By: Tatum Tricarico age 14
I hear my dad talking. I’m listening and he knows it, but he also knows that I am not going to respond. If I did, he would probably drop the steering wheel of the car he is driving and we would crash into the long line of palm trees on the side of the road.
My four year-old sister, Anna, is sitting in the back seat of the VW Bug in her pink and yellow booster seat. We all know that she will talk to my dad, but she also knows that I will not. Sadly, I don’t even think she remembers my voice.
Anna would not be talking to anyone either, if she were old enough to remember what happened when she and I were together two years ago. But she was only two. I was twelve, though. Old enough to remember, and never tell anyone. Ever.
“Abigail? Where do you want to go to dinner?” I sat still. “How about our favorite restaurant, Smashburger?”
Nothing.
“Anna,” my dad kept trying, “How about you? Do you want to go to Smashburger, honey?” My dad always talks as if we are both going to respond, but Anna is the only one who ever does.
“Yeah, Daddy!” she shrieks, and I wish that I could do the same thing; just say whatever I want. But if I do, I will go too far and say what really happened that night, and I know that I can’t do that.
“Okay.” My dad looks over at me. “Is that good with you, Abby?” I hate that name, Abby. It reminds me of my mom. She used to call me that. I loved it, but not anymore-- not after what happened.
I think “yes” as hard as I can, but my dad can’t hear my silent plea. He never can.
He turned around, flipping his blond hair back and letting his bright, blue eyes scan the road. He always gets upset when he can’t reach me. He thinks it’s all his fault that I’m like this. It’s not. My dad has nothing to do with it. It’s all me. Me and my mom. But again, no matter how hard I think it, all he can hear is silence.
This happens almost every day because five days a week, after school, I go to therapy. I don’t talk there, either, and my dad tries to take us out to dinner every time. We always go, but I never answer his question of “where.”
Once we get the restaurant, the waitress came to take our order. I tap the food I want one time, and then my dad orders it. A hamburger with Swiss cheese and onions. It’s hard to have your four year-old sister order for herself and your dad order for you, trust me. But that’s what has to happen or else I will have to start to talk about the incident, and that I will never do.
During dinner, my dad and Anna talk, I laugh at a joke from my dad, and sneeze once, but that’s about it. Also, my hamburger has mustard on it, which I don’t want, but no matter how many times I point at it, my dad doesn’t understand.
Nobody does. Nobody except my mom, but she’s isn’t here, and she won’t be back any time soon.
THE END
I hear my dad talking. I’m listening and he knows it, but he also knows that I am not going to respond. If I did, he would probably drop the steering wheel of the car he is driving and we would crash into the long line of palm trees on the side of the road.
My four year-old sister, Anna, is sitting in the back seat of the VW Bug in her pink and yellow booster seat. We all know that she will talk to my dad, but she also knows that I will not. Sadly, I don’t even think she remembers my voice.
Anna would not be talking to anyone either, if she were old enough to remember what happened when she and I were together two years ago. But she was only two. I was twelve, though. Old enough to remember, and never tell anyone. Ever.
“Abigail? Where do you want to go to dinner?” I sat still. “How about our favorite restaurant, Smashburger?”
Nothing.
“Anna,” my dad kept trying, “How about you? Do you want to go to Smashburger, honey?” My dad always talks as if we are both going to respond, but Anna is the only one who ever does.
“Yeah, Daddy!” she shrieks, and I wish that I could do the same thing; just say whatever I want. But if I do, I will go too far and say what really happened that night, and I know that I can’t do that.
“Okay.” My dad looks over at me. “Is that good with you, Abby?” I hate that name, Abby. It reminds me of my mom. She used to call me that. I loved it, but not anymore-- not after what happened.
I think “yes” as hard as I can, but my dad can’t hear my silent plea. He never can.
He turned around, flipping his blond hair back and letting his bright, blue eyes scan the road. He always gets upset when he can’t reach me. He thinks it’s all his fault that I’m like this. It’s not. My dad has nothing to do with it. It’s all me. Me and my mom. But again, no matter how hard I think it, all he can hear is silence.
This happens almost every day because five days a week, after school, I go to therapy. I don’t talk there, either, and my dad tries to take us out to dinner every time. We always go, but I never answer his question of “where.”
Once we get the restaurant, the waitress came to take our order. I tap the food I want one time, and then my dad orders it. A hamburger with Swiss cheese and onions. It’s hard to have your four year-old sister order for herself and your dad order for you, trust me. But that’s what has to happen or else I will have to start to talk about the incident, and that I will never do.
During dinner, my dad and Anna talk, I laugh at a joke from my dad, and sneeze once, but that’s about it. Also, my hamburger has mustard on it, which I don’t want, but no matter how many times I point at it, my dad doesn’t understand.
Nobody does. Nobody except my mom, but she’s isn’t here, and she won’t be back any time soon.
THE END