A Third Tongue

My father had never been an affectionate man. His arms were cold and he’d been quite distant with my mother since the day I was born, as I’d heard from her. Nevertheless, he took care of his family as a man should, without complaints or a chip on his shoulder, and he signed my permission slips without dotting the I’s in his name. He said it made them look less professional, and I couldn’t disagree.

My mother told me stories of when they were younger, and he’d been a happier man. He’d liked to sing, as anyone does, but he was good, and once had our entire town show up to see his one-man-band on the porch in action. She’d cheer him on of course, and they’d laugh at how one of his drums broke and fell into the dirt, because they could afford to. A drum was the cost of a box of diapers, after all.

I’d always been aware that I’d ruined my parents’ life, more than you’d be aware of the color of your own hair, or the texture of a knife in your back. I’d gone about my day regardless, not bothering to make friends or find hobbies. Those would require a home to share, and my house was not a home. Not with my mother sleeping in the nursery by my sister’s side instead of next to her husband. She’d bake him brownies. He wouldn’t touch them. And I was so dreadfully, painfully aware that he didn’t love me when I turned five and the town let me watch my first harvest, covered in dirt and scattered leaves, holding a small twig in my hands to give to him as a gift when they’d finished butchering the small girl in the woods.

He didn’t say why he didn’t smile. He’d just looked at me like I’d killed his firstborn.

My father had never been an affectionate man, until a cold September night, when I found him stargazing on the roof of our house with a bottle of beer in his hand and a frown on his stubble. Again, just like that night, he didn’t look at me. I only stared at his back for a few seconds before he spoke. Somehow, he sensed my presence, as drunk as he was. I kicked two empty bottles off the roof before I sat down next to him. Even my father didn’t deserve to be lonely.

“I used to have a brother, y’know.” He took another swig. I still didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Mikey. Wanted to be a carpenter. Thought it would bring him closer to God, or something.” 

Another swig. “He had the most annoying curly hair. Couldn’t get a comb through it for the life of me. Mom used to get so mad when he wasn’t ready for church. Had to slick it back and send ‘em off.”

My father never blinked when he spoke. I guessed it was a family thing. I didn’t blink either.

“You speak to him lately?”

“No. Can’t speak to the dead. ‘Less you speak to God. He’s no help though.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. At least for me. Those were the first words he’d spoken to me in almost eight years. Living under the same roof didn’t help. I let myself relax in his presence, even if just a bit.

“He was picked too.”

Now I looked at him. My father still didn’t blink, but I did see a tear make its way down his cheek, as dark as it was. Seeing him cry was like seeing God for the second time. I didn’t want to see it again.

“The harvest isn’t for another week.”

“Mikey said that too.” The bottle swung in his limp hand. “He would’ve liked you. He talked too much.”

“Maybe you’ll find me. Maybe they’ll let me go.”

“Wishin’ on a star.” He adjusted his chair. “I’m fifty-three. My hunting ain’t what it used to be.”

“Do you want to find me?”

We sat in silence for too long for me not to come up with my own answer. I could see it in his eyes. Maybe I did remind him of his brother. In a week’s time, I’d be dead and eaten after the town harvest. But if anyone was going to bring my body back after it’d been mauled, I’d rather it’d have been him. I didn’t remember if my father ever held me or not, but that night, it looked like he wanted to. I’d dragged him into the house when he passed out, and set him in the bed next to my mother in the nursery. Before I went back into my room, I kissed the top of my sister’s head. Even she looked at me with disdain.

“You’ll be fine,” I whispered. “Daddy loves you.”

His silence confirmed it. 

About the Author

Aurelia loves writing things that make sense to them. What they know is the feeling of isolation; good and bad. They know old friends and the smell of coffee from the next room; fallen branches and purring cats. They know how to make things work in favor of literature, no matter the context. Also, the distinct feeling of putting your hand in a jar and not being able to get it out (which has never happened to them. Never. Promise!).