Page 120 of Beneath the Hood

Eventually, I pull myself up from the ground and head downstairs to grab some water, my mind on autopilot. There’s a type of numbness that comes with the acceptance that this is my lot in life. This is my reality.

Muffled noise comes from the family room and light from the TV flickers into the darkened hallway.

Curiosity pushes me forward until I’m standing behind the oversized couch, staring at my father as he watches home videos on the TV.

My cracked and bleeding heart splinters more as I watch my mother walk and talk right in front of my face.

“James, stop.” She laughs, pushing the camera and smiling.

My stomach clenches tight, my breath sucking in on a gasp. I didn’t even know wehadhome videos. I would have watched them every day.

My father’s head snaps around, his eyes dark as he looks at me. I’m not sure if he wants me to leave and honestly, maybe I should, but my feet are stuck to the floor like glue, desperate to stay right here. Maybe if I close my eyes, I can pretend she’s standing next to me, brushing back my hair and telling me things I’ve always imagined a mother would.

After a few moments, he smiles softly and gestures me over. A thread loosens in my chest and I trudge to the couch and sit down, my eyes flickering back and forth between him and the screen.

He’s wearing plaid pajamas, a glass of water in his hand, and I rack my brain trying to remember the last time I’ve ever seen him look so relaxed.

The only one that comes to mind is when I was six years old and I came down on Christmas morning expecting to see my nanny, but found him instead.

The screen flickers, drawing my attention back, and the footage goes grainy before popping a new image on the screen. My mother sits in a rocking chair, rubbing her swollen belly and singing a lullaby. Tears spring to my eyes, my battered heart seizing in my chest.

I swallow, not able to tear my gaze away for a second. Her face looks up to the camera, beaming. “James, she’s kicking like crazy! I think she likes this song.”

Closing her eyes, she hums, putting her hand out in the space between them. “Come here, feel her move.”

The camera jostles as it’s set down, angled toward my mother, and suddenly, my father walks into the frame. A younger version, without the graying at his temples and the frown lines, but still, the same. He kneels in front of her, both of his hands coming up to wrap around her belly—aroundme—his eyes shimmering, his mouth parting on a gasp.

“It never gets old, does it?” my mother says, her fingers running through his hair.

He leans in, kissing her stomach before resting his cheek against it and smiling. “Hello Blakely Alexandra. We can’t wait to meet you.”

My stomach flips and tightens, my throat burning.

“She was so excited to have you,” my father says from beside me, his voice low and deep. “We both were.”

My teeth chomp down on my lip so hard it breaks through the skin, the tang of blood trickling into my mouth.

“Your mom was an actress,” he continues. “Did I ever tell you that?”

The tears I’ve been trying to hold back overflow like a broken dam, my vision blurring. “No,” I whisper. “You never talk about her.”

“You never ask.”

I’m quiet, my legs coming up to curl into my chest, my arms wrapping around them. “I’m asking now.”

He smiles. “She was an actress, that’s how we met. A terrible one.” He chuckles. “But that’s what I loved about her. She was...”

“Beautiful,” I cut in, watching her twirl effortlessly around as she dances on the screen.

He audibly swallows. “She was definitely that. But she wasgenuine. And in my world, that was something rare. Almost unheard of.”

My gut cinches like a corset, pushing the breath from my lungs. “Yeah, tell me about it,” I mumble.

“She wanted nothing to do with me.” I glance over at him and see his eyes shining, fat drops of emotion lining his lower lids. “But I was persistent and had a ring on her finger in less than six months.”

My chest compresses. “I wish I could have known her.”

His hand reaches over, patting the top of mine, and my eyes drop to the motion, trying to remember the last time I felt his touch.

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