Juilliard or Else (6 page)

She hit me.

I usually hated when the burning of the acid would come, but now, more than ever, I embraced it. I wanted the pain – wanted the burning of my stomach coming up my throat. I coughed into the bowl as my breakfast made its way up and out of my mouth, hitting the water below me.

The normal burning I experienced when purging was intensified because of the orange juice. It was too much; I couldn't handle it. I sobbed into the toilet, trying to catch my breath, but I kept on gagging because of the smell. I finally had to move, because it was making me sicker. The pain hit me with crushing force in the pit of my stomach as I collapsed on my soft rug, tired and worn out, and it was only nine thirty in the morning. I screamed and pounded my fist into the rug, not caring who heard my cries.

She hit me.

I don't know how long I laid there crying. However, I do know I'm utterly alone in a deep darkness that feels like it's swallowing me whole. I couldn't shake this cruel feeling running through my veins. I'm completely alone in my mind and I'm too scared to disappoint them all. No one understands the pressure my mother puts on my shoulders – all the weight I carry to make her happy, but it never works. All I told her was that there was always traffic and she hit me. The sound of her flesh hitting my cheek replayed in my head like a CD stuck on skip. It was playing over and over again.

Several minutes passed while I laid there grieving on my rug, and the only thing I could think about was how lonely I am. How pathetic I must be for thinking that. But I needed to focus on the coming days – on my new roommates, finally having friends, and my dancing which I loved so much. It was really the only thing that kept me going.

I stumbled up on my wobbly legs, but managed to rise to my feet. I looked in the mirror like I did every day to see the same face. Now dark pools formed under my eyes, and deep inside me, my inner child cries at the choices I've made about myself. I know it's not healthy what I'm doing, but they'll never understand the pain that my mother puts me through.

I heard a knock at my door, which startled me. I quickly tried to recover from my episode as I heard my dad's voice just on the other side, calling my name. But hearing his voice made me think about how many times I had put him through my pain. Even though he didn't know about my purging, I knew it would destroy him if he ever found out.

I gave him a weak smile as he entered my bathroom. He pushed his glasses up on his nose as he asked, "You alright?" and placed a hand on my shoulder. I didn't answer him and reached for my toothbrush and cleaned off my face with a warm washcloth.

"Abigail," my dad started, "one day, you will understand how your mother is." He rubbed the back of his neck in a stressful manner.

I spit in the sink. "Why are you taking her side?"

His brown eyes met mine in the mirror. "I'm not, angel."

"Yes, you are," I snapped.

His eyes were hidden behind his glasses, but I could see that he was upset. "I'm not happy about what she just did. It's just…you'll understand one day is all."

I rolled my eyes. His words slashed at my insides and didn't bring comfort. I didn't believe him. I'll understand her one day? That's just another excuse, just like when a husband beats the crap out of their wife and she defends him. I was sick of living in fear of my mother. She was my mother. Mothers are supposed to care for their children, protect them, and not make them live in fear of their own parent. I was sick of being so hurt by her, and she could hurt me so easily, too. Her words and her actions always pierced through my chest to my heart, making me feel nothing but worthless. No matter how hard I tried to please her, it never worked

I left my bathroom in a rush to search for my mother. I had taken enough crap for one day. I couldn't back down now when I finally had the courage to confront her. I found myself almost running through the house, searching for her. When I opened her bedroom door, I was enveloped with the smell of her perfume.
Chanel Number 5
never smelled so evil.

"Abigail," my father said right before I slammed the door in his face, locking him out. I made my way around the fancy gold and beige room. I was livid now; my fists were clenched together so tightly. I felt my nails dig into my skin as my lips held tightly together in a hard line, making my brows pull inwards. My heart raced against my chest as I pulled my thoughts together about what I was going to say when I found her.

Should I just tell her to shove everything up her glorious snob butt?

Forget it; I was just going to let the words flow.

Taking a deep breath, I screamed, "Mother!" My face burned with my rage. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as my blood raced through my veins.

I waited on pins and needles for her to emerge from her bathroom. I knew she was in there; where else could a rich snob hide? My patience was starting to wear thin when the door finally opened. My mother was standing there, looking perfect as usual and I didn't move. She stared me down as we made evil eye contact.

"Yes, Abigail?" she gritted through her teeth.

Now what should I do?
I thought to myself. I got myself in here.
Do it… say something, anything.
But I couldn't get any words to come out of my mouth.

The elastic holding me together finally snapped. I finally felt it – that deep down rage, like a volcano ready to explode, and then I yelled, "I hate you!" Every nerve in my body was making me shake as anger exploded throughout my body. Tears cascaded down my face in fury. "I hate you," I said to her. She still didn't move – didn't hesitate at the evil words I threw at her. She was motionless and empty, just like her soul…heartless, just as the servant said when I was younger.

"I hate you," I said to her one last time with shaky breaths.

She pushed some hair away from her face and swallowed. "I'm sorry to hear you say that."

What? I'm stunned. Didn't she care that her daughter just told her, "I hate you"? She cleared her throat.

"Is that all you can say?"

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but I don't know what to say to you, Abigail." She clasped her hands in front, lacing her fingers together.

"You're so ungrateful," I said to her. "I have done everything –
everything
to make you flippin' happy, and not once have you ever acknowledged that I've done well. You've only pointed out my faults." I couldn't stand anymore how she treated me like a child. I was shaking so bad with my ruthless anger and she
still
didn't move a muscle.

Narrowing her eyes, she tilted her head as though she was having a hard time processing my words.

