My father babbled on the drive while I clutched the backpack on my lap, stuffed with unread books and empty notepads. I had envisioned this summer writing and living with my boyfriend, but I hadn’t written in years and was now freshly single.
The song changed on the radio, grabbing my father’s attention.
“Oh, this one,” he said, cranking it higher. “This is my favorite song.”
It was the Allman Brothers’ version of Soulshine and I’d never heard it. I put my feet up on the dashboard, and glared out the window. Then, my father did something he only ever did in church. He sang.
Well, you got to let your soul shine
Just like my daddy used to say
He used to say soulshine
It’s better than sunshine
It’s better than moonshine
Damn sure better than rain
I burst into tears, a deep sadness surging through me. I sobbed and sobbed. Dad turned the song up louder and kept singing, pretending not to see me, as I pretended not to hear him. But I couldn’t stop. The pain of the past two years erupted in this one moment, my dad singing to me as we drove down the highway, on my way to live somewhere else, somewhere away from him.
When the song finished, my dad lowered the music.
“Why are you crying? What’s wrong with you?” he asked. I couldn’t speak. He gripped the wheel, just as uncomfortable with this expression of vulnerability as I was. “Is it Ben? Are you…feeling…things about Ben?”
Ben and I had broken up just the previous week after I failed to meet him in Florida. Now, as the song lilted on, flashes of conversation bubbled to the surface. Ben had said what we were both feeling: why are you still living there? You shouldn’t even be speaking to them anymore. Meanwhile, my parents screamed what we all already thought: why are you with this loser? Why will you do anything for a scrap of love?
A doll yanked in all directions, I finally ripped. Now, I would spend the summer paying Ben’s half of the rent while my parents remained 70 miles away, our relationship charred to bits. This was not the first time I left home, but it was the first time they helped me leave.
“It’s Ben, isn’t it?” my dad asked again. I shook my head, still crying.
He slapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Come on. You’re fine. It’s not like someone died.”
I sobbed harder. I wanted Ben to understand. I wanted my father to offer advice instead of singing someone else’s. I wanted my mother to say goodbye. I did not want it to be easier for my loved ones to let me go than to ask me to stay. But in that moment, with my father speeding me towards my new, empty future, all I could do was wail.
When we arrived at the apartment, I dumped my bags onto the bed.
My dad stuck his hands on his hips and gazed around, eyes wide.
“This place is a shithole,” he said.
“You should’ve seen the others, if you think this is bad.”
“Whatever you say.” He pointed. “Unpack your stuff or else it’ll be in your bag all summer.”
“I will,” I said. “Once you leave,” “You’re acting like a bitch.”
“I’m not a bitch.”
“I didn’t say you were. I said you’re acting like one.”
I stared at him, tight lipped and frustrated. Finally, he dug something out of his back pocket and forced it into my hand.
“Bye. Good luck,” he said, and left. After the sound of tires peeling out of the lot faded, I sat down on the bed. I opened my hand and looked down. It was a small, pink container of pepper spray.
* * *
I opened my bank app and my heart squeezed. My dad borrowed money from me a few weeks before I went to Newport. He occasionally requested a few thousand dollars when he lost track of bills or my older brother got into “spending trouble.” He always paid me back when I asked, but this time I was too prideful, too embarrassed.
The app loaded: $150. I was worth $150.
I landed a job at a squat hotel on the wharf with an outdoor dining area. The restaurant overlooked a field of anchored yachts, and a helicopter pad where billionaires would descend and swarm over the quaint bistros before disappearing to more expensive residential neighborhoods. In my few months there, I would serve the coach of the Boston Celtics, actors, and countless Wall Street guys.
But on my first day, in the midst of the dinner rush, it rained. The patrons cleared out and I went home with $20 in my gray apron, curled around my pepper spray. I trudged to my apartment with legs aching from a 12 hour shift, and went to bed with an empty stomach. Just before falling asleep, I texted Ben another apology and my Newport address. When I woke up the next day, I was still sprawled out in bed, fully dressed, with the lights on.
My phone buzzed next to me. Seriously? Ben had replied. Bitch.
* * *
It rained through the entire month of June. The tips were poor, as were the obligatory paychecks.
“Wait until the weather gets better,” my manager said. “You’ll make hundreds each night.”
Only, I couldn’t wait. I asked for extra shifts until I was working almost 80 hours a week—2pm to 2am, every day, with one day off every three weeks. It barely covered rent.
While I worked, I snacked on bar garnishes—oranges, lemons, cher- ries, and sometimes bacon. For dinner, I flirted with a line cook until he tapped me on the shoulder and pressed a brown carton into my hands. I opened it to find a large burger and waffle fries.
“Pepper jack cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and onions,” he said. “Just how you like it.”
I hugged him.
