I hated her. I despised the fact that she was the reason my father lied to me. I hated everything about her. The way she sat perfectly still when asked, the way she folded her hands in her lap and left them there for long periods of time. The way her shiny, burgundy hair fell just right. Her eyes, luring you, manipulating you to do as she commanded, and then smiling approvingly when you complied. I hated her pictures all around my room, smiling like the perfect photogenic human she is. Every time I saw her or just heard her name I had a fiery light up inside me so powerful it brought fresh tears to my eyes. I would say hello to her and she would always ignore me. I would see her perfecting herself in the mirror, change 20 times, and then lie ‘’oh I just threw this on.’’ I once caught her flipping my pictures downward, so no one could see my pictures in the family room. I confronted her, but was greeted by silence. I complained about her to my father. It resulted in the first argument I had ever had…with him.

**


I was in the kitchen, watching from the open window the tiny, individual Q-tips of snowflakes falling. The chilly wind bit at my nose and cheeks; I instantly felt them freeze. I heard his keys before he opened the door, then his footsteps vibrating. I knew it wouldn’t take him long to find the kitchen light still on.

“Aurora? Is that you?” his scratchy, used up voice almost exploded in the silence. I almost rolled my eyes.

“Yes.”

His shadowy figure blended with the darkness of the family room. But I didn’t need light to see he was a fit man. To see he had already hung his coat in the hanger. To see his briefcase was left in the car. To see he didn’t look like a man that had his 1st child at 20 and was now 35. To see, that from the bottom of his head, he was already balding his brown hair. To see how used he looked.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” he accused.

I narrowed my eyes at a lonely snowflake that landed on my hand. “I was waiting for you.”

I heard him sigh. “If you need to talk, wait for the morning.”

The creaky floor signaled me that he was leaving. “You always say that. I can’t wait for the morning this time.” I attempted my most fierce voice, even though inside I felt everything but.

“You don’t think I’m tired Aurora?” he flustered, his voice so strained I wanted to forget the conversation I was going to have with him. But I didn’t.

“I’m tired too. Tired of Miracle.” It was out there now. The words clung to the air between us, leaving a bad taste in my mouth. My dad didn’t even bother to come sit in front of me.

“What about her? Oh is she ruining your life by taking some of your TV time? Does she embarrass you at school by saying hi to your friends? Tell me what has she done? Again!”

I shouldn’t have been shocked by his outbreak. I accepted a reaction like that from him, expected it even. But that made it no less painful. The tightening in my chest increased and a sting in my throat from un-shed tears. It was phrases like this that I wished my mother, my real mother, was still alive. I swallowed back my incoherent, unintelligible words and looked at his darkened face.

“Dad, when was the last time you took me by the lake just to talk? When was the last time you and me made hot chocolate with rice chrispies?” he sighed exasperated, sarcastically. I continued as if I hadn’t heard him. “When was the last time you played the piano? When was the last time you took me to see mom? When was the last time you called me angel?” My voice faltered on the word angel, followed by two tears crossing roads on my cheeks. But he didn’t see them. He never saw them.

“And when was the last time I had a break? When was the last time I didn’t have bills up my a**? Huh? When was the last time you got along with your sister an-“

“She’s not my sister,” I muttered. He moved then. Made a beeline straight for me, thundered his fists in front of me, making the table jump.

“Miracle is your sister. Blood sister. You may have different mothers but I am both your fathers, and that makes you related to her. Understand?” I gave no answer whatsoever. I didn’t even look at him.

“Understand!” I jumped. Quickly nodding I kept my hands in my lap. Knowing I wanted to shake sense into him, but come on. No way in hell it was happening.

“We’re done with this conversation,” he stated.

I stayed quiet for a while. I was known for quietness. “Why do you like her better?” I blurted. I couldn’t help myself.

He stopped in his footsteps. For a split second I was glad I couldn’t see his reaction. The phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was fresh in my mind. He didn’t turn to look at me. Dad didn’t even make an attempt at comforting me due to my broken voice. But there was something unreal about his voice.

“I don’t like Miracle better Aurora. I like that she’s not like you.” My father broke my heart with those words. There was a suckling ripple through my chest, blood flushing through my face and a heart-wrenching sob heard. It took me a few minutes to figure out it was mine. I fell from the chair, slid to the ground, holding my hand to my chest. The tears were rainfall; one after the other, dripping down to my neck. I gave a strangled cry, deep from within my throat, my teeth vibrating along with my body. I could kick, throw a fit, break things, destroy a window…but it would NEVER get rid of the pain. Pain inflicted by my father. By his words. The thunder racing the snowstorm tried to compete with my cries.
**


The beach. It was a place my mother took me to all the time. Dad would meet us there after work, always bringing an extra pair of coats for me. Though beaches were known for being hot, Oregon’s’ beaches were relatively cold. Before my mom died, she warned me never to swim alone. That the ocean current liked petite, fragile girls so he would take them away from their family. Never to be seen again. I kept that promise to her all my life since I was 10. But now I wondered what that ocean current really could do. Now, sitting here in the sand, my jeans wet, and wavy hair in nasty knots by the wind, the crashing waves taunted me. I got up and dipped my feet in the water. Just up to my ankles. And as the wind picked up, letting me inhale the sea’s salty frisky coolness, the tightness in my chest from days earlier loosened. I felt strength through my arms and the uncomfortable feeling from my stomach disappeared. The water rose: up to my knees, my thighs, now my waist. Maybe because I was walking in. I started twirling, the circles pushing me further into the sea and making me dizzy. I smiled even though my eyes were crying; I heard myself laugh. First time in ages. I sighed happily as the water reached my neck, and I let myself go afloat.

I suddenly felt as if a thousand feathers were tickling me. On my face, my stomach, my arms. It was a century later that I figured it was raining. Then, finally, I let go. Air was taken out of me and I no longer felt like a balloon. I smiled softly as I dove underwater.

**


Miracle was in her bedroom. Her door was opened as I passed it. I leaned against her door, studying her wardrobe. A black jean-jacket, black dressy shirt with ruffles, black church pants accompanied by black high-heeled boots. She was looking for a scarf.

“Why are you dressed in all black?” I questioned. Again, she ignored me. I sighed agitated. “How could dad think you’re this perfect…angel? That’s what he calls you!” My insults had no affect on her. She was busy putting on eyeliner. It was like talking to a wall.

“Miracle? You are the only one we are waiting for.” Dad’s voice came from downstairs. He sounded groggy. No, he sounded…defeated. Weird.

“Sorry I’m coming just give me a minute!” Miracle shouted back. I rolled my eyes. Of course nothing would be denied for her. But my dad’s reply made me freeze up.

“No. Come downstairs now. We won’t be late for the funeral because of you!” he enraged, obviously pissed. She sighed exasperated and fled past me. Not even looking at me.

I closed my eyes.