The Letter

Julia Hansen

“It is what it is,” my mother scoffed as she scraped the remaining Friday surprise into a tupperware bin. Friday surprise was just like it sounded, a surprise. Mother was a freelance painter on a quest to achieve spiritual awakening. She sat at home all day in the garage and fussed over the disturbing creations that she would never sell. Or she was passed out on the cigarette-burn couch in the living room with a blunt still in her hand. Either way, she was far too busy to cook anything for us kids. She made her Friday surprise like she did everything else, with disorganization and illusion. A concoction, she called it.

“Honestly, Amanda, I don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with this. You know this is just a fancy way for the government to get you into the system and suck out every drop of creativity. I mean, hah, look at me. I didn’t go to college, and I turned out just fine!” She cackled as she kept scooping the grey sludge into the plastic tubs. Usually, I could tell what was in the Friday surprise, mashed potatoes mixed with cream of spinach or sweetbread mixed with day old pudding. It was usually a combination of the sale items at the corner store, but I couldn’t even distinguish it this time. Feeding it to the dog almost seemed like animal cruelty.

I crumpled the acceptance letter in my hand. I should’ve known better than to ask. I buried my head on the table when I heard the wood beaded curtain in the kitchen doorway jingle as a big burly man walked through.

Mother’s face turned to a smirk as she placed the top on the last container of sludge. The big mountain man walked over and then settled in his spot at the kitchen table. His brown beard was patchy and his teeth were as yellow as ever.

“Where’s my breakfast?” he barked, slapping mother on the back. The image of my six-foot-four, 200 pound step father sitting at my mother’s dainty kitchen table was a hilarious and unnatural scene. He made the table and everything else in the house look like doll furniture. How they ever became a match was always a mystery to me. The lumberjack with the unemployed hippie, painter wife. Sometimes I felt like the only thing holding together their marriage was Marty’s money and the blunts they would smoke together.

In an instant, my mother uncovered a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon from the oven. My mouth watered out of jealousy. I would have drooled all over the table if my mother hadn’t said, “Amanda, show Marty your letter.” I tried to make a silent plea with my mother, but her eyes were locked on Marty. Not even looking at me, Marty ripped the concealed letter out of the palm of my hand.

“You’re not going.”

“That’s what I said, Amanda. Tell him that I told you that. Marty, I knew it was a bad idea when I saw it in the mail.”

“It’s a waste of time. And money.”

“Yes, yes, waste of time and money.” Mother echoed his words like a stupid parrot. It made me so mad I wanted to slap her. Still, her eyes were glued to Marty, as if all she cared about was if his eggs were too salty or the bacon was overcooked. I took a deep breath.

“I’ve saved up,” I said, “and I can take out loans.”

“No.” Marty’s sharp voice cut me off, but I tried again.

“There are a ton of financial aid options.”

“Amanda,” Mother began.

“The letter says that I qualify for a significant scholar-” Suddenly I fell back from my chair. My head slammed against the dusty linoleum floor. My eyes blinked a couple of times as I caught my breath. My hand reached up to feel the right side of my chin. My jaw was tender and sore but no blood. Nothing was broken, thank god. Marty’s voice echoed through the rotting house.

“You’re not leaving, and that’s final.” He slurped up the last bite of his breakfast before slamming the fork on the plate and pushing his chair out. My mother gave me a sharp glance and then ran after Marty’s big shadowy figure down the hallway. Her height compared to his was almost comical. She looked like a court jester running after the king. From the floor, I watched her as she hurriedly stretched an old, worn, patched coat over Marty’s large arms. I heard her fuss over the creases, the same way she used to fuss over us when we were little. When she finally placed his hat on top of his head, Marty turned to me. I jumped back, scared that he was in reach of me.

“If you’re that bored you can go get a job like Sean,” he boomed, slamming the door behind him. I exhaled. My 23- year-old brother Sean was a cashier at the local Save’N’Go and would spend his $9 an hour salary on weed and cheap beer. What a life. Still it was better than being here. Being a cashier and living on your own was way better than being stuck with my high mom and aggressive step father who didn’t give two shits about you. They just sat and smoked Marty’s money away. At the same time, I  felt like I was being smoked away too. Slowly thinning out until I was nothing. College was my only way out of this hellhole. I didn’t want to end up like Sean, or my mom. From the window, I watched Marty get into his beat up black truck. Screw you, I mumbled as I gritted my teeth. I wish you never came into my life. I wish you never married my mom. I wish you were dead. I watched his truck light up and start to pull out of the driveway. I walked towards the bathroom to inspect my chin. The pain was unbearable. Suddenly, in the stillness, I heard a crash from outside. The sound of crushing of metal followed with the smell of burning rubber. My mother, who had already taking up her spot on the couch, jerked up and ran to the window. Her scream sent shivers down my spine. When I ran to the front door to see what had happened, my jaw dropped.