I wouldn’t have remembered Angie’s sixteenth birthday if I hadn’t overcooked the spaghetti the night before. I suppose I also wouldn’t have remembered if my father had not spent the better part of his Sunday draining a bottle of whiskey, yet he was more often intoxicated than not. As I attempted to conceal the clumpy noodles with extensive amounts of tomato sauce, I prayed that he wouldn’t notice. However, my feeble efforts to be furtive were surely in vain. My father was a blind man when it came admirable behavior, led by a seeing-eye dog that only detected failure. Sure enough, after a single mouthful of the viscid pasta, he released his rigid grip on his fork and let it fall into the bowl with a piercing “clank.” Indifferent to table manners, my father spat out the noodles, tiny chunks flying across the table like shrapnel.

    “You call this dinner?” he thundered.

    Instinct led me to look to my mother for protection. The reasonable, human side of my brain was well aware that my mother was merely a listless ghost, a specter who haunted our home with the memories of a happier time before my father began drinking. Rather than the make-up all my friend’s mothers wore, bruises and cuts highlighted her features. For a moment I saw her cracked lips quiver as if she was preparing to speak, but the words quickly retreated back down her throat, as if they realized that the enemy was much too formidable for them to conquer.

    My observations of my mother’s destitute state were suddenly interrupted by the painfully tight squeeze of a large hand around my arm. My head instantly whipped around, and I saw my fathers fingers coiled tightly around my flesh.

   “Worthless… good for nothing…” my father slurred, his breath omitting an odor that made both my eyes and nose sting.

    And then I was sailing backwards, flying away from the dinner table. Watching my unresponsive mother and my drunkard father shrink before me reminded me of the time when Angie and I visited my Uncle Henry two years ago. Despite my mothers worried protests (for back then a soul still inhabited her body) Henry had allowed us to ride in the back of his battered pickup truck. I remember watching the world behind grow smaller. I remember it was the last time Angie had put her arm around me, or anyone for that matter. I remember feeling safe.

    “Crack.” My illusion of security was shattered, my head taking the force of the blow as the refrigerator halted my backwards descent. I lay on the ground disoriented as various papers and magnets showered down upon the kitchen floor. There, with my head pulsing in rhythm with the quickened pace of my heart, our calendar fell neatly onto my lap, as if divinely intended. Through blurred vision, I was able to make out my mother’s small and careful handwriting, mirroring her
unassuming nature. As the haziness began to subside, I was able to make out the words “Angie’s Birthday” written in the February 16th box. Tomorrow.

     Angie’s disposition was not unlike that of my mother. They shared a common fear, my father, and dealt with it in the same manner, through passive avoidance. However, while my mother simply retreated internally, Angie found her escape in stories. Ever since I could remember, my sister had always had a book in tow, often with a cracked binding and dog-eared pages from multiple reads. For years, I had simply accepted her novels as a part of her irremovable anatomy. She used to read to me at night, providing me entry into her realm of magic and fantasy. However, in the two years since my father had become unemployed and found solace in the bottle, she had ceased our nightly ritual, and boarded up the door between fiction and reality, permanently separating herself from everything outside. Including me. Sometimes, after an outburst and a new bruise, I would find myself unconsciously entering her room, hoping that perhaps she had decided to make room for one more in her safe haven. But each time I opened her door, her eyes would merely take a brief pause from sliding across a page.

    “Not now Ryan,” she would always whisper. And I would always toddle back into my room wondering how her words could hurt me so much more than my father’s hands. Wondering if “not now”, then when?

     I sat at the base of the refrigerator and silently mourned the coming of Angie’s “sweet sixteen,” knowing there would be no party, no presents. I knew my parents would not be buying Angie a gift because two months ago, I was awoken by the sound of my father drunkenly bellowing. This was not an uncommon occurrence, for he often hallucinated when he drank, but the muffled sobs of my mother drew me from my bed. I crept silently down the stairs and peered around the banister. In my right hand I clutched the telephone, making sure that after each slam and bang I could still hear my mother crying. Making sure she was still ok.

