Enough
Caeley Harsch
*From the perspective of a dad to his daughter*
Back when you were in grade school, mom used to always tell you to “marry a man who buys you flowers just because.” This idea trailed back a long ways: My father, your grandfather, was always a traditionalist in the sense that he believed a man should be the sole caregiver and provider for his wife. He was always coming home from his shifts at the mechanic shop, a tool belt slung underneath one arm, a bouquet of roses tucked underneath the other; your grandma just adored it. In fact, your grandpa had started to realize the “irresistibly charming” effect (or so he called it) flowers had on a woman: Whenever a fight started in the morning over the messy garage or him wearing shoes in the house, he’d simply come home that day with an arrangement of lilies or delilahs, place them on the kitchen table without a word, and like magic, all would be forgotten. “Every time” he used to tell me with a wink. That used to make me laugh. I had always just continued the tradition with your mother; flowers on our first date, flowers on her birthday, flowers on Easter, flowers on a lazy Tuesday night after a long day at the office, flowers fresh-picked from the garden outside, flowers that surprised her at her desk in the morning, flowers just because she mattered. And don’t think that I forgot you even for a second. I’ll never forget the way you would gaze up at me as I handed you a red rose, its petals still vibrant and colorful. Anyway, whenever mom would talk about your perfect future flower-boy, the thought of it made you giggle in the 11-year-old way that you used to, but she was serious about it. The thought simultaneously amused and horrified me. You were much too young to think about boys. You were gorgeous in the most unconventional way; rich, dark hair that bounced in playful curls as you walked, deep brown eyes--we danced to “Brown-eyed Girl” together, you on my feet as we swayed back and forth on the living room carpet and you smiled wide. Mom took a picture and hung it on the wall. Your blue jeans and pink sweatshirts suited you well, hanging baggy and loose around your slender frame. You did cartwheels all around the backyard and stained the sleeves with dirt. You exuded this childish innocence and it was something I grew to cherish so fondly.
You were yet to discover that boys preferred straight, blonde hair and low-cut shirts. You had yet to spend your allowance on Victoria’s Secret push-up bras, yet to stand in front of the bathroom mirror, smoke curling from the straightening iron in cruel swirls. You had yet to even discover a world where any of that mattered. You had not yet brought home your first boyfriend--a skinny, pimply boy with peach fuzz around his mouth. Mike was it...Mark? You didn’t know what it was like to be cheated on yet, to have your heart broken, to cry into your pillow on a January 19th. I still remember wrapping my arms around you so tight, a bouquet of roses tucked underneath my arm for you. I told you that mom was right, that if he didn’t buy you flowers just because, then it wasn’t meant to be. You smiled a sad smile and we held each other and that was enough.
I remember a couple of weeks later when you went to prom with your next boyfriend. “It’s okay,” you said, “he’s so much cooler than Mark!” as if that was the secret to loving someone. I silently watched you as you got ready that night, watching as the straightener flattened the curly hair I loved so much. You spent 30 minutes doing your makeup; primer, foundation, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner. You sang along to a song I’d never heard before. You finally emerged from the bathroom, wearing a small red dress that hugged your body, your hair straight as a pin, your face hidden behind a mask of makeup. You did a small twirl and asked mom and I how you looked. Mom wiped a tear from her eye, “You’re stunning,” she said, on the brink of tears. I thought you looked like someone else. This wasn’t my small girl. It was bewildering gazing at the young woman before me. She was beautiful, yes, in a conventional kind of way. The world had convinced you that was the only way you should be, and it saddened me to think about. I gave you a hug and said “Gorgeous.” We took lots of pictures that day. Pictures of you, pictures of us together, pictures of you and your boyfriend together. Pictures of you hugging, pictures of you kissing. I wanted to hold you again, to wipe the makeup off your face, to tell you that you were beautiful just like this. I wanted for you to change into a pink sweatshirt and do cartwheels around the room and to dance on my feet to “Brown-eyed Girl”. I wanted you to want it. I wanted that to be enough. But you left that day, arm strung around your boyfriend as he took you away from me, your high heels clicking on the floor as you left. “Look, he even got me a flower” you beamed as you admired the corsage around your wrist. I didn’t think that counts.
