Strawberry Passion

The lipstick gave it away; ruby red smudged across her lips, outline in perfection as she smiled faintly in the mirror. She would always “sprits” herself in Happy Heart Clinique perfume; the only perfume she wore when she was going to go out and leave my father behind to indulge in his work. There were other signs too. She had this thing for strawberries, she called it “strawberry sensation”, but I put more detail to the meaning as I started to grow up.

 “I got your favorite,” she said with a smile, “chocolate ice cream, with whipped cream in a can!”

“Thanks,” I replied sarcastically. I don't know why she always used me as a cover because she knew that I never got the chance to overflow my mountains of ice cream with the whipped cream; it always seemed to disappear before I got my hands on it, but it didn't even stop her from saying the same thing every time.

“Your lucky your mother is so grateful towards you, ” my father said, nudging me in my arm with a laugh.

“Only if you knew how grateful she is to you,” I murmured to myself. My mother and I have never gotten along so well, we look identical but act completely different. She always tried to dress me up in “Barbie” style clothing and force me to take dance lessons, which filled me with such enthusiasm, at least that is what I led her to believe. I don't know why I always tried to please her. I guess she did enough “letting down” for the both of us. Maybe it was because I wanted to prove I was a better person than she was, I don't know.

The only thing I was sure of was that she could not get past me. I think she knew it too, but blocked it out. Coming home late at night with lipstick smeared and eyes glazed over as if love has drifted her off to fantasy-land. I would always still be up watching my favorite cartoons, Tom and Jerry and The Loony Tunes, involved with my Lucky Charms, as she would slip in late at night. “Hi mija, I'm going to bed now, Good night and I love you.”

“Love you too,” I whispered back. I couldn't get passed how she could come home and lie next to the one she was targeting pain towards. I couldn't grasp the idea that she was never ashamed. It angered me deeply but I never let it show through. I always saw it coming; more like heard it coming.

I would wake to hear the horrid shouting and fainted whimpers of my mother complaining about something. My father would always grow weak and become vulnerable like a woman vulnerable to a bouquet of flowers. I didn't get it. Why didn't he ever stand up for himself and be a man? It made my stomach churn. He loved her deeply, truly, and with care, which was something my mother knew nothing about.

The nights she spent at home left her out in the seasonal porch, lighting up cigarettes and watching as the wind picked up the thick air from her death sticks, and carried it off in the distance. Her eyes caught on fire from the reflection of the wood burning in the fireplace and she always sat there silent, and alone for once.

My father would always have his stare directed at her. You could see the pain drawing out from his eyes as his head bowed towards the floor. He knew that he had lost her. He did not know that it was not his fault. He did not know that there is so much more pain coming his way that will shatter his heart in a million pieces.

Being selfish is one of my mother's flaws she is not aware of, but being an inconsiderate bitch to my father is one she loves to strive for. Her emotions run in all directions, blinding my father from the lies she carries under her breath.

A night came where my father had to stay after hours and work with the clock ticking towards midnight and my mother sat on the couch wearing a beige shirt and dark blue jeans, with a pair of heels to match. She loved to accessorize, it was the only thing she seemed to love. Her face was painted up with perfection, and her hair bursting with curls; she looked beautiful, a beauty that doesn't seem to be real. With the look on her face though, you could tell she wasn't happy. My father didn't inform her that he was working after hours which forced her to wait for her night to begin by sitting on the couch calling a babysitter to come and watch her “mijas”; the ones she loved so much but never had time for.

The babysitters were adventurous though. They took time out of their busy schedules to entertain us, at least. They never sat in a seasonal porch ignoring the faces in the other room that longed for the soloist to join in with the rest of the choir.

It was like this for most of what I remember; a tainted love that grew in dullness and sympathy. It grew old really fast, but it was regular to the family, the only thing we knew of.

It was my birthday on November 23rd, and it was a day where the family came together as one and celebrated life, enjoyment, and being together as a family. We wanted to enjoy the things that were rarely celebrated. My mother decided to not take part this year, her work was having an early Christmas party that was mandatory to go to. I thought a daughter's birthday was mandatory too…

My father took my mother across the room into the kitchen, behind closed doors. Hearing faint words of shouting, I figured out the end of the conversation. My mother came out of the kitchen walking towards the door with her heels clicking as an echo and once she got to the door, she damn well made sure she slammed it. My father, once again, was defeated.

He covered his fury by rearranging his disappointment into a smile. “Let's go out to dinner shall we?” he said putting on his coat.

I picked my favorite restaurant: Olive Garden. It was my mother's favorite too. The ride to the restaurant was long and quiet. My father was trying, he was giving it his all to try to make my night spectacular, and so I led him to believe it was going well. Usually, we made my favorite home cooked meal and sat by the fire to play Scrabble and Uno all night. It was quite fun having those family nights, but tonight it was going to be different.

We finally drove in to the parking lot, and walked through the doors to the dining table. “ It's my daughter's 15th birthday today,” my father said with a smile to the waitress.

“Happy Birthday!” she shouted. Our waitress's name was Stacey, she was tall and skinny with blond hair and seemed very social. We took our seats and picked out everything on the menu that we wanted to try out. We ended up ordering four different meals between the two of us. As my father put in the order, I dashed off to the restroom but I a hit an abrupt roadblock on my way there. I stopped in the middle of the restaurant with my mouth dropping to the ruby red-carpeted floor. I didn't know my mother's Christmas party was only a dinner for two. I was stuck in place for what seemed too long and turned around still dazed with confusion. Tears flooded my eyes and were streaming down my cheeks. I knew what she was up to, but I never thought I would see it to believe it. I wiped my tears away with my sleeve of my blue velvet dress. It was a dress my mother gave to me, so I wiped my snot on it as well. I sat myself back in the booth with my brother and father. They looked at me oddly because my eyes were flushed with puffiness. My father grabbed my hand gently and pulled me to the side. I was hoping he wouldn't do this.

“ I know you're upset that your mother couldn't make it, but her job is really important to her.”

“Yea, more like her mojo,” I said to myself. Then he did the one thing I really did not want him to do. He turned around. He pinpointed the formal Christmas party for two. He stood there in shock and it was a flashback to my same reaction.

“Hunny, go sit back down at the table with your brother,” he said holding back his tears. I quietly made my way back to the table and watched my father direct his way towards my mother.

The drive back home was quieter and even longer. I never ordered so much food at a restaurant I never ate. We got home and my father went straight to bed, along with my brother. I stayed up and dug into the fridge. I found strawberries and whip cream my mother bought yesterday from the grocery store. I grabbed them both and threw them in the garbage.

The next day my mother came by to grab some things from the house. She said goodbye to her loved ones, her mijas, and made her way to the fridge. As she opened the door and dug around in confusion, I stood up tall and spoke my peace. “ I threw them away,” I said, “ they didn't belong in this house, just like you.” She started to cry and walked out the door. She was a finished story with a devastating ending.