She's Closer to Her Mother

I could hear Hazel crying in the other room. Mom and Dad's room I think. Dad was out in the family room watching golf with the sound turned way up. Golf is the most silent sport on the planet and yet my father evidentlly needs to hear the sound of the club hitting the ball. But then when the announcers come on it makes you jump unless you're on the other side of the house and even then it's loud.


So the fact that I could hear Hazel crying was a big deal. Plus, Hazel was nineteen at the time and even being only eleven myself I knew it was socially improper for nineteen year olds to cry unless they were FREAKING OUT.


I opened Hazel and my bedroom door to try to hear better, but that just made Dad's TV worse. I went back inside our room and shut the door. I pressed my ear up to the wall, next to the framed Jesus Carmex, but I couldn't hear any better. I looked inside the closet. Yes. I always loved hiding in closets anyway. I crawled to the very back of it, moving some of Hazel's shoes out of the way. I only had one pair of shoes and they were on my feet. I didn't understand why anyone would want to wear anything other than my grey and purple kanjaroos. I leaned my head against the wall. I really could hear better. Mom's closet must have been open. Their voices were muffled, but I got the gist of it.


Hazel was freaking out. She was begging Mom to take me to a psychiatrist. To a hospital. To another doctor. Anywhere. It was quiet for awhile but then suddenly Hazel blurted out, "People die from anorexia, Mother." Clearly, as if she finally knew what to say. I heard our mother sob. Mom didn't like us to watch her cry. I felt guilty for listening in on their conversation even though it was obviously about me. I felt sorry for my mom at the same time what Hazel was saying made my heart pound with what felt like walking into a surprise birthday party.


So we went. It was at this brick, flat roofed county mental health building far enough away Dad took the highway to get to it.


Dad was sitting in a chair with armrests and cushions but he didn't look comfortable at all. Mom and I were sitting at opposite ends of the couch. Mom's purse, opened with a wad of Kleenex at the top, sat next to her, between us. The therapist sat across from us on one of those really cool wooden spinning office chairs I always want to spin on but get in trouble for doing so when I come upon one. I must have been focusing too much on her chair, because the therapist raised her voice, "Sydney. Did you hear my question?"


"Uh, no, um, sorry."


"I asked you who you'd say you're closer to. Your mom--" she nodded her head at my mom's side of the couch, "Or your dad---" she looked over at my dad, who had his left calf crossing his right thigh in the way mom told me not to when I tried to sit that way. He was rolling his shoelace between his thumb and forefinger. I could tell he wanted to light up a cigarette, but the therapist mentioned at the start that she didn't want anyone smoking during the session. Mom and dad had to both put away their packs like people nowadays have to turn off their phones.


I had no idea how to answer. What a horrible question to ask someone. That was all I could think of. How could she put me on the spot like that, asking me who I'm closer to right here in front of him. I felt just like I did when Mom told me she mentioned to Dad that I had started my period the pervious year.


"She's closer to her mother."


I looked up at Dad. He wasn't looking up. Still twiddling his shoe lace. I felt so relieved. He knew. It wasn't just me who noticed. But then, as I stared at him twiddling his shoelace and not looking up, I felt so sad. Because if he knew we weren't close, then he also didn't seem too concerned about it. Here I'd been sitting here worrying about hurting Dad's feelings by admitting to the therapist that I was closer to my mom than I was to my dad, but with five words I realize my father doesn't care that we're not close.