I remember when you broke up with your prom date for Zach, you’re newest crush, and I remember when you both split ways for college. I remember driving you to campus the night before your first day, boxes crammed into the backseat, mom wouldn’t stop reminding you about setting your alarm clock in the morning, it made you so mad. I remember waving goodbye, an ache deep in my stomach, tears welled in my eyes. You were only an hour away but it felt like a lifetime. You were the one leaving but I felt lost. You, a social butterfly as always, had made a friend and were going to the food hall together for lunch. I slipped a small bouquet of white tulips onto your desk after you were gone with a note that said “Miss you already.”
I remember a few months later when you met Tom. Boy, how you beamed when you talked about him. “Captain of the rugby team, honors student, engineering major, and so cute” you exclaimed over the phone. Mom was really excited about the honors part, she said he sounded like a “nice boy” and that you should invite him over for dinner some time during break. I said nothing. A couple more weeks passed and you did in fact invite Tom over for dinner. He seemed like a decent kid, a little overbearing if anything, but pleasant. He was the type of person who shook your hand firmly and called you “sir”. I didn’t know how to feel about that if I’m being honest. It made me feel old, it made me feel like I was inanimate, as though you had to speak me
into existence for it to actually be true. But you smiled wide and so I did too. I shook his hand back and said “Nice to meet you.” I remember we had a good night. We talked about all kinds of things. Rugby, classes, the house, how you played “Kelsi” in the school musical the year before, our favorite movies, what it was like to be in college, things that mattered, things that didn’t. We even talked about the flower theory! Tom had said he’d keep a mental note of that. You remember don’t you? Weeks became months and you and Tom stayed close. We enjoyed it when you came home almost every other weekend and we became accustomed to having Tom around the house. It was easy to joke with him, and he was very respectful to you. Mom and I would talk about what a lovely boy he is and how we could picture a future where you were really happy together. And the thing is that I really could. I pictured a life where you would be protected and loved by him, a life where you sat around the dinner table and talked about your days, a life where you danced on Thursday nights in the living room because your favorite song was on, a life where you could do a cartwheel right there in the kitchen simply because you wanted to, a life where you could wear your hair curly and without makeup on your face and be admired still. I pictured a life where he bought you flowers just because. And you seemed happy too, so that was enough.
I remember that night when I needed a glass of water at 2 am and I walked by your door. I was groggy and my feet shuffled quietly down the stairs, so as not to wake you. I still remember what your crying sounded like as I walked by your door that night, a low whimper, deeply sad. It shocked me that you were even up that late. I called out to you quietly and knocked on your door gently. You didn’t answer so I pried it open slowly. I know you heard me but you pretended to be asleep, your phone curled in your hand, glowing with the notification light. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me” I whispered, knowing that you were listening. I stayed awake all night, propped on the couch, the soft glow of the tv illuminating my face. You never came.
I remember going to one of Tom’s rugby games in the summer. You had been dating for almost a year by now and so you were well accustomed to attending his sporting events. You said hello to some of the parents of the teammates and introduced us to them. You have a natural vibrancy to you, it’s stunningly beautiful; you’ve always been good at making friends and socializing. I was
not a huge fan of rugby...in fact I had never so much as even watched a game or match, or whatever it is. Your mom and I were stunned at how much you knew about the game. You kept yelling “Penalty! Penalty!” and pointing at the ref furiously. You smiled really wide when Tom scored. I remember thinking that he looked so vicious out on the field, barking out orders and knocking into people. When he had the ball in his hand, he was unstoppable. Fast as a lion he raced across that field, plowing past people as though they were leaves blowing in the wind. There was even a point where their team had to do what was called a “blood-sub.” Tom had to step off the field because his nose was bleeding for 15 minutes. He looked up at you, a blood-soaked tissue hanging out of his nose, and winked. He looked wild, like some caged animal waiting to be released again. It gave me chills. The game was fascinating and frightening
all at once but you cheered so loud and that made me feel inanimate again. When it was over, your mom and I treated you to dinner at “Dimitri’s.” Everyone talked a lot that night except for me. You joked about how bad the ref was and how he needed to get glasses. Mom couldn’t stop talking about how proud she was of Tom and how well he played. She said you were lucky that you had such a fine young man in your life.Tom thanked us for coming and accepted the praise with respectful humility, but the smear of blood still stained his upper lip and I stared at it all night. We drove away that night in seperate cars, with hugs goodbye and promises to call each other tomorrow. He kissed you hard in his car as we drove away, the moon reflecting off your straightened hair.
