3. Reality is a Nightmare

Reality is a Nightmare

Two months later Hadley shot up in bed to the muffled sounds of her father's voice accompanied by a loud crash. What was that? Was Dad yelling? She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the sleepy burn behind her lids, before forcing them back open. Shifting her groggy gaze to the alarm clock on her nightstand, she squinted with confusion, realizing it was the middle of the night. 3:15 to be exact. Why is he awake? A pit in her stomach formed quickly as she tried to piece together what the avalanche of sound a minute ago could have been.

Hadley shoved her pink paisley comforter away from her body and swung her feet over the side of her small bed. Setting her teddy bear down on her pillow, she quickly stretched her arms above her head before standing up. She crept on the tips of her toes across her room, praying she wouldn't cross over a creak in the wood flooring beneath the thick shag carpeting. Even though she knew her father was awake, making his own noise, she was still afraid of disrupting him. She never felt anxious like this when her mom was alive, but lately it seemed like anything could set him off.

She stopped in place as she remembered last night. Like most nights, Hadley woke up around this time, except instead of from a shattering sound downstairs, last night she startled awake from the pounding of her heart as it tried to break free from her chest. Last night she fought for air in the same way she had dreamt her mom did while she suffocated to death.

She hadn't been there when her mom passed away, so her nightmares often played out the most gruesome of possibilities. She anxiously prayed that the blood dripping from her mom's nose and the foam coating the corners of her mouth were nowhere near reality. To help regain control of her heart, she sat and visualized her mom in a peaceful sleep, postured comfortably on the couch with her favorite blanket. She focused on this visual until the bloody nose and rabid mouth disappeared.

On nights, like last night, when she feared falling back into a nightmare, she'd soothe herself by pacing around her room clinging tight to her beloved teddy bear.She started holding her breath for as long as possible, a forlorn attempt at replacing the emotional pain with the physical lack of oxygen. It never helped. All it did was disturb her father, who was usually strewn across the dusty-rose-colored couch with a tumbler full, or empty, of bourbon. The floor creaking often sent him into a Boeing 747 tailspin.

Last night, in an enraged stupor, he stomped up the stairs, stumbling twice and sliding against the wall for support. Hadley ran to her bed and pulled the comforter up to her chin, gripping it in place. Her breathing grew ragged as she heard his clunky footsteps grow louder. He swung her door open, batting at it a second time when it ricocheted off the permanent indent in the wall.

Hadley being in bed hadn't fooled him. Instead of recognizing she was in pain and consumed by grief and fear, he focused on his own vexation – her incessant pacing. "If you don't keep your ass in bed and go to sleep like a normal child, Imma start takin' away those precious books."

"I'm sorry, dad…" Hadley had kept her eyes low to avoid his glare. Instead of offering her the help she desperately needed, he bullied her, which only worsened her anxiety. It wasn't always the books he threatened to take, sometimes it was her food, her comforter, and once even her entire bed. If you aren't going to sleep, why have a bed, he had spit.

She worked hard to memorize exactly which spots on her floor were noisy and mastered the art of walking on tippy toes aided by a chest full of suspended air. Tonight, she blew out a small breath and rolled her shoulders back, wanting to forget the night before. She knew her father was awake and while she didn't want to provoke him, she also didn't know what the commotion was or if he was okay. Just go downstairs, she told herself after she decided it sounded like he fell and broke another lamp or maybe a glass bottle. Mom would've checked on him.

Once she crossed her bedroom, successfully avoiding every creak, she slowly opened her door and inched down the stairs. When she didn't see her dad in the living room, she continued her journey to the kitchen. Sure enough, her father was lying there surrounded by shards of broken plates and bowls. It looked like a few remained intact, but Hadley was instantly destroyed by the visual. It wasn't her inebriated father that caused tears to collect under her eyes, but the realization that most of her mother's plates and bowls were now broken. More and more pieces of her mom were fading away and it was because of her father.

Hadley stood there paralyzed with renewed grief.

"I slipped on the damn mat," he griped impatiently. Hadley's eyes shifted behind him and took in the scene. He must have fallen reaching for a plate and grabbed at the cabinet shelves on his way down, causing a huge mess. "A-a-re you gonna help me or what?" Her father's words slid together as he laid there slack jawed, haphazardly jabbing his finger in the air in her general direction. I should leave you here, she thought while looking down at him. She knew, however, that her mom would have guided him up, made him a cup of hot coffee, and quietly cleaned up the mess. She wouldn't have yelled or shamed him at that moment and the next day they both would have acted as if nothing happened. Was he always like this and Mom just covered it up? Doesn't matter, just be like Mom. She reached her delicate hand out to her father and helped him get to a sitting position. She used every muscle in her body to help him stand up and slowly guided him to the kitchen table so he could sit on one of the old wooden chairs.

"You really made a mess, Dad," she whispered. She knew he heard her because he released a frustrated groan. She turned on a pot of coffee and cleaned up the pieces of broken chinaware while her father dimly watched the coffee trickle into the glass pot. His head slowly dipped toward the table until eventually his forehead made contact and his eyelids fought to stay open. Hadley allowed herself to stay on the floor, legs crossed, as she gripped a large piece of a broken plate. I'm sorry, Mom. She tried to hold her breath, but it did nothing to stop the streams of silent tears that fell onto the porcelain. Why did Dad do this? There's not even any food out, why did he need to go grabbing at the plates?

Feeling like she was losing another part of her mom, she wiped at her wet face, and placed the last of the broken dishes into the trash. She poured a mug of coffee and quietly set it next to her dad, ignoring his grumbles and made her way back to her room.

At least he would get some sleep that night.