It's a new year and Short Story Sundays is back!
Sometimes you have to carry things into a new year in order for them remain successful...I've received many requests urging me to address Symone's story in one final installment. Symone is a young woman recently dismissed from college due to lack of academic success. Raised solely by her father and brother due to her mother's death when she was just an infant, she comes home to Atlanta to the surprise news that her father is now remarrying to a stranger.
Symone's story is close to my heart and I am so grateful you all connected with it so well!
Catch up on part 1 and part 2 now.
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It was dark albeit the overhead light in the kitchen from above the sink. Symone lit a candle and placed her head face down on the kitchen's island. She had made solace with this place before sunrise many times in the last six weeks. The scent of lavender and vanilla was loud over the silence. Head still on the counter and eyes closed, she massage her temples, slowly and delicately. Her headaches were becoming a mainstay so much so they now felt tender to the touch. It seemed the tips of her fingers to her skin ignited the already wretched pain that stayed with her all day and got worse at night. Often times, cold sweats would wake her up out of her sleep or she'd be sleep deprived after meeting insomnia the night before.
But this morning it was a nightmare that aroused her out of her sleep cycle. And it was not just any morning. It was the morning her father would become a husband again. The morning he would receive a wife, the morning he would receive another daughter; the morning life did a permanent somersault across her heart.
She'd thrown up after waking up from the nightmare. She was a ball of too many emotions to attempt another chance at pseudo-rest. She was hoping the lavender and vanilla scented candle would relax her tense shoulder or loosen her clenched jaws or stop her leg from twitching. And for this brief moment in time, it had done all of those things. Symone relished in that moment. The last six weeks had been a blur. Mr. Curtis had politely yet sternly let Symone that with or without her consent (that he didn't really need), he was moving forward with his plans to marry Jessica Chambers. Dinner at Symone's house had commenced every Sunday for the last six Sundays to attempt at some type of peace for Symone's sake. Yet Symone still felt like an outsider. Her brothers, father, Jessica and Ashley Chambers all had a familiarity with one another prior to her coming home from college. Their cohesiveness seemed awkward, unpleasant and staged when Symone was around. Symone asked mountains of questions to catch up on the last year: holidays spent together, activities, events, books read and outings that she had all missed with her family. She and Jessica had a fleeting conversation about Jessica's baking skills her brother Alex had flaunted about. Feeling vulnerable, Symone wanted to know more.
"Can you make strawberry shortcake?" Symone asked.
"Yes, I can! It's one of my favorites," Jessica replied, smiling.
"Mine too," Symone smiled back. "But I mean, from scratch. No fake strawberries, artificial flavors or sponge like shortcake. The real stuff."
"Oh yea, nothing but homemade," Jessica said, giggling but shaking her head in assurance.
The next Sunday, Jessica was happy to announce she'd baked a special dessert for Symone and that she'd get the first taste.
Symone opened up the cake's lid and burst out laughing.
"What's this?" Symone asked.
"Banana pudding. Your favorite right?" Jessica said, that same smile from a week ago plastered to her face like a Barbie doll's. Funny, Symone thought--it looked real last week.
"Wrong," Symone said. She was disgusted.
I hardly utter many words to this woman. And the ones I do, she doesn't even remember.
She's not trying to get to know me, she's trying to appease me.
Apologies and I'm sorry's were tossed around to which Symone accepted. But not before small lectures on the side from her brothers and father who thought she was unreasonable, rude, ungrateful and any other synonym that was the opposite of hurt. Other conversations between Jessica and Symone were few and futile with Symone only answering directly to what was asked of her even if Jessica attempted to prompt her for more.
A soft but sure breeze prompted Symone out of her reflections. Her fathers aging but still handsome face was looking back at her. He had taken a seat on the opposite side of the island, his head in his hands to meet her face. Symone giggled at this gesture. He used to do this with her when she was a kid. He laughed too. The sun was rising, allowing just enough light to enter the room.
"Please forgive me Symone," her father abruptly stated.
She flinched then looked down at the nervousness that beset her at his words. She hoped he hadn't noticed. Silence had swam its way into the room again and engulfed it.
"Will you forgive me?"
Symone had not considered this. So, while perhaps odd, she pondered his question. She had been too busy being angry she had not considered forgiving. She did not say anything but looked directly in her father's eyes. She realized she did not recognize his gaze. She had not been in this place with him before. Never distant. She squinted to try to focus in on his emotion behind his eyes. Her eyes relaxed, then squinted, then relaxed again. She looked down to feel her leg twitching nervously. She grabbed aggressively to get it to stop.
"You know Sy, you're mother would have done anything in her power to stay with you," he said.
Now Symone's eyes were glued back to his. Her father went on to talk about how her mother nicknamed her Sy in the womb. How she had cried because she could no longer breastfeed after being diagnosed with cancer just 8 months after her birth. And lastly, how Symone and her brothers had been present that afternoon when her mother went peacefully. Symone had not heard the latter story before. Perhaps it was a repressed memory, too painfully tender to produce from her mind that was too full of empty memories eradicated by a mind to young to birth to life.
"I'm so sorry Symone."
They were in full embrace now. No island between them, lavender and vanilla still soothing them together, melting their arms tightly around the waists.
"I took for granted the fact that you wanted her only to realize that her love is what you needed," he stopped, swallowed and continued. "Need."
Those were the words of empathy and sympathy that were wrapped in her headache's healing. Acknowledgement of the deception someone had told her masculine family members years ago that at some point, the little girl no longer needs her mother. But what of the motherless daughter? What of the little girl who never knew her mother's touch, scent or voice, yet alone her love? Who grows up for her?
Later Symone would put on the soft pink dress she earlier had denounced but now felt honored to wear. Her stomach would still toss, flip and flop and she might even throw up again out of anxiousness, nervousness or even perhaps out of joy. She'd be polite to Jessica and even inviting to Ashley because after all, she'd always wanted a younger sister. And as she walked down the aisle--alone and without an escort--she'd stop at the foot of the altar of the sanctuary and meet her father's gaze once again. Her eyes would well up, but she was unafraid of anyone seeing it this time. She'd smile and he'd smile back. Symone would make her way to her spot with the other members of the bridal party, look back at her father and mouth the words:
I. Forgive. You.
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