I remember that summer day we went hiking at Woodlawn Park, about 45 minutes away from home. We packed a picnic and our gear and set off for a fun day. Tom had a game that day and couldn’t join us. It was a blisteringly hot day and you wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Mom and I warned you that you would be really hot and that we were going to be doing a lot of uphill hiking. You shrugged your shoulders and said you didn’t mind; besides, you were a summer person you said, you liked the heat. It was a great car ride up. We talked about all kinds of things. You tried to teach mom the chorus to your new favorite song but she was hopeless. I got in on it and by the end of the ride, we were all singing along to some rap song, trying to keep up and laughing like crazy madmen on a never-ending highway. We passed giant windmills that rose like gigantic pillars out of the earth. We pondered about how they were built, so tall and heavy like that. Mom asked about Tom and whether he was looking forward to graduating college next year or not. You said you weren’t sure and absently looked out the window, seemingly pondering something. The hike was long, and hot. They called it the “Wave Cave Trail” because it took you through this long, rocky, up-hill path to this huge crater in the rock. It looked like a giant cave and people took pictures of themselves posing in the enormity of the huge space. We passed a few families who were heading down as we were going up. They said the hike itself was grueling but encouraged us that the view was worth it once you reached the cave. You smiled, beads of sweat already forming on your forehead. The hike was nice, the trail was empty except for a few lonely people, big packs on their backs, the kind real hikers wear. They sped by us. Your mom and I admired the scenery around us, the giant red rocks, the saguaro cacti, standing like tall soldiers guarding the terrain, the blue sky without a cloud in sight, how the sun beat down unrelentlessly. You stayed oddly quiet the entire time and when I looked back at you, you looked quite sick to your stomach. We stopped to take a rest break by a small patch of shade and asked you if you wanted to roll your sleeves up. You said no. We assured you that you’d feel a lot more comfortable if you just rolled up your sleeves a bit. You said no. We pleaded with you to just change into the short sleeve shirt mom had packed with her just in case. You yelled no at us. We all sat in silence for a moment. A lone hiker walked by us, speeding up the trail, a smile outlining his face. “I fell off my bike on campus and got bruises on my arms. It’s fine” you said after a few moments. You stood wearily and continued up the path without saying another word. Mom and I exchanged a glance and then followed. I was confused; you hadn’t ridden a bike in years, you didn’t even have one on campus with you. We hiked for half an hour more but never made it to the Wave Cave that day.
Summer that year flew by. Mom and I were so happy to finally have you home every day for break. You seemed happy too. Most days, Tom would come over and we’d all spend time together. Some days, you would tell us that he was suddenly busy and unable to come. Mom would be disappointed because she had prepared dinner for 4. You always seemed upset on days like that. He had grown to be part of the family in a way, it felt comfortable, nice. One night I remember so clearly. We sat outside on the deck, the sun melting into the horizon like butter, the creep of night glazing the sky with darkness. The music was turned really low on the radio, but we liked the soft background music. We talked for long hours about meaningless stuff that felt so important at the time. A vase of pink lilies sat on the table before us: a small gift I had surprised your mother with that morning. I wondered if Tom even bought you flowers just because. The warmth of the summer night hugged me in a familiar and welcomed embrace. You were wearing black pants and a long-sleeved shirt, like almost every other day. I don’t know why I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You never said anything about being too warm, and I remembered that day at Woodlawn Park, so I never mentioned it anymore. We both heard the acoustic guitar intro to “Brown-Eyed Girl” as soon as it started playing and we looked at each other. This was our song and we both stood up out of habit. I extended my hands out to you and you took them, stepping on my feet gently. We swayed all around the deck that night to the soft sound of the music as Tom and your mother watched, smiling. I still remember the sound of your laugh as we pranced around that night, your head tilted slightly back, truly happy. You were always a creature of beauty and grace and that night you looked like an angel, your eyes shimmering with the glow of the moonlight, your hands wrapped so gently around my fingers. You were happy, and you needed me. And that was enough.