I wasn't quite sure if it was minutes or seconds that passed before she slowly walked up to me. This time, I prepared for the blow that was to come. "Are you going to smack me again?" I spat out at her.

Finally, here was a reaction that made her shrink back from me as if I burned her.

She stared down at the ground and started twisting her ginormous diamond ring around her finger. When she looked back up, her blue eyes were filled with tears. I didn't feel one speck of remorse for the words I had spoken to her. It was finally nice to see her get upset, considering how long she had done the same to me. She extended her arms out, but I stepped back. I didn't want her touching me. She dropped her arms back to her side. Whatever emotion she was feeling right then, whether it was sadness, sorrow, regret, or shame – it was all gone in a blink of an eye.

She smoothed down her blouse. "Be down in the car in twenty minutes and then we'll leave," she sniffed. She then turned around and slammed the door to her bathroom, locking herself back inside her hidey little hole.

Still standing in her room, I thought about what she tried to do when her arms came up. Did she want to hug me? Try and push me out of her room? You never knew what she had planned up her sleeve.

I was proud of myself for finally telling her how I felt.

I turned and left her room, but when I opened the door, my father was across from me with his hands deep in the pockets of his slacks, ankles crossed. I could see disappointment in his eyes behind his glasses. He stood up straight and held out a hand to me. "Abigail, we need to talk. Now." Hearing his stern voice, I knew this wasn't a request. So I took his hand while he led me through the house. I didn't say anything to him, just followed his steps.

We took the stairs outside into the morning traffic and passed our doorman, Jack. He gave my father a firm nod and shot a small smile in my direction. I softy said hi to him. My father walked me down the busy sidewalk, still holding my hand tightly as we crossed the street and made our way down a little path through Central Park.

We'd walked for only a couple of minutes when he finally let go of my hand. The sun was shining high in the morning sky, and the park was filled of the fresh cut grass smell. He sat down on a park bench and looked up at me. I was still standing, not moving. This was the first time my dad had done anything like this. He usually ignored everything that went down between me and my mother, not wanting to get in the middle of anything between us or make it worse by voicing his opinions. He'd told me that before; now I wondered what was going on in that lawyer brain of his.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Abigail, I know you haven't had a normal childhood," he started.

Yes, he was right. I'd been so focused on my ballet that I hadn't made friends or gone out to have fun as a teenager. I'd never gotten to experience a high school crush, have a boyfriend or even a best friend. I didn't want to let my parents down, and now it seemed like that was all I was doing to my mother. I let her down in everything, even with my communication skills, the way I stood, and my ballet.

Making my way over to the bench, I sat down next to him. He stretched out beside me and put his arm around my shoulders, making himself comfortable, and I could feel him start to relax, which helped me relax.

"The thing is, angel," he said, letting out a big breath that he was holding in. "Before you were born, I had an affair." I whipped my head around to stare at him in shock; I didn't see that coming.

A ringing sounded in my ears at the word…affair.
Did I just hear him right? He had an affair?

Holy crap!

"I didn't cheat on your mother. I was married before, to a woman named Shannon. She was so beautiful, and I didn't deserve her." His head dropped.

Was
beautiful? I let out a breath, ready to hear the story my dad prepared himself to tell me.

"We were married for about eight months when we got into an argument one night about work, school, and buying a house with no money. I was going through law school at the time. Yale didn't give a damn about giving you time off if you had personal problems. It was either be there or quit. After our fight, I went out to a bar and got rip roaring drunk. I met a woman named Caroline, who at the time was trying to
'
find herself
'
by living it up, as she put it." He chuckled at the memory. "We danced our asses off, and in the end, I ended up going home with her and we started having an affair."

I had never heard my father speak so freely with me before, and I had no idea what to say to him. I was in shock for sure. I could never picture my dad having an affair; he wasn't the type to do that…or so I thought.

"I couldn't let Shannon know I was sleeping around with Caroline, so I slept with both of them, but it was starting to become too much to handle. I was leading two lives. One was with Shannon, with the fighting, house hunting, law school, studying, and more fighting. The other was with Caroline; she was free to do whatever she wanted. I didn't have to worry about school. We drank, had crazy sex wherever, danced and had a great time with each other; she took all my worries away and I fell in love with her. I was planning on dropping out of school and leaving Shannon, but when I decided to tell Shannon this, I found her on the bathroom floor crying. And then I noticed the five pregnancy tests lying around her feet – all of them positive."

He eyed me over his glasses. "I was full of regret and decided not to tell Shannon about Caroline. So, I stopped seeing her."

I shifted uncomfortably on the bench; hearing my dad talk about having sex wasn't my cup of tea, but the pieces were starting to fit together like a mixed up puzzle. Carol wasn't my mother; she was the "other woman" in my dad's life. I looked away from my dad who had tears running down both cheeks as he quickly swiped them away. My mother wasn't my mother. I didn't even know what to say. I know that I should be livid, but taking in all this information, I couldn't form the right words.

"I knew you would be a blessing to us – help us survive our problems so we could make our marriage work. I never heard from Caroline after I gave her the news. She understood I couldn't leave my pregnant wife, so she got up from the table and never looked back."

Another tear escaped from my dad's eye. "When you were born, you were absolutely beautiful. Weighing in at six pounds three ounces, you were so tiny – just a red-faced, little princess, wrapped up in my arms. I was the first to hold you."

I covered my mouth with my hands to muffle my soft cries. I had never known much about my warm welcome to the world. Carol always changed the subject whenever I asked about when I was born.