Read Online Hold Still by Lynn Steger Strong - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynn Steger Strong
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was crying, shaking heavily, a bit of snot caught thickly in her hair. He pulled her close to him. And though she stiffened, though her stomach turned and her skin itched and ached to get away, she lay there and let him hold her, knowing finally, this was something she could give.
Heâd lost all of his money. Somehow, brilliantly, with the same sweeping unexpectedness of its arrival, all of it was gone. He was sad and desperate and he clung to Maya. He whispered she was all that he had left. And she stayed completely still and tried to empty her brain of everything. She tried not to breathe or move or let him feel her flinch as he held her, because she knew he was her father and he loved her, because she knew she should be glad to give to him.
From then on this happened each time she came home. And each time, Maya stayed very still and waited for her dad to fall asleep. He didnât always cry, and sometimes she was able to slip out from beside him. But those few times he woke up late in the night or early in the morning, still drunk and blubbering, saying that she had slipped from him because she knew he wasnât worthy of her. He cried and said if even his daughter didnât love him, what was there left for him. And then Maya would have to beg him to please stop, to promise him she loved him, to calm him, hold him, until he fell asleep again.
She was terrified each time she went back to school that he wouldnât be there the next time she came home, that she was betraying him in leaving, in not staying there to keep him safe. Each time she came back, she was terrified that he would be there, that this time he wouldnât let her leave again.
It would have been easier, she thought, if heâd done somethingmore explicitly detestable: hit her, fucked her. Then maybe she could have rid herself of him, then maybe she could have finally been free. Instead she carried with her all he needed, all she knew she couldnât give.
Back at school, she had trouble sleeping, reading like she always had but then still needing more. She piled books into her bed and hardly slept. She woke up with pages sticking to her, flitting from one world to the other, feeling jarred and confused when she had to leave her room and interact with a world not made up of words. She discovered Woolf during this period, crying under the covers upon her first encounter with Mrs. Ramsayâs death. The paragraphs then, the way they caught inside her brain and stuck there. They ran back and forth over all her other thoughts and dulled, then sharpened them. She loved the vastness all wrapped up inside the minutiae: a house come to life, wind and dust sweeping through corners, suddenly enough to sustain a whole page. She knew she didnât completely understand it, but that was part of what was so attractive, the knowledge that she could return later for more.
What she canât do, though, is situate her past within her present. She canât apologize for the ways in which itâs made her less capable than she might have been. Stephen knows this, but heâs asked her for it anyway.
She turns from him, pulls her boots on, grabs her coat; she leaves.
Summer 2011
âF ood?â says Ellie, peering through her brotherâs door, where heâs still in bed and half asleep. Their momâs in her study with the door locked. Ben calls to her that theyâre going, and he and Ellie walk the ten blocks to his favorite diner on the other side of Flatbush. Their neighborhood is different than it was when they were little. Ellie remembers being scared often, when her mom pulled her close walking up the stairs from the subway. A few times she remembers walking right past their apartment when her mom thought someone might be following too close. Now there are fancy coffee shops, a Barnes & Noble, a Starbucks, strollers and tiny scooters everywhere, dogs and kids. This all makes Ellie a different kind of nervous, like maybe
Heâd lost all of his money. Somehow, brilliantly, with the same sweeping unexpectedness of its arrival, all of it was gone. He was sad and desperate and he clung to Maya. He whispered she was all that he had left. And she stayed completely still and tried to empty her brain of everything. She tried not to breathe or move or let him feel her flinch as he held her, because she knew he was her father and he loved her, because she knew she should be glad to give to him.
From then on this happened each time she came home. And each time, Maya stayed very still and waited for her dad to fall asleep. He didnât always cry, and sometimes she was able to slip out from beside him. But those few times he woke up late in the night or early in the morning, still drunk and blubbering, saying that she had slipped from him because she knew he wasnât worthy of her. He cried and said if even his daughter didnât love him, what was there left for him. And then Maya would have to beg him to please stop, to promise him she loved him, to calm him, hold him, until he fell asleep again.
She was terrified each time she went back to school that he wouldnât be there the next time she came home, that she was betraying him in leaving, in not staying there to keep him safe. Each time she came back, she was terrified that he would be there, that this time he wouldnât let her leave again.
It would have been easier, she thought, if heâd done somethingmore explicitly detestable: hit her, fucked her. Then maybe she could have rid herself of him, then maybe she could have finally been free. Instead she carried with her all he needed, all she knew she couldnât give.
Back at school, she had trouble sleeping, reading like she always had but then still needing more. She piled books into her bed and hardly slept. She woke up with pages sticking to her, flitting from one world to the other, feeling jarred and confused when she had to leave her room and interact with a world not made up of words. She discovered Woolf during this period, crying under the covers upon her first encounter with Mrs. Ramsayâs death. The paragraphs then, the way they caught inside her brain and stuck there. They ran back and forth over all her other thoughts and dulled, then sharpened them. She loved the vastness all wrapped up inside the minutiae: a house come to life, wind and dust sweeping through corners, suddenly enough to sustain a whole page. She knew she didnât completely understand it, but that was part of what was so attractive, the knowledge that she could return later for more.
What she canât do, though, is situate her past within her present. She canât apologize for the ways in which itâs made her less capable than she might have been. Stephen knows this, but heâs asked her for it anyway.
She turns from him, pulls her boots on, grabs her coat; she leaves.
Summer 2011
âF ood?â says Ellie, peering through her brotherâs door, where heâs still in bed and half asleep. Their momâs in her study with the door locked. Ben calls to her that theyâre going, and he and Ellie walk the ten blocks to his favorite diner on the other side of Flatbush. Their neighborhood is different than it was when they were little. Ellie remembers being scared often, when her mom pulled her close walking up the stairs from the subway. A few times she remembers walking right past their apartment when her mom thought someone might be following too close. Now there are fancy coffee shops, a Barnes & Noble, a Starbucks, strollers and tiny scooters everywhere, dogs and kids. This all makes Ellie a different kind of nervous, like maybe
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