Sarah Stevenson - Underneath (Sarah Jamila Stevenson)

“I love you, too, Sun.” He sounds quiet, forlorn. He reaches up and squeezes my arm. “I’m glad you’re here.”

I sit back down. A few more minutes pass. My dad finally fills in a couple of numbers on his Sudoku puzzle.

I lean back in my chair and sigh loudly. “This is ridiculous. I’m sick of just waiting around like he’s the one in control. Can’t we—”

“Shh,” my dad says. “I want to be able to hear if she needs us.”

Hear. If she needs us. Now there’s an idea. There is something I can do.

Something only I can do.

After what happened with Cody, I’m not sure if I can. I don’t know if can stay calm enough, if I can bear to reach out again. But it’s Auntie Mina, it’s my family this time, so I have to try.

I sit back against the wooden slats of the chair and close my eyes. My dad is right across the table from me, but he might as well be in a different city. He’s lost in his own little world.

And I’m in mine. But I’m not lost.

In fact, it’s getting easier. This time I almost settle into it, like leaning back into space and trusting somebody is going to be there to catch me.

But I have to be focused. If something goes wrong, I might not be able to try again. Not in time to help; not with how depleted it makes me. I concentrate on letting go, on letting my attention leave the room and find Auntie Mina. I can hear my dad tapping his pencil point on the newspaper. He lets out a sigh, but the sound is far away.

And then I’m sort of spinning through my mind, my head aching like I’m being flung through space on a roller coaster. I take a slow breath; then another.

Gradually the spinning stops and I feel normal again. I tentatively reach out.

I find Auntie Mina. And I find something else. Someone else.

Something about this feels different. It feels like my consciousness is ping-ponging between two places, like I’m hearing a different voice in each ear. I don’t like it; it scares me. And what I realize about it scares me even more.

It’s not just Auntie Mina, but Uncle Randall, too. Somehow I’m hearing them both, as if he’s in the house with her. It makes me want to clap my hands over my ears. But I can’t move. There is a smell, almost a taste, of iron, of horseradish, and I suppress the urge to cough. I fight to hold on, and I—

—this is NOT what we agreed to when we got married

—counselor said she said I’m—

—know what the counselor said, and that counselor is

full of—

—she was right, he doesn’t listen to me he just—

I find myself thinking urgently, almost praying, Auntie Mina, just be strong, be strong like you told me , and I know it isn’t going to work but I can’t help thinking it, every fiber in me is straining toward her, and—

—always trying to tell you something’s wrong with you, nothing’s wrong with ME—

—how can I go back if he doesn’t listen

—you owe me—listen to me!

—face-to-face, at least give me the courtesy of—

—owe me

—don’t you dare tell me what to—

—talk face-to-face? why not now? yes, NOW—

The metallic smell intensifies and this time I do cough and sit up, opening my eyes abruptly. My dad slides his water glass toward me with an expression of concern, but I ignore it. Waves of fury, of frustration and defensiveness and desperation, threaten to drown me. I feel them pour through me, meld with my own desperate need to do something, to change things somehow; to keep Uncle Randall, who has to be nearby, from bullying Auntie Mina or any of us. I stumble out of my seat and into a half-run. When I get to the living room, I part the sheer curtains on the front window and peek out. Nothing. I peer down one side of the street, then the other, as far as I can from where I’m standing.

There it is, parked halfway down the street. Uncle Randall’s white Mercedes. And the driver’s side door is opening. My heart thuds.

I turn back around, letting the curtain drop. I have to tell Auntie Mina. I’ve almost reached the far end of the hall when the study door opens and she comes out. I stop short and stare at her, my fists clenched at my sides.

“He’s here,” I tell her. “His car is parked down the street. He’s coming.”

I swallow, and fight back hot tears that I refuse, refuse to cry.

“I know,” Auntie Mina says. She smiles gently, sadly.

I don’t even question how she knows. I don’t know whether he told her or whether she found out some other, more unusual way, if somehow she sensed it when I was hoping with everything in me that she could be strong. Does it even matter? All of a sudden my fingers and toes start to tingle and I feel like I’m going to pass out. Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead and I lean against the wall for support.

Auntie Mina puts one hand on my cheek, then draws me into a fierce hug. I can feel myself tremble slightly.

What now? I don’t know what to do. I look up at her questioningly.

“We wait,” she says.

Auntie Mina puts her arm around my waist and we walk into the kitchen together. My dad is already on his feet. In one glance he takes in my face, drained of color, and Auntie Mina’s, smiling unconvincingly. Dad comes up to us and puts a hand on each of our shoulders.

“What’s happened now?” he asks, sounding more re-signed than I expected.

“Uncle Randall’s here,” I say weakly. “I saw his car parked down the street. He’s coming.” I feel dad’s hand tighten.

“I didn’t realize he was planning to come here,” Auntie Mina says in a quiet voice. “He said—well, he thinks he deserves a face-to-face conversation before we decide to finalize the separation. He’s said it before.”

“What? That’s ridiculous,” my dad says.

“Maybe we should call the police,” I start saying, but nobody’s listening.

“You talk about respect, Ali,” Auntie Mina says, her voice strained now. “You always tell me that Randall needs to show me respect. If I show him this one small courtesy, I expect him to respect my space in return.”

“He’s never shown you enough respect.” My dad’s face is tight with tension.

Auntie Mina looks up at him, stubborn. “I know you’ve never liked him. But this is right for me . I’m comfortable just letting him have his say, and then we take a little time away and think about it. If it gets uncomfortable … ” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.

Dad makes an exasperated noise and starts pacing around the kitchen.

“You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” I say forcefully. “If we have to, we can call the police.” Auntie Mina glances at me. I look down at my hand; my phone is still in it from when I was going to call Mikaela. That seems like a year ago now.

My dad brings his fist down on the kitchen counter, rattling a few dishes in the dish drainer. We all jump.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rough. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea. If you insist on talking to the man, you should have a mediator. There’s just been too much—too much for all of us. I’m going to tell him that. I’m going to tell him it’s time to go home and cool off.” He moves toward the doorway to the front hall.

“I wish you’d just let me talk to him,” Auntie Mina says.

“You’ve been talking to him,” my dad points out. “And all it’s done is keep you from living your life. You have to move on. Life is better than this, Mina. He isn’t good for you.”

For the first time, I notice the laugh and frown lines together on my dad’s face, and I wonder if the frown lines were there before all of this happened.