Page 22 of My Thursday Throwback

Chapter 8 – Sinking in Some Teeth

Sunday Morning

Zelda sat poolside sunning her tired soul as the three journals sat on the table beside her as if they too were in need of illumination. She hated the diaries. She hated everything they represented, but more importantly, Zelda hated the way the diaries made her see herself and her life as she had lived it thus far. A little something both Scott and Pip had pointed out to her. The thing that crawled up her pants leg and made her itch the most was her newfound anger towards her brother.

How different would I be as a person had he not messed with my head?

This question she also asked him over the phone. He called in the middle of her thought, forcing her hand to ask her brother the question out loud.

“What is wrong with who you are now? It makes no sense whatsoever to sit and toy with the idea of whom you could have been. This isn’t The Matrix, there was no blue pill, Zelda. I was 18 and faced with hard choices. I had the choice to make the decision I made or to allow you to come face to face with the fact your stepfather was a sadistic man. So sit on the other end of this line feeling froggy, wanting to jump at me, bumping accusations of me doing you wrong. You’ve had a good life. A semi-normal, well-balanced one, as much as I could give. I showered you with love and affection somewhat to my detriment, but don’t give me this shit. I don’t want to hear it,” Michael said firmly.

“Why do people keep telling me that I am supposed to just get on with my life and not address any of these serious issues, Mike?”

“What serious issues? Tell me one goddamn serious issue you’ve had to deal with, Zelda? Your life is crappy because Mama was mean to you? So what? She was mean to me too! You want to complain about Grandma sitting you in a tub of hot water to cool your jets when you were popping off at the mouth, which you loved to do. Sis, what you are saying is nothing new.”

She held the phone, unable to think of a single thing that had held her back. She stopped gymnastics because she no longer wished to compete. It wasn’t a money issue. The choice of a local college was her preference over going out of state or out of town, which she’d selected in order to stay in her own space. Most people got on her nerves becoming the main reason why her inner circle of friends was only Margo and Jinny, now half Jinny and mainly Pip.

“Bye Mike,” she said, trying to get off the phone with him.

“You want to know what your real issue is, Zelda? You are selfish,” he said.

“What do you mean I’m selfish?”

“Just what I said. You are so busy being focused on your childhood, that it has never occurred to you that I didn’t have much of one. What is truly pissing me off is that you called to lay into me about your life and never once did you ask how we are doing after withstanding a hurricane,” he said.

“As pissy as you are, I assume you are fine,” she said.

“Grandma’s house is ruined, Wilke and she have been locked in here with me for a week, and Pip won’t talk to me,” he said. “That’s why I am pissy!”

“Surprise Pip and do something spontaneous,” Zelda suggested, changing the subject. “She’s in love with you. All you have to do is woo her and win her, big brother.”

“Yeah, I’m trying,” he said. “And you are trying to change the subject. I know what you’re doing but don’t worry, I will be there Tuesday. Love you. Wait...hold on, Pip loves me?”

“Yes, and I love you, too,” she said clicking off the line.

What in the entire fresh hell? The conversation didn’t go exactly as she had planned. Nothing was going as she planned. No matter what she said or calculated doing, she felt like a victim.

I am not a victim.

I am not a victim of my father.

I am not a victim of Michael’s Vulcan Mind Melding.

I am not a victim of my circumstance.

I am not a victim of my crazy grandmother.

I am strong. Moving forward. Clear. Vision.

Each statement she wrote in the new diary that she’d purchased before coming to Vegas. A fresh book with unsullied virgin pages to make a different start with journaling the innermost thoughts of what she felt was an empty head. More than anything, she wanted to chronicle her pain, as if giving it life, but she didn’t have any real pain, just flashes of a memory of a bad smell of liquor on a man’s breath on her neck, his hand on her thigh. Adding to that was a stupid conflicted mother, who tried to punish the personality out her body.

When I have kids, I’m going to be a good mom. A kind mom. A loving mom who is unafraid to shower my children with affection and let them know they are cared for, and I am definitely going to protect them from predators.

Her phone chimed. She recognized the number as Chandler’s.

“Hey there,” she said cheerfully. “This a surprise.”

“That, Madam, will be the understatement of the year. I have on the line for you Samantha. Should I put the call through?” He asked.

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