Page 21 of Eyes Like Angel
“Don’t test me, Michael,” she scolded further. “So help me God if you bring another Jezebel again into the estate or the church or skipped the curfew, you’re going to get punished accordingly. You ruined our appetite for the feast! We didn’t get to eat last night; your father has to process himself and medicate, locking himself up in his godawful study for—for god knows how long since! Doesn’t even want me to come and bother knocking at his door. He doesn’t even want to go into the bed with me. Did you even see what that wretched girl was wearing on that day?! Oh, I could almost feel myself faint whenshe has her huge tits out in the open for the older men to see! Her outfit nearly gave me an early heart attack!”
Slightly, I winced. Bothered by the name Michael—my middle name. Truth be told, I disliked it.
Up until now she used that name, and all I have to do is to grit my teeth and shut my brain down to cuckoo-land. According to my grandmother—an old family member on my dad’s side—to her personal experience of witnessing the scene, both of my parents had a huge fight during Mom’s longest second labor located at the hospital’s top private floor, where my mom is provided the most luxurious room and godlike services in order not to sit or be next to middle class patients, after a lengthened discussion whether Mom should give natural birth or a C-section, which unsettled me in great measure.
Long story short, while giving birth—giving birth to me—my dad laid his stiffened back on the grey couch, tired from office work, strongly suggested to give me a name ‘Adrian’, meanwhile Mom’s short-fused temper strongly recommended—and fought hard for—to settle with a name ‘Michael’, considered on carrying me in her belly for nine months.
Name wars in a birthing room was a nightmare for the Rivers family and my mom’s side of the family, the Lovelace family. The debate lasted twelve hours straight during the procession of Mom’s birthing process, the in-laws and relatives excused themselves to wait outside at the lobby to lessen the tension, though it didn’t consider the subject dropped. Dad was persistent.
Persistent was an understatement.
While giving birth, my head poking out, my dad argued further, reasoning out—his back ached, honey-colored eyes were blood-red at passing hours, shouted in full-sentenced complaint from a severe case of a hard-rock leathered couch—until Mom’senergy surrendered at the last second and collapsed into a deep sleep.
By then, Dad was happily rested when she got his way, birthing room quietened, and not long, she kept Michael as the middle name. Dad objected but yielded, grumbling on his ongoing rant on Mom’s stubbornness.
My grandmother found the whole hospital situation funny, funnier than a comedic stand-up show onNetflix.
By then, it’s been finalized on several documents, on birth certificate and medical records, born as Adrian Michael Rivers.
I tried to roll it off of my tongue a couple of times.
Adrian Michael Rivers.
My name wasn’t as memorable, to say the least, a bit of a mouthful. And the word ‘mouthful’ was an ‘nice’ understatement. Maybe nice on the paper, but not a form into someone’s mouth when give a lecture.
Up until this day, Mom called me Michael, Dad called me Adrian, Adrian Rivers, often competitive to get in first place.
Talk about match made in heaven—or hell,I insincerely thought.
Years up to now, Mom’s greatly insisted on calling me Michael, which it irked Dad at some points in his career and personal time, then leading up to retirement in a town. Back then, at the age of four, at first I got confused, which one to use my name, but then time came and outgrown to a stage where they called me either one.
Basically, Dad personally called me as ‘Adrian’ while Mom personally called me as ‘Michael’.
“No, I didn’t see what she’s wearing,” I pressed, a smile smirk curled. “In fact it must’ve been invisible to the naked eye. Jesus, maybe it’s a see-through dress she’s wearing.”
Mom’s eyes bulged in terror, atrocious at my statement.
As always, she doesn’t appreciate sarcasm or a slight joke. She’s been a stiff woman to talk to.
“Are you fucking crazy?! Are you out of your mind? That kind of reputation you’re holding is going to cost us dearly!”
Slamming the expensive door fridge, I strayed, storming into the next room.
She trudged behind me.
“Hey, I’m not done talking here, asshole,” she furthered.
“I’m actually tired,” I remarked, uninterested, my back slumped. “We can discuss about how pathetic I am later.”
“Your tiredness doesn’t dismiss you, I do. You live at my house, and therefore, you live bymyrules. Obey them,” she shot back, rubber slippers spilling a several loud cracks on white smooth tiles.
“Don’t you meanhisrules?” By that, meaning him, Dad—the ever-so-professional Dad—who would do anything to keep family close, and pristine, money-stacked reputation closer.
She staggered. “I don’t care. I gave birth to you. I sacrificed my life and my breath and blood to bring you into this goddamn world. Use your fucking brain and maturity for once.”
Tempting to have my hand punched at her, I paused in the middle of the grandiose hall at the large estate my dad tried to replicate from Los Angeles, but far grander and boxed-like structure like it belongs at a gated community for elderly. What got me shocked is not a single friendly neighbor come marching and pounded at the gated doors, close on destroying the door camera from scolding us to lower voices from my mom’s uncontrolled tantrum.
We were the only people who have gated doors. Never know who might try to intrude and break into the building.
