HIS GIRL

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER FIVE

ELLA

It’s exactly seven thirty when I bid Hikaru goodnight at the junction sitting on the east side of Caden street. He cycles away, the wind pushing back the dyed blonde strands of his hair. That one sure knew what color to put on his hair. I grab my headphones, putting them on and losing myself to Ciara’s like a boy as I branch into the grocery store. Armed with a shopping basket, I walk down the aisle taking as many of the Halloween 30% sell-off items as the credit card balance could allow.

“79.62 dollars,” Eric, the grocery store owner, announces, already packing my items in one paper bag.

Silently, I hand him my credit card, he bills it up and hands it back to me along with a receipt. I turn the music up the moment the chilly night air stings my face. It's moments like these, when I’m lost in the percussive sounds of the music booming into my ears, that I think of how perfect it feels. No hurdles. No bills to think about. No drunk father to deal with. No. At this time, its only me and the music. My feet pick up, breaking into a little dance and a few people look at me, shake their heads and choose to mind their own business. Memories of when I was ten, dreaming of nothing but the world of dance, flow into my mind, intertwining with every little dance move I make on the sidewalk.

SIX YEARS AGO

I follow the sound of the music, letting my body relax as my hands and feet move in sync to the beat. All the other kids in the room are doing the same thing, mirroring every move that Mrs. Hampton makes. We all like it here. A kid bumps into me, sending both of us out of sync and I almost pelt into the ground.

“I’m sorry,” I recognise the kid. It's Petra. She has always been clumsys since the second I knew her in third grade.

“Its okay,” I answered, throwing her a small smile. Mum constantly reminds me that I should be nice to other people.

A smile breaches her lips, her widened blue eyes returning to normal size. The good thing is that that was the last part of our dance practice. The teacher reminds us of the upcoming county dance competition happening in a week before dismissing us.

I grab my school bag, running out of the room and find my best friend Rita waiting for me. We always waited for each other after the normal school routines. She hands me a strawberry pop tart and we head over to my mum’s car. She always drops us both home. Rita’s mum was always at work in their family owned bakery and so was her father, the town’s Sheriff. Mum did not mind at all. Besides, it meant more Rita-Ella time.

“So how was school today, girls?” Mum questions, peering at us through the visor mirror.

“It was great,” We both answered, giggling a bit.

“And dance practice?”

“Awesome. Mrs. Hampton says next month we are going for the county competitions. You will come, right?”

“Oh, my little star, I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetie,” she smiled. A full blown, happy smile.

Except she lied.

I stop dancing, finding myself in the driveway of my home, with my chest heaving fast. The bitter gall in my throat takes a moment before it disappears. I take a deep breath, perhaps two, then walk up the few steps to the front door. Using my key, I let myself in the three bedroomed house, immediately grimacing at the total distraught state of the house. Clothes are spread on the couch, a broken beer bottle on the ground and unfinished food cramps spilled on the table. I’m not surprised by this but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less. For once, it wouldn’t kill for my father to clean up after himself.

If only mum was still alive…

I walk up the stairs to my room, take a hurried warm shower before going back downstairs. A quick clean up and taking the trash out, leaves the place looking better than I’d found it. Once I’m done, I restock the fridge with all the groceries I’d bought before settling down to prepare some dinner. Once the rice and curry is done, I serve my potion and sit down to eat while catching up on yet another dumb, scripted dating reality show. The cheesiness of the show would have anyone puking but not me. I secretly fantasize about getting that kind of cheesiness. You know; the flowers, the sweet nothings and pretending there are several hot boys that want something to do with me. These are the thoughts that take my mind away from the crappiness of what my life really is. Legs curled beneath me, I lazy around a bit after dinner before retiring into my bedroom to read. Well, that does not last long and soon I find myself dozing off with memories of mum bribing me with chocolate chip cookies so she could braid my hair. There is just something about studying that activates my sleep mode command and who am I not to obey it?

The vehement cussing along with the clutter of a few things wakes me up and much to my dismay, there is a bit of drool on the edge of the book. Dad is drunk again. I swallow down the ball of bitterness. Well, maybe if I remain quiet this time, he will not start yelling my name for all the neighborhood to hear. I hold in my breath, mentally counting the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev-

“Ella!” And there it is.

I want to crawl further inside my covers and pray he would stop this time around but the reality hits me harder than a brick wall. He never stops. Reluctantly, I slid my feet into a pair of pink white slippers, walking downstairs, halting at the bottom. He is by the door, unable to stand straight.

“Ella,” He yells again.

“I’m right here, Dad,” I counter, avoiding the annoyance from slipping into my tone.

His gaze wavers over to me, remaining unfocused for a few seconds before the expression changes, like he was about to puke his guts out. No, not again. I had the carpet cleaned just last week. Quite a chunk of money that cost me. I spring into action, grabbing a bucket from the storage room and make it just on time as he doubles over. I attempt to hold him by the shirt, straining under the weight of his tall, slightly stocky build as he retches out everything he’s eaten today. The sight is disgusting and so is the appalling smell, slowly filtering in the air around us. Pinching my nose, I let him retch out one last time before guiding him to the maroon three seater.

Armed with a clean shirt, a cleaning cloth and some water, I kneel beside the seat, wiping off the stains of vomit caressing his overgrown beard. He has not passed out yet but his stare of helplessness only adds to the anger bubbling inside me. I’ve done this a thousand times over and one would think it gets easier with time but no, it nevers does.

“Ella,” he calls, this time his voice hoarse.

I glance over at him,” Yes Dad?”

A weary, drunk smile touches his facial features, “You look so much like her,”

The back of my throat feels dry for a nanosecond, followed by the intermittent squeeze churning through my intestines at an inexplicable speed. I can’t remember a single time it didn’t hurt less when those words flew out of his lips. On their own, that statement doesn't sound so bad but what usually follows it is what makes bitterness burn through every void in my body.

“It's what makes it so hard to move on. I want to be better for you, Ella. I want to be a good dad,” he pauses, cupping my right cheek, “You deserve better, kiddo,”

I hate those f*****g words. They sound so full of promise and accountability but at the end of the day, they are just words. What makes me angry about them is that I know he says them out of a sense of guilt. He is aware of everything he is doing and the impact it is having on me and yet he never makes an effort to be better. Even for once, could he not fake it for my sake? I would certainly use one day of pretense from him.

“I’ll get you the duvet,” I say instead, pushing his hand away from my cheek, “Now change into this shirt,”

He nods, or at least attempts to. I run up the stairs to his room, two at a time, grabbing the duvet and a pillow before walking back to the living room. Somehow he has managed to wear the shirt, even though inside out. Well, it was better than last time when I found him struggling to push his head through the arm part. No lie; I’d been angry at that moment and the following day while narrating the story to Rita, we’d both found it quite amusing, bursting into fits of laughter.

I draw the covers over him, making sure his head is in the right posture before taking the bucket. After flashing the contents down the toilet, I clean it up before making sure the door is locked. I take a moment to look at my dad, or whatever ghost of him remained, and I can’t help the clenching in my heart. What happened to the man who made endless excuses not to hangout with his work buddies just so he could rush home to his daughter and wife? All those times he’d sneak candies into my mouth when mum wasn’t looking. What happened to that man? I shook my head heading back to my room. Well, thanks to my father, it is already past one and definitely time to call it a night.