I will never forget tonight, how eager I was to see the look on your face when I handed you the small bouquet of red roses I had gotten at Patty’s flower shop that afternoon. It was the end of your fall semester and you had been studying hard for weeks. You were coming home for winter break and mom and I couldn’t wait to see you. You had driven home by yourself and mom and I had a special surprise planned for you when we got out of work. You had been home alone for a couple of hours by yourself now, I assumed you were probably unpacking your clothes, watching some uninterrupted tv, maybe settling back into the routine of being home again. I figured it was probably such a weight off your shoulders to be home again. I crept into the house very quietly, excited to surprise you when I walked into the living room. You weren’t there though, so I checked in your room. Your bags and books laid sprawled out on your bed; you hadn’t even begun to unpack them yet. I saw the crack of light underneath the bathroom door and I walked slowly over to knock on it. Before I was even close though I heard your crying. So low it could barely be heard. I watched you silently from the small crack in the door from a distance. You were wearing your prom dress, the small red one that hugged your body. You held yourself with your bare arms and that’s when I saw all the bruises. Small ones, big ones, blueish-purple all across your arms, covering almost every inch of your skin. You looked at yourself in the mirror, clutching your bare arms with your hands, winsing from the pain, tears streaming down your cheeks. Before I could think of what to do, I ran inside the door and called out to you, the bouquet of roses still in my hand. You turned, startled, and looked at me with your sad brown eyes. We said nothing to each other for a moment, just looked at each other with tears in our eyes, and then you broke down. I’ll never forget how sick I felt when you told me how he hit you. I’ll never forget how you said that it was okay and that it was your fault. I wanted to scream that it’s not okay, that you’re not okay, that I couldn’t believe that you’d kept this a secret for so long, that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t known, but I simply embraced you, stroking your straight hair for so long and crying into each others’ shoulders. I dropped the flowers and wrapped both of my arms around you, its petals lay scattered on the floor. Tonight went on forever, us in the bathroom, the dim glow of light cascading into the hallway, the sickly look of your bruised arms as they wrapped around me so tight.
And I held you, but this time it didn’t feel like enough.
Back when you were in grade school, mom used to always tell you to “marry a man who buys you flowers just because.” This idea trailed back a long ways: My father, your grandfather, was always a traditionalist in the sense that he believed a man should be the sole caregiver and provider for his wife. He was always coming home from his shifts at the mechanic shop, a tool belt slung underneath one arm, a bouquet of roses tucked underneath the other; your grandma just adored it. In fact, your grandpa had started to realize the “irresistibly charming” effect (or so he called it) flowers had on a woman: Whenever a fight started in the morning over the messy garage or him wearing shoes in the house, he’d simply come home that day with an arrangement of lilies or delilahs, place them on the kitchen table without a word, and like magic, all would be forgotten. “Every time” he used to tell me with a wink. That used to make me laugh. I had always just continued the tradition with your mother; flowers on our first date, flowers on her birthday, flowers on Easter, flowers on a lazy Tuesday night after a long day at the office, flowers fresh-picked from the garden outside, flowers that surprised her at her desk in the morning, flowers just because she mattered. And don’t think that I forgot you even for a second. I’ll never forget the way you would gaze up at me as I handed you a red rose, its petals still vibrant and colorful. Anyway, whenever mom would talk about your perfect future flower-boy, the thought of it made you giggle in the 11-year-old way that you used to, but she was serious about it. The thought simultaneously amused and horrified me. You were much too young to think about boys. You were gorgeous in the most unconventional way; rich, dark hair that bounced in playful curls as you walked, deep brown eyes--we danced to “Brown-eyed Girl” together, you on my feet as we swayed back and forth on the living room carpet and you smiled wide. Mom took a picture and hung it on the wall. Your blue jeans and pink sweatshirts suited you well, hanging baggy and loose around your slender frame. You did cartwheels all around the backyard and stained the sleeves with dirt. You exuded this childish innocence and it was something I grew to cherish so fondly.
