Read Online Notes on a Near-Life Experience by Olivia Birdsall - Free Book Online

movie—absent, empty, unresponsive.
    I nod anyway. It feels like she needs that.
    “But he kept falling back asleep, kept going back to it.”
    “Yeah.” I nod again, wonder who my father is when he isn't just my dad, the guy who helps me with my math homework and talks about Woody Allen. He is someone who grew up, who had dreams, who maybe lost them, who feels things; someone who became a ghost to my mother while he still seemed real, unchanging, to me, his daughter. I think of how I've sometimes felt like I'm watching my life pass by, like I'm watching a movie, and I wonder if I am like him. The back of my throat aches; my chest feels like it's being pumped full of Jell-O. I suddenly feel as if I have to concentrate just to breathe. I can't remember ever having felt as scared as I do now.
    The song “Little Latin Lupe Lu” begins to play. We have to sing along. It's what we always do.
    “Did I ever tell you that the Righteous Brothers used topractice in my neighbors' garage? My mom used to take us down to listen to them,” Mom says.
    I remember. She's told me a thousand times before. Every time we listen to the CD. I remember how the first boy she ever kissed, Tony Rojas, when she was in seventh grade, told her not to tell anyone they'd made out because he didn't want the other girls to think he was her boyfriend.
    “Julian asked me to go to the prom with him,” I tell her.
    “That's wonderful, sweetie,” she says, instantly my mom again. “When did he ask you? What did he say? What did Allen say?”
    We talk about proms, high school, boyfriends, the whole way home. But it feels different. I know she is hurt and confused and scared. I guess I've known that for a while, but I've tried to ignore it. And now I can't. How will she hold us all together, keep us all afloat? How will she rescue us if her boat is sinking, too?
    Tonight I can't sleep. I keep thinking about the things Mom said. I can't make sense of them. Why didn't I ever see my dad the way my mom did? If he was acting so weird, if there were times when he didn't want to be with us, didn't care about us, why didn't I see them? I wonder if maybe he and Mom would have been okay if they hadn't had kids, if he'd been able to make his films or be a philosopher or do whatever he wanted to do. I wonder what my dad thinks of me, how he feels about me. I mean, I know he must love me; I'm his kid. But does he like me? Does he think I stole his life? Does he blame me for his lost dreams?

I FIND K EATIE WATCHING OUR FAMILY MOVIES—VIDEOTAPES of dance recitals, vacations, birthday parties, Christmas mornings, Easter egg hunts, championship soccer games—when I go down to the basement to practice my new routine. I notice that she keeps watching the same part of one tape over and over again; I think it must've been made on the first day we had the new camera.
    In the scene Keatie watches, Dad wants to make sure the camera works, so he wanders around the house taping, droning on about whose room is where and how long we've lived in the house, until Keatie convinces him to let her hold the camera. She has a hard time keeping the camera steady as she zooms in on my parents in the kitchen.
    Mom unloads groceries, unaware that Dad is sneaking up behind her until he blows on the back of her neck.
    Mom turns around and laughs. “What on earth are you doing?” She and Dad kiss.
    Keatie's disembodied voice is heard: “Do it again!” And they do. You can hear Keatie giggling. Mom puts her hand in front of the camera lens and the screen goes dark.
    “Keatie, why do you keep watching that part of the movie?” I ask her as I lift one leg onto the barre to stretch.
    “What part?” she asks.
    “You know which part. The one you keep rewinding to.”
    She watches the scene again and doesn't answer until it's over and the tape is rewinding again. “I like it because I got to hold the camera.”
    It makes sense. She was in charge, and when she was, they were happy. And now