“Is there…” He bit his lip. “Anything else you like?” I grinned. “I love steak.”
The next night, I ate a filet mignon and paid in sexual comments, handsy touches, and degrading nicknames. I didn’t balk. I was doing what I had always done; using men to get me out of a situation, even if it meant placing myself in another precarious one. Maybe my parents were right when they called me a whore.
* * *
July brought better weather—and better tips. My hard work had earned me a reputation at the restaurant, so now my manager handed me the weekend spots. I started a collection of cash in my sock drawer. This month, I would be able to pay rent in full, and still have enough left over for food, maybe more.
I dropped my Tuesday shifts and took the day off. I spent the extra time laying in bed, berating myself for not visiting the beach. It was the main reason why I moved to Newport—but still, I remained in the king
bed meant for two, staring at the window or the pile of untouched books and notepads. Ben texted me, saying he was moving back up to Boston. Besides this, I didn’t interact with anyone, didn’t know anyone.
One Tuesday at the end of July, I baked funfetti cupcakes, filling the apartment with the smell of butter and sugar. I arranged them on a plate and brought them to my room. I picked up one at a time, slathered it with vanilla icing, then stuffed it into my mouth. Cupcake after cupcake, down my throat, each time a well of tears surging through me. I ate half the plate, then passed out with the remaining unfrosted cupcakes beside me.
When I woke up, I had a message on my phone from Ben.
Are you home?
I sat upright. I sent back a response. I’m in Newport. That’s what I meant. You at your apt?
Yes.
I’m here.
My heart banged against my ribs. Ben was here! I glanced at the dried-out cupcakes, the frosting smeared across the plate. Oh, God, Ben was here. I ran to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and rubbed on some concealer. I rushed the cupcakes to the kitchen, plopping them down on the counter. I could see his silhouette through the shade over the front door. I glanced down at my ratty t-shirt and boxers. It would have to do.
I took a breath and opened the door. Ben stood there, lanky and smiling, a bag slung over his shoulder. He was only a few years older than me, but it showed; his scruff growing in.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder.
“I can leave if you want…”
I threw my arms around him. He stiffened, then relaxed into my embrace, dropping his bag to hug me. We both began to sob, stroking each other’s hair. He was here, and I was no longer alone.
“How long are you staying?” I asked when I finally pulled away. “As long as you want me to.”
I called work and requested two days off for the first time.
“How have you been eating?” Ben asked, peering into my empty fridge. “The restaurant gives us free meals,” I said.
“Really?”
I shrugged.
That night, we drank, and Ben cooked my favorite: pasta and sausage with a cream sauce. I ate my entire plate, so he fixed me another, watching. “You’ve lost weight,” he said as I shoveled food into my mouth. We were sitting on my bed, the computer playing a movie we weren’t watching. “Have I?”
“Like—a lot. Were you sick?”
“No, just busy. Always working.” I pointed to my apron draped across the chair in the corner of my room. He retrieved it, touching the nametag pinned to it.
“This is cute,” he said. He reached into the pocket and pulled some- thing out. “What’s this?”
“Oh.” I stopped chewing. “Nothing. Just something my dad gave me.” He laughed and tossed the pepper spray from one hand to the other.
“To protect you from big bad men like me?” “Exactly.”
The next day, I dressed up for the first time since moving to New- port. We strolled through town and licked ice cream cones. We bought souvenirs and slurped $4 margheritas. By the time we stumbled back into the apartment, we were drunk.
“Why didn’t you come to Florida?” Ben slurred, kicking off his shoes. “You know why.” I unbuttoned my sweater.
“No, I want you to say it.”
“I couldn’t fucking elope, Ben. My parents…they would’ve never spoken to me again.”
“Why not?”
I had seen my father swear off his own twin for not getting him a job during the Recession. If I left with Ben, he would do the same to me. My mother would stand by his decision, even if she missed me, because she was his wife. At nineteen, I couldn’t bear to give up both my parents, even for someone I loved. I didn’t answer. Ben stormed into my room and I went after him. “Ben,
please.”
He faced me. His eyes were bloodshot, his face purple.
“Why do they have so much control over you? They don’t pay for your school. They don’t pay your rent. They take from you. When are you
going to get your money back?” “I don’t know. Soon.”
“We could use that money.”
I stopped, something in my gut twitching. It was my money, not his. “Why do you still care about these people?” he said.
“They aren’t these people! They’re my parents.” “They don’t care about you.”
I had thought this before. I had even confessed this to him at my lowest moment, but now he used it as ammunition against me. We stared at each other from across my room. I leaned against the chest of drawers by the door, my jewelry and hairbrush strewn across its top. “Yes, they do.”
“He hits you,” he said quietly. “Shut up.”
“Your father beats you.” “Shut up!”