You were yet to discover that boys preferred straight, blonde hair and low-cut shirts. You had yet to spend your allowance on Victoria’s Secret push-up bras, yet to stand in front of the bathroom mirror, smoke curling from the straightening iron in cruel swirls. You had yet to even discover a world where any of that mattered. You had not yet brought home your first boyfriend--a skinny, pimply boy with peach fuzz around his mouth. Mike was it...Mark? You didn’t know what it was like to be cheated on yet, to have your heart broken, to cry into your pillow on a January 19th. I still remember wrapping my arms around you so tight, a bouquet of roses tucked underneath my arm for you. I told you that mom was right, that if he didn’t buy you flowers just because, then it wasn’t meant to be. You smiled a sad smile and we held each other and that was enough.
I remember a couple of weeks later when you went to prom with your next boyfriend. “It’s okay,” you said, “he’s so much cooler than Mark!” as if that was the secret to loving someone. I silently watched you as you got ready that night, watching as the straightener flattened the curly hair I loved so much. You spent 30 minutes doing your makeup; primer, foundation, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner. You sang along to a song I’d never heard before. You finally emerged from the bathroom, wearing a small red dress that hugged your body, your hair straight as a pin, your face hidden behind a mask of makeup. You did a small twirl and asked mom and I how you looked. Mom wiped a tear from her eye, “You’re stunning,” she said, on the brink of tears. I thought you looked like someone else. This wasn’t my small girl. It was bewildering gazing at the young woman before me. She was beautiful, yes, in a conventional kind of way. The world had convinced you that was the only way you should be, and it saddened me to think about. I gave you a hug and said “Gorgeous.” We took lots of pictures that day. Pictures of you, pictures of us together, pictures of you and your boyfriend together. Pictures of you hugging, pictures of you kissing. I wanted to hold you again, to wipe the makeup off your face, to tell you that you were beautiful just like this. I wanted for you to change into a pink sweatshirt and do cartwheels around the room and to dance on my feet to “Brown-eyed Girl”. I wanted you to want it. I wanted that to be enough. But you left that day, arm strung around your boyfriend as he took you away from me, your high heels clicking on the floor as you left. “Look, he even got me a flower” you beamed as you admired the corsage around your wrist. I didn’t think that counts.
I remember when you broke up with your prom date for Zach, you’re newest crush, and I remember when you both split ways for college. I remember driving you to campus the night before your first day, boxes crammed into the backseat, mom wouldn’t stop reminding you about setting your alarm clock in the morning, it made you so mad. I remember waving goodbye, an ache deep in my stomach, tears welled in my eyes. You were only an hour away but it felt like a lifetime. You were the one leaving but I felt lost. You, a social butterfly as always, had made a friend and were going to the food hall together for lunch. I slipped a small bouquet of white tulips onto your desk after you were gone with a note that said “Miss you already.”
I remember a few months later when you met Tom. Boy, how you beamed when you talked about him. “Captain of the rugby team, honors student, engineering major, and so cute” you exclaimed over the phone. Mom was really excited about the honors part, she said he sounded like a “nice boy” and that you should invite him over for dinner some time during break. I said nothing. A couple more weeks passed and you did in fact invite Tom over for dinner. He seemed like a decent kid, a little overbearing if anything, but pleasant. He was the type of person who shook your hand firmly and called you “sir”. I didn’t know how to feel about that if I’m being honest. It made me feel old, it made me feel like I was inanimate, as though you had to speak me
into existence for it to actually be true. But you smiled wide and so I did too. I shook his hand back and said “Nice to meet you.” I remember we had a good night. We talked about all kinds of things. Rugby, classes, the house, how you played “Kelsi” in the school musical the year before, our favorite movies, what it was like to be in college, things that mattered, things that didn’t. We even talked about the flower theory! Tom had said he’d keep a mental note of that. You remember don’t you? Weeks became months and you and Tom stayed close. We enjoyed it when you came home almost every other weekend and we became accustomed to having Tom around the house. It was easy to joke with him, and he was very respectful to you. Mom and I would talk about what a lovely boy he is and how we could picture a future where you were really happy together. And the thing is that I really could. I pictured a life where you would be protected and loved by him, a life where you sat around the dinner table and talked about your days, a life where you danced on Thursday nights in the living room because your favorite song was on, a life where you could do a cartwheel right there in the kitchen simply because you wanted to, a life where you could wear your hair curly and without makeup on your face and be admired still. I pictured a life where he bought you flowers just because. And you seemed happy too, so that was enough.