     On this particular night, my father’s rage was fueled by the fact that my mother had bought me a remote control car for my birthday. Through belches and grumbles, my father shouted how they couldn’t afford to buy presents for children who were already so burdensome. After about an hour of delivered blows and suppressed screams, he finally allowed her to crawl into their room and go to sleep. Just before I returned to my own bed, I witnessed my father obliterating the small car through repetitious kicks and jumps.

     Anyway, after my collision with the fridge, I was miraculously allowed to go to my room, for my father declared that he simply wanted me to get out of his sight. Still dizzy, I lay on my bed and fought back nausea and tears. Worry, my constant and only companion, settled down beside me. More foe than friend, it plagued my mind with fear. Fear that Angie would grow up to be as lethargic as my mother. Fear that she would marry an alcoholic like my father. I desperately wished that I could save her from this horrid fate, but I was incapable of even getting her a birthday gift.

      I pulled myself into a sitting position and scanned the room for something, anything that would serve as a suitable present. Suddenly my eyes came across a stack of paper and crayons sitting on my desk, and my mind was illuminated by a brilliant idea. I would write my sister a book for her birthday.

       With my head still throbbing, I stumbled to the desk and snatched up the crayon labeled “Tickle-Me Pink.” I slid a piece of the flawlessly white paper in front of me, positioned my hand in the top left corner of the page, and waited for an idea to come. For each minute that the sheet sat there blank, my cheeks burned a more vibrant red as shame overpowered my supposed ingenuity. Was I pathetic to believe that I could actually write a story that lived up to the countless novels my sister had read, the ones written by esteemed authors? How could I possibly make my book special?

       Luckily, my first experience with writer’s block was shortly followed by my first experience with writer’s inspiration. The characters of books captivated Angie, as much as if not more than the plots themselves. If I made myself the main character of my story, I would be the object of her admiration. Once I had this realization, my crayon no longer sat idle. I wrote about myself battling monsters, curing cancer, winning baseball games. In each tale, Angie was the one I would save, cure, or celebrate with. And they all ended with the heartening phrase: “happily ever after.” I laboriously wrote late into the night, and eventually fell asleep at the desk.  Yet it was the best sleep I had gotten in years. This time there were no nightmares.

      The next morning, I awoke with one of the pages of my novel stuck to my cheek. I hurriedly gathered up the papers, trying to put them all in order and lamenting my neglect of page numbers. I slipped silently down the hall to Angie’s room. Even though her door creaked loudly as I opened it, my sister’s focus remained on the book in front of her.

       “Not…” she began. But I interrupted he before I had to suffer another of her uniform rejections.

     “Happy Birthday Angie,” I said. I could tell my words surprised her, for her eyebrows raised slightly, and she actually turned to look at me. Her pale blue eyes were illuminated by inquiry and interest. I hoped that I wouldn’t disappoint her.

     “I made you a present,” I mumbled, suddenly not so confident in my work. Another new experience: fear of critique.

     “Okay…” Angie replied guardedly. She was obviously wary about the alteration of our previously nonexistent relationship.

      My trembling hands caused the papers to rustle as I carefully handed them to her. I sat on the very edge of her bed, ready to flee from disapproval if it should arrive. Angie’s eyes began to consume my words at their usual rapid rate, however, as she continued they gradually slowed, as if she were trying to decode ancient cryptic scrolls. And then, much to my dismay, Angie began to cry.

      She hated it. After all, I had never seen her cry while reading Charles Dickens or Edith Wharton. The tears fell silently, staining the page with marks of criticism. I launched myself from her bed, muttering apologies as I searched for the door that would free me from this air stifled with disenchantment.

     “Ryan,” Angie spoke, her voice not a whisper but rather audible and melodic. I forced myself to look back, and to my surprise my sister was smiling, an expression that still suited her well even though she had not worn it in years.

     “You are my favorite character,” she finished with a definite tone, as if she had never been surer of anything in her life.

      I ran back to her and she embraced me, holding me close as we each wept silently. We sat like that together for a long time, enjoying the feeling of security. Enjoying our first hug in years.

Angie's Favorite Character
By: Taylor Giordullo