“Your father beats you and your mother watches. They don’t love you.” I grabbed my hairbrush and threw it at his head.
“Fuck!” Ben ducked and it slammed against the wall. He glared at me, mouth agape. Then he lunged at me, arms outstretched for my throat.
* * *
The next morning, I woke up with him lying next to me, snoring. I rose and reached for my uniform, my pepper spray rolling onto the floor. I didn’t bother to pick it up.
Once out of the apartment, I found it difficult to walk. I stopped at a Dunkin Donuts, sitting down on a plastic chair and breathing deeply. My body ached everywhere; my head pounded. I bought coffee and a bagel and immediately felt guilty for the five dollars I spent on myself. When I arrived at work, my coworkers greeted me with smiles, wondering what I had been up to during my time off. With a glimmer of gratitude, I realized my absence had been noted.
“What’s this?” The hostess pointed to a bruise poking out of my collar. “Nothing.” I buttoned up.
“Was it a boy?” She smiled. She thought it was a hickey. I laughed. “Would it be anything else?”
By the evening, my face was gray, and my manager suggested I leave early. When I got home, Ben was lying in my bed, on his laptop.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi.”
“Come here.” I didn’t move.
“I’m thinking of interviewing at this restaurant tomorrow,” he said. “What restaurant?”
“It’s called Christine’s. It’s only two wharfs down from yours.” I had been wanting this for months, but I suddenly felt cold.
“I’m going to shower.” I unwrapped my apron and tossed it onto the bed. In the bathroom, I stripped and climbed into the shower. When I lathered myself with soap, the sight of my body shocked me. The pattern of bruises, dark and fresh, punctuated with a crisscross of scratches. This was the kind of treatment I understood, the kind I was used to. The type of love
I was doomed to always receive.
I sank to the floor, the water splashing against my back.
Ben was the first person who noticed the bruises left behind by my father. He asked questions that no one had ever asked, and to my shock, I answered. He became my refuge. I drove to his house after fights and rel- ished his attention as he iced my bruises, stroked my hair, and told me he loved me. He didn’t know my family the way my oldest friends did, so he had no qualms with hating them. Ben informed me that I was drowning, and then threw me a lifeline.
As I sat in the shower, the water now running cold down my back, my brain sputtered to understanding. If Ben was my protector, my hero, he wouldn’t leave bruises, too.
I stood up and turned off the water. I wrapped myself in a towel and opened the bathroom door, drops slipping down my hair and splattering onto the wood around me. I found Ben still scrolling on his laptop.
“Ben,” I said. “Ben, look at me.” He raised his head. “Mm?” “You need to leave.”
“What?” He sat upright.
“I want you to leave. Get out.”
“Don’t talk to me that way.” He leapt off the bed.
“Get out of the apartment I pay for. Now.”
He lurched towards me, but I slammed the bathroom door in his face. He banged and banged, but I pressed my entire body weight against it. My towel fell to the floor, my wet feet slipped on the tiles. The door shut- tered with his force. If he gets in here, I thought. He will kill me.
The door creaked and bent around my body as he screamed my name and crashed his fists against it. But it did not break. The door remained, and so did I.
Eventually, the pounding stopped. I stayed leaning against it as I heard him huffing away, slamming furniture and gathering items. I listened for the smack of the screen door, then the rev of his car. I let out a breath only when it was gone. I stayed there, back pressed against the bathroom door, shivering from the cold. After almost half an hour, I relaxed. I hung up my towel and entered my room.
My clothes lay strewn across the floor, my chair knocked over. I stepped around the mess and opened my drawer to retrieve undergar- ments. That’s when I noticed. The wad of cash I kept in my drawer was gone. My rent was due in three days and Ben had stolen all of it.
I sunk onto the bed. Stupid, I thought. I’m so goddamn stupid. I laid back on my bed, wiping away tears. My gaze wandered to my bedside table, to the pile of books on it. Then I did what I had done as a child, when a tidal wave of emotions overwhelmed me. I picked up the top one and began to read.
I read through the night. Stepping outside of myself was a relief. I finished the book by the early morning, napped for a few hours, then dressed for work. As I got ready, I remembered my father still owed me money. I typed the number into my phone, then paused. I hadn’t spoken to them in months, since I left. And I wasn’t the one who asked for money, that was my brother. I had been the parent pleaser before all of this.
I shook my head. I wasn’t asking for money—I was asking for it back.
I dialed.
“Hi!” my mother answered. I was taken aback by her cheery tone. “How are you?”
“Oh, hi. I’m good.” “Oh, good.”
We lapsed into silence.
“Have you read Big Little Lies?” I asked. “Yes, I loved it.”
My shoulders relaxed. “I just finished it this morning.” “How’s your writing going?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You could send me something. If you want.”