I remember that night when I needed a glass of water at 2 am and I walked by your door. I was groggy and my feet shuffled quietly down the stairs, so as not to wake you. I still remember what your crying sounded like as I walked by your door that night, a low whimper, deeply sad. It shocked me that you were even up that late. I called out to you quietly and knocked on your door gently. You didn’t answer so I pried it open slowly. I know you heard me but you pretended to be asleep, your phone curled in your hand, glowing with the notification light. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me” I whispered, knowing that you were listening. I stayed awake all night, propped on the couch, the soft glow of the tv illuminating my face. You never came.
I remember going to one of Tom’s rugby games in the summer. You had been dating for almost a year by now and so you were well accustomed to attending his sporting events. You said hello to some of the parents of the teammates and introduced us to them. You have a natural vibrancy to you, it’s stunningly beautiful; you’ve always been good at making friends and socializing. I was
not a huge fan of rugby...in fact I had never so much as even watched a game or match, or whatever it is. Your mom and I were stunned at how much you knew about the game. You kept yelling “Penalty! Penalty!” and pointing at the ref furiously. You smiled really wide when Tom scored. I remember thinking that he looked so vicious out on the field, barking out orders and knocking into people. When he had the ball in his hand, he was unstoppable. Fast as a lion he raced across that field, plowing past people as though they were leaves blowing in the wind. There was even a point where their team had to do what was called a “blood-sub.” Tom had to step off the field because his nose was bleeding for 15 minutes. He looked up at you, a blood-soaked tissue hanging out of his nose, and winked. He looked wild, like some caged animal waiting to be released again. It gave me chills. The game was fascinating and frightening
all at once but you cheered so loud and that made me feel inanimate again. When it was over, your mom and I treated you to dinner at “Dimitri’s.” Everyone talked a lot that night except for me. You joked about how bad the ref was and how he needed to get glasses. Mom couldn’t stop talking about how proud she was of Tom and how well he played. She said you were lucky that you had such a fine young man in your life.Tom thanked us for coming and accepted the praise with respectful humility, but the smear of blood still stained his upper lip and I stared at it all night. We drove away that night in seperate cars, with hugs goodbye and promises to call each other tomorrow. He kissed you hard in his car as we drove away, the moon reflecting off your straightened hair.
I remember that summer day we went hiking at Woodlawn Park, about 45 minutes away from home. We packed a picnic and our gear and set off for a fun day. Tom had a game that day and couldn’t join us. It was a blisteringly hot day and you wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Mom and I warned you that you would be really hot and that we were going to be doing a lot of uphill hiking. You shrugged your shoulders and said you didn’t mind; besides, you were a summer person you said, you liked the heat. It was a great car ride up. We talked about all kinds of things. You tried to teach mom the chorus to your new favorite song but she was hopeless. I got in on it and by the end of the ride, we were all singing along to some rap song, trying to keep up and laughing like crazy madmen on a never-ending highway. We passed giant windmills that rose like gigantic pillars out of the earth. We pondered about how they were built, so tall and heavy like that. Mom asked about Tom and whether he was looking forward to graduating college next year or not. You said you weren’t sure and absently looked out the window, seemingly pondering something. The hike was long, and hot. They called it the “Wave Cave Trail” because it took you through this long, rocky, up-hill path to this huge crater in the rock. It looked like a giant cave and people took pictures of themselves posing in the enormity of the huge space. We passed a few families who were heading down as we were going up. They said the hike itself was grueling but encouraged us that the view was worth it once you reached the cave. You smiled, beads of sweat already forming on your forehead. The hike was nice, the trail was empty except for a few lonely people, big packs on their backs, the kind real hikers wear. They sped by us. Your mom and I admired the scenery around us, the giant red rocks, the saguaro cacti, standing like tall soldiers guarding the terrain, the blue sky without a cloud in sight, how the sun beat down unrelentlessly. You stayed oddly quiet the entire time and when I looked back at you, you looked quite sick to your stomach. We stopped to take a rest break by a small patch of shade and asked you if you wanted to roll your sleeves up. You said no. We assured you that you’d feel a lot more comfortable if you just rolled up your sleeves a bit. You said no. We pleaded with you to just change into the short sleeve shirt mom had packed with her just in case. You yelled no at us. We all sat in silence for a moment. A lone hiker walked by us, speeding up the trail, a smile outlining his face. “I fell off my bike on campus and got bruises on my arms. It’s fine” you said after a few moments. You stood wearily and continued up the path without saying another word. Mom and I exchanged a glance and then followed. I was confused; you hadn’t ridden a bike in years, you didn’t even have one on campus with you. We hiked for half an hour more but never made it to the Wave Cave that day.
