Page 11 of Neat
She and Dad used to dance every night in our kitchen while she cooked, or in the living room after dinner. It wasn’t always to this song, though it was a favorite. After Dad passed, my brothers and I decided to keep the tradition alive.
Not just for her, but for us, too.
In the months that first followed Dad’s death, our entire family fell apart. Mom had taken to drinking herself numb, my older brothers were fighting over who was the new man of the house, and Mikey and I were retreating into the things that brought us most comfort — me into books, him into music. It was the first and only time I’d ever seen our family machine break down.
The night I asked Mom to dance after dinner was the first night we started to come back together.
It’d been nine years since my father’s death, nearly a decade without him being here with us, and yet I still felt his presence as if he’d never left at all when we were all inside that house.
That’s the thing about losing a loved one. In one way or another, they stay with us forever. They’re never truly lost, never truly gone — as long as we choose to keep them alive in our hearts.
Still, the mystery of his death was one that haunted every member of my family. Almost a decade had passed, and we still didn’t have answers for the flurry of questions we asked ourselves every night.
Part of me hoped we would find those answers one day.
The bigger part of me knew we never would.
So, I shut those thoughts out, focusing instead on the music filling our home as I spun Mom out before dropping her down in a dramatic dip. And in the back of my mind, I wondered what it would be like to dance with my own wife to a song that we’d call our own, one we’d lean on in the good times and the bad as we went through life together.
Then, for some odd reason, I wondered if Mallory Scooter liked to dance.
The thought was gone with the next spin.
Mallory
Mine.
All my life, I’d wanted to look at something —anything— and feel that one, possessive, all-empowering word ringing true to my bones.
When I was younger, I’d wanted a dog — and we’d gotten one. But it wasn’tmine, it was ours — my brother’s, my dad’s, my mom’s. I’d had a room to myself growing up, but it had been decorated carefully by my mother, without a single representation of who I was. When I got my car, it was the one my father had driven for five years and then handed down to me. Even when I was at college, I shared an apartment with three girls I didn’t know, and the space never felt like mine.
Now, standing in the middle of the gutted retail space that I would transform into an art studio, I looked around and tried to feel it.
Mine.
This place is mine.
I should have felt it, because for all intents and purposes, itwasmine — along with the small studio apartment above it. It was free for me to do what I wanted with it, to bring my dream of owning my own studio to life.
I could look around and picture it all.
I saw the windows, floor to ceiling, letting in natural light and giving passerby’s a view of the art being made inside. I saw the back room that I’d convert into a dark room, where photographs would slowly materialize. I saw the stage for live models, the easels surrounding it, imagined artists of all ages gazing up at their subject before dipping their paint brush to begin. I saw craft classes for children, saw date night painting projects for couples, saw wine night sketch classes for girls’ outings. I envisioned students taking classes with me for years, honing their craft, becoming stronger and more creative as the years passed.
The options for what would happen inside that empty room were endless.
And still, it didn’t feel like mine.
Because it came at a price.
It was my father’s name on the check that secured that piece of real estate for me. It was because of him that I had a place to live on my own, and a business to bring to life.
And in order to keep it, I had to play by his rules.
Every time the thought assaulted me, my fists would clench, my nose would flare, and I’d close my eyes and try to find a breath that didn’t burn on the way down. There was nothing I could imagine being worse than being in debt to my father, than being under his thumb again like I had been before I turned eighteen.
And yet, here I was.
I was still looking around, trying to find a sense of ownership when my best friend plowed through the front door with a bottle of champagne in his hand.
