Original: Picture Perfect
Title: Picture Perfect
Rating: PG - PG-13 (alcohol refrence)
Word: #125
When I entered the terminal, I remembered the airport almost instantly. I remembered the way the sunlight streamed in through the high glass ceilings, and the way all the chairs were clean and neatly arranged. Unlike the airport back in Columbus, with the seats nearly split in half, and the dank little waiting area. I remembered it from back when I was very little. I recall that was the only visit I ever paid to my father after the divorce. Mother seemed sour about the whole ordeal, and refused to let me speak to him. She had sent me with my grandmother to visit him, one last time. I don’t really remember what they fought about back then, but I remember a lot of yelling, and my mother always coming away in tears.
But it seemed that she cried a lot. I didn’t know why. She seemed to cry more than I did, while I was the child. She often drank. A lot. Some days I arrived home to find her passed out on the couch. I didn’t know why she was like that back then, and I thought it was normal for everyone for a long time. My grandmother always seemed to be around. She was always tutting over my mother, and always coddling me. Sometimes I remember Mother yelling at my grandmother. She would say that she didn’t need her mother around, breathing down her neck. She didn’t need her around to fix up her life, and complain about her. She’d say she could take care of her own children, and she didn’t need to be taken care of anymore.
Somehow, I never remember Gran getting mad. She would smile and nod, and sometimes shake her head and look sad. But in the end, Mother would run out of steam and pass out. Or sometimes, Gran would say something nice and soothing, and carefully guide Mother to bed, where Gran would lay a cool cloth on her forehead. Sometimes I liked to snuggle up in bed with Mother when she was passed out. When she was only lying in bed, she’d yell at me, and tell me to stop acting so much like my father. Sometimes this made me wonder what kind of person he might have been. My memories are old and patchy.
I dimly remember a short period of time when everything in my life seemed… Perfect.
Father would smile, Mother would laugh. The sunlight would dance on Mother’s beautiful blonde hair, which has grown ratty and gray. Her cheeks would be like smooth porcelain, and her lips red like cherries. Her laugh would tinkle like bells, and her voice was sweet like a bird’s. But now her laugh is bitter and grating. The only singing she does now is when she drinks, and she usually sings along horribly out of tune with some song about loss.
Father would lift me up high and spin me. I remember the wind brushing my hair, and how he would yell “whoop!” while he tossed me in the air. I remember him having big hands, and most of all; I remember that he was very hairy. His arms, his hands, his face. I’ve looked at old pictures, and wondered about him. Could he really be as bad as Mother says?
Well, now I’m finding out.
Gran died only a month ago, and I can’t say that I’m not still mourning her loss. She was the only one who ever spoke about Father, or even about how Mother had once been. All I remember Mother as, was a drunk, lazing about all night and day, as Gran worked for money. But Gran always said that Mother used to be a beautiful girl. She dreamed of being a star, famous. She wanted to be someone. She’d been so full of life, so full of love.
Gran spoke often about Father, since I often asked about him. She said he’d been handsome, kind, and funny. She’d liked him, and always thought that my mother had made the right choice, choosing him. Though, she wished it could have stayed that way. Everything Gran says contradicts what Mother says, but I can’t help believing Mother more. After all, I was born from her, and how can such a kind man make her suffer so? Gran said that Mother and Father were once so in love, that it was almost painful to be in the same room as them, there was so much chemistry in the air.
But Gran is gone, and Mother never tells me stories like that. In fact, she won’t be telling me any stories, anymore. The social workers have taken me away, their last visit made them decided as such. Gran was the only one who kept the household together, and without her controlling Mother, cleaning, or even making a living, it went to ruin.
I only recognize Father because he waves at me and smiles. I’m surprised he knows what I look like. I’m sure I’ve changed in twelve years. I drag my luggage over; only realizing it was him because of his slight similarity to the old photos. He shaved his beard off, and a great deal of his hair is gray and missing, the balding was covered by a weak comb over. And I look at his hands. They don’t seem as big as before. But I suppose I’m not as small as before. He smiles, and greets me. Since I have no other luggage aside from my small carry-on bag, we leave without a fuss.
When we arrive at his car, I realize that he did not come alone. Sitting in the passenger’s seat in the front was a woman. She was lovely, with stunning red hair in thick curls around her face. Her lips were full and painted dark red. Her lashes are long and thick, while her eyebrows are thin and perfectly shaped. She sports few wrinkles, and barely matches up to the forty years of my father. Though, for some reason, despite all her make-up, I can tell she’s just as old.
“This is Catharine.” My father introduces. “She’s my wife.”
I stare at the woman, smartly dressed in a suit. She smiles a beneficial smile at me, and reaches out a hand through the window to shake. She tilts her head to the side, her forehead wrinkling slightly.
“Lovely to meet you, dear.” She says, though I can tell she is unsure about welcoming me into the family, she seems warm and kind. Or, at least she’s trying to be. But then she turns to my father. “Sweetie, Laura needs to pick up some construction paper for her project.”
My father nods. “Alright.” He replies, before opening the door to the van. The backseat door swings open and I find myself peering in at a young girl sitting in the opposite seat. She frowns at me slightly before forcing out a smile.
She’s just as pretty as her mother. Her hair is a reddish brown, and freckles faintly dapple her nose. She looks to be younger than me; probably twelve at most, since that would mean she was born just after Father left.
She smiles again at me, keeping eerily quiet. I’m almost afraid to hear her voice. It must sound like and angel’s or something. She just seems so perfect. I admire my muddy blonde and can’t help cringing. Laura, I suppose her name is, tosses some hair over her shoulder before speaking.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Laura. I guess you’ll be living with us, huh?”
I stare at Laura, and she raises her brows at me. Then she smiles again. It’s a warm and welcoming smile. I shrug and hop into the car. My father slams the door shut, and we begin the journey home. Despite Laura’s appearance, she seemed somewhat odious. She didn’t give any appearance of hostility. She smiled, she laughed, she joked, and she even turned and gave me comforting looks when something had to be explained to me. But then again, appearances can be deceiving.
I guess that’s the nice thing about pictures. All you see is the appearance. Maybe that’s why I never wanted to disturb the gentle surface of those photos of my father. I didn’t want to ruin in the image I had of him. The twisted, terrible image it was. I suppose it gave me comfort to know that my mother was the one who suffered, and that was why she was like the way she was.
But I suppose that’s not true. Maybe she was the one at fault, and now she’s crying over all the mistakes she’s made.
Sometimes I wish I could just dive into the frame of a photograph. Everything’s so happy and perfect. Everyone is smiling and hugging. And you don’t need to see anything beyond that.
Everything is just Picture Perfect.