Summer that year flew by. Mom and I were so happy to finally have you home every day for break. You seemed happy too. Most days, Tom would come over and we’d all spend time together. Some days, you would tell us that he was suddenly busy and unable to come. Mom would be disappointed because she had prepared dinner for 4. You always seemed upset on days like that. He had grown to be part of the family in a way, it felt comfortable, nice. One night I remember so clearly. We sat outside on the deck, the sun melting into the horizon like butter, the creep of night glazing the sky with darkness. The music was turned really low on the radio, but we liked the soft background music. We talked for long hours about meaningless stuff that felt so important at the time. A vase of pink lilies sat on the table before us: a small gift I had surprised your mother with that morning. I wondered if Tom even bought you flowers just because. The warmth of the summer night hugged me in a familiar and welcomed embrace. You were wearing black pants and a long-sleeved shirt, like almost every other day. I don’t know why I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You never said anything about being too warm, and I remembered that day at Woodlawn Park, so I never mentioned it anymore. We both heard the acoustic guitar intro to “Brown-Eyed Girl” as soon as it started playing and we looked at each other. This was our song and we both stood up out of habit. I extended my hands out to you and you took them, stepping on my feet gently. We swayed all around the deck that night to the soft sound of the music as Tom and your mother watched, smiling. I still remember the sound of your laugh as we pranced around that night, your head tilted slightly back, truly happy. You were always a creature of beauty and grace and that night you looked like an angel, your eyes shimmering with the glow of the moonlight, your hands wrapped so gently around my fingers. You were happy, and you needed me. And that was enough.
I will never forget tonight, how eager I was to see the look on your face when I handed you the small bouquet of red roses I had gotten at Patty’s flower shop that afternoon. It was the end of your fall semester and you had been studying hard for weeks. You were coming home for winter break and mom and I couldn’t wait to see you. You had driven home by yourself and mom and I had a special surprise planned for you when we got out of work. You had been home alone for a couple of hours by yourself now, I assumed you were probably unpacking your clothes, watching some uninterrupted tv, maybe settling back into the routine of being home again. I figured it was probably such a weight off your shoulders to be home again. I crept into the house very quietly, excited to surprise you when I walked into the living room. You weren’t there though, so I checked in your room. Your bags and books laid sprawled out on your bed; you hadn’t even begun to unpack them yet. I saw the crack of light underneath the bathroom door and I walked slowly over to knock on it. Before I was even close though I heard your crying. So low it could barely be heard. I watched you silently from the small crack in the door from a distance. You were wearing your prom dress, the small red one that hugged your body. You held yourself with your bare arms and that’s when I saw all the bruises. Small ones, big ones, blueish-purple all across your arms, covering almost every inch of your skin. You looked at yourself in the mirror, clutching your bare arms with your hands, winsing from the pain, tears streaming down your cheeks. Before I could think of what to do, I ran inside the door and called out to you, the bouquet of roses still in my hand. You turned, startled, and looked at me with your sad brown eyes. We said nothing to each other for a moment, just looked at each other with tears in our eyes, and then you broke down. I’ll never forget how sick I felt when you told me how he hit you. I’ll never forget how you said that it was okay and that it was your fault. I wanted to scream that it’s not okay, that you’re not okay, that I couldn’t believe that you’d kept this a secret for so long, that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t known, but I simply embraced you, stroking your straight hair for so long and crying into each others’ shoulders. I dropped the flowers and wrapped both of my arms around you, its petals lay scattered on the floor. Tonight went on forever, us in the bathroom, the dim glow of light cascading into the hallway, the sickly look of your bruised arms as they wrapped around me so tight.
And I held you, but this time it didn’t feel like enough.