Read Online Sophie's Smile: A Novel by Sheena Harper - Free Book Online
Authors: Sheena Harper
Tags: Novels
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a danger to myself, I wasn't stupid and I was carefully cautious of every bad decision I decided to subject myself to.
Everything I suffered through was premeditated and fixed. I was a scientist, performing mindless experiments on myself for my own interest. Of course, there were times that I overmedicated myself, but slip-ups are expected in this kind of volatile set up.
If anyone was watching over me, they should have realized that I needed guidance and perhaps a kick in the right direction. What I needed was a safe place to explore my many talents and skills. A place where I could flourish and be proud of something bigger than myself.
Although I wasn’t a child anymore, I was still fixated on my failure for being the son that was unable to mend his parents’ woes. I was so caught up in the aftermath of my parents’ divorce, I couldn’t tell right from wrong and all I saw when I looked in the mirror was disappointment.
All I could see when I closed my eyes was my parents during the final years of their downward-spiraling marriage. Screams and threats lined with words of hate and bitterness pounded my eardrums. The lasting image of my family’s demise still scars me.
Dad plopped on his trusty recliner after two eight hour shifts, one beer down the pipe and another obediently following, bellowing with full force, “We live like fuckin ’ MON-KEYS!” Mom making matters worse by screaming in retort from the other end of the house, “Fuck you too, asshole— you clean that shit!”
It is safe to say that I have few fond memories of my parents. The only one I can pluck from the cobwebs of my brain is of Easter, ‘87. Mom brought Dad a cold beer from the cooler, he popped the cap off and handed it back so she could take the first sip; their eyes met and they sidled closer to one another in an almost automatic way; Dad wrapped his arm around her and ran his rough, carpenter’s hands in soothing circles over the small of her back. And the only reason I was able to conjure up this heart-felt memory is because I viewed it on one of Grandma’s home videos a while back.
10
The day the madness stopped and I decided to turn my life back on track was the day Grandpa collapsed while mowing his couple acres of land. I was a few yards away trimming the overgrown trees while Grandma was tending to the tulips in her award-winning flowerbed.
The thud of his body dropping to the recently-cut grass lawn—like a sack of potatoes—set off a wave of panicked hysteria. I hurried to the house to call 911 since Grandma, bless her soul, was already hovered around her beloved husband, sending out a silent prayer pleading for God to save his life, even if that meant taking hers.
I returned as quickly as I could to start CPR. Everything grew silent and dim, locked in an adrenaline rhythm that could not, would not cease as long as I had breath in my lungs; I continued until the sweat poured down my shirt in long bands, and the blue-gloved hands of a strong paramedic finally pulled me away so his colleagues could rush in.
The following events went by in a blur. Ambulance coming and going. Masks and tubes covering his ashen face and body. Calls made to the rest of the family. The cold white waiting room of the hospital. The ticking of the clock that hung in the room above the broken chair. The astringent smells of antiseptics and bleach. The tears that fell as we sat and waited. Relief and cries of joy when he awoke. And the silent, ominous understanding that he would be taken from us again, and soon.
This understanding was what forced me to wake up. Grandpa’s fall became my kick in the right direction. Michael Baker was a proud man. He lived his life not taking shit from anyone. Never letting anyone or anything keep him one peg lower from the rest. If he wanted something, he got it. If he didn’t know how to do something, he studied and figured it out. If he needed money, he worked hard to earn it. Dad was my hero,
Everything I suffered through was premeditated and fixed. I was a scientist, performing mindless experiments on myself for my own interest. Of course, there were times that I overmedicated myself, but slip-ups are expected in this kind of volatile set up.
If anyone was watching over me, they should have realized that I needed guidance and perhaps a kick in the right direction. What I needed was a safe place to explore my many talents and skills. A place where I could flourish and be proud of something bigger than myself.
Although I wasn’t a child anymore, I was still fixated on my failure for being the son that was unable to mend his parents’ woes. I was so caught up in the aftermath of my parents’ divorce, I couldn’t tell right from wrong and all I saw when I looked in the mirror was disappointment.
All I could see when I closed my eyes was my parents during the final years of their downward-spiraling marriage. Screams and threats lined with words of hate and bitterness pounded my eardrums. The lasting image of my family’s demise still scars me.
Dad plopped on his trusty recliner after two eight hour shifts, one beer down the pipe and another obediently following, bellowing with full force, “We live like fuckin ’ MON-KEYS!” Mom making matters worse by screaming in retort from the other end of the house, “Fuck you too, asshole— you clean that shit!”
It is safe to say that I have few fond memories of my parents. The only one I can pluck from the cobwebs of my brain is of Easter, ‘87. Mom brought Dad a cold beer from the cooler, he popped the cap off and handed it back so she could take the first sip; their eyes met and they sidled closer to one another in an almost automatic way; Dad wrapped his arm around her and ran his rough, carpenter’s hands in soothing circles over the small of her back. And the only reason I was able to conjure up this heart-felt memory is because I viewed it on one of Grandma’s home videos a while back.
10
The day the madness stopped and I decided to turn my life back on track was the day Grandpa collapsed while mowing his couple acres of land. I was a few yards away trimming the overgrown trees while Grandma was tending to the tulips in her award-winning flowerbed.
The thud of his body dropping to the recently-cut grass lawn—like a sack of potatoes—set off a wave of panicked hysteria. I hurried to the house to call 911 since Grandma, bless her soul, was already hovered around her beloved husband, sending out a silent prayer pleading for God to save his life, even if that meant taking hers.
I returned as quickly as I could to start CPR. Everything grew silent and dim, locked in an adrenaline rhythm that could not, would not cease as long as I had breath in my lungs; I continued until the sweat poured down my shirt in long bands, and the blue-gloved hands of a strong paramedic finally pulled me away so his colleagues could rush in.
The following events went by in a blur. Ambulance coming and going. Masks and tubes covering his ashen face and body. Calls made to the rest of the family. The cold white waiting room of the hospital. The ticking of the clock that hung in the room above the broken chair. The astringent smells of antiseptics and bleach. The tears that fell as we sat and waited. Relief and cries of joy when he awoke. And the silent, ominous understanding that he would be taken from us again, and soon.
This understanding was what forced me to wake up. Grandpa’s fall became my kick in the right direction. Michael Baker was a proud man. He lived his life not taking shit from anyone. Never letting anyone or anything keep him one peg lower from the rest. If he wanted something, he got it. If he didn’t know how to do something, he studied and figured it out. If he needed money, he worked hard to earn it. Dad was my hero,
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