As a child, I used to hand my mother stacks of crumbled pages, beg- ging her to read them.
“I don’t really have anything,” I said. “Well, if you do—”
“Hello?” my dad’s voice boomed on the other line. “Izzy?”
“I’ll talk to you later,” my mother said and hung up before I could say goodbye.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” my dad asked.
“Nothing’s wrong.” I picked at a hangnail. “Well…I was wondering if—if I could get that money back. Please.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure. Can I send it to you later today?” “That would be great.”
“Cool. I’ll do that. Do you need anything else? Eating well?” “The restaurant gives me meals.”
“That’s good. How’s the walk home?” “Safe.”
“Good, good. Do you still have that…”
I glanced under my bed where the pink tube still lay discarded. “Yeah, it’s safe. I promise,” I said.
“Good, good,” he said. “Well, I have to go, but nice talking to you.”
We hung up, a weight peeling off my back. Nice talking to you. Did he mean it? They sounded surprised—even happy—to hear from me even though they didn’t know what to say. Could it be possible they missed me?
I paid my rent and started buying a coffee and bagel each morning on the way to work. With the warm weather, my tips swelled, and I started accumulating money again. I stopped flirting with the line cook and started paying for food. I took one day off each week. I read after my long shifts and on my days off, finding books once again an escape and a pleasure. I texted my mom the names of books I enjoyed, and she texted back.
Somewhere along the way I began writing again. I hunched over in bed and tapped away at the keys on my computer or scribbled in my note-book. I resumed writing a novel I had abandoned at university. One night, I wrote a chapter, immersed in the world I had created, and emailed it to my mother. I leaned back and stared at the screen. Shit, I thought, why did I just do that? I closed my laptop and didn’t sleep the whole night.
The next day I had off. Like a reflex, I bought a coffee and a bagel. On the sidewalk outside the Dunkin Donuts, I stood, blinking in the warm weather. I felt, maybe for the first time, that I was glad to be alone. I wanted to be my own company. Now that I wasn’t a parent pleaser or a whore or engaged or helpless or any of the things I had once feared and believed I was, I didn’t really know who I was.
I strolled to the beach, only a five-minute walk. I came across the stone wall that separated the sand from the street and propped myself on it. I breathed in the salt, let my hair tangle in the breeze. Something in me calmed. I thought of my dad singing Soulshine, a song about a father comforting his child. I thought of all the friends I lost to my bitterness these past few years. I thought of the activities I abandoned just to stay with Ben and his false comfort, and of the untouched pepper spray. I thought of my mother.
I pulled my notebook out of my bag and wrote a sappy entry about memories at the beach. The feel of my dad’s warm hands supporting my elbows, his voice cheering me on—kick, kick, kick!—as he taught me how to swim amongst the waves. My mother watching from the distant shore, afraid to intrude. I wrote how I felt restored by the sea. How I had come to Newport to return to the happiness I felt as a child, to that forgotten place when I idolized my parents and played with my friends. When I thought love was as simple as a melting Hershey Kiss in the palm of my hand.
Something pecked at my arm. I glanced up. A seagull stood on the wall, ruffling its wings. Its eyes stared at the bagel in my left hand.
“No, not for you,” I said. It cocked its head to one side. “Okay, fine.
Just a bit.”
I ripped off a piece and tossed it to him. He caught it in his beak and swallowed it down his gullet. Then, a multitude of seagulls swarmed around me, cawing and snapping their beaks, pecking at my head and arms. I shrieked and tumbled off the wall, spilling my coffee on the way down and flinging the bagel as far away as I could. The birds flew after it.
“Are you fucking kidding me!” I yelled. I collected my things and stalked back to the apartment. So much for that romantic notion. As I reached my front door, my phone rang. I glanced down. It was my mom. Oh God.
I picked up. “Hi.”
“I read your chapter,” she said.
“Oh.” I sat down on the front stoop, my shoulders tensing. I wiped sand off my calves and stared at the gravel and grass in front of me.
“It’s…”
“It’s what?”
“It’s good. It’s really good. It reads like an adult chapter—you know, like a real writer.”
“Are you serious?”
“I want you to send me more.”
“Thanks.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I guess I’m a writer, now.” “Oh, honey, you always were.”
“Maybe, you’re right.” I laughed and leaned back against the building.
We began talking. I promised I would write another chapter and send it to her, and she told me she liked her new role as a “first reader.” We caught up, even joking. She told me about her new favorite recipe and I told her about my coworkers. After twenty, easy minutes, she took a breath.
“Well, I’ll talk to you later, then,” my mom said. “Sure, of course.”
After, I stared at my phone, a faint smile pulling at my lips. Maybe we didn’t need to say goodbye. Maybe we were just beginning to say hello.
Finally, I squared my shoulders and stood tall.