Wavering Faith

Wavering Faith

Christina Cooper

I should’ve known better. The moment I walked down the stairs to see that the living room was empty, and he wasn’t there, my gut hit the floor. How could this have happened to me? Everyone told me the truth, but I didn’t believe them. I have no idea why, I just didn’t. For some reason, I just wanted the fantasy to be real.

I had spent weeks altering my behavior so he would be happy. I changed my habits, tried to get out more and speak to people more; I tried to be more social when all I really wanted to do was lay down and read a book. I tried to be more graceful.  I slapped a smile on and worked my dumb job, when all I wanted to do was quit it. I did everything I could possibly think of. For what? To be forgotten about, treated as if I didn’t matter?

Thinking back, I tried to remember the last time I had faith in someone like him. The only thing that came to me was heartache and heartbreak. My first boyfriend broke up with me when I was seven years old. Yes, seven. I was devastated. He and I were married on the school playground. My friend Autumn officiated the wedding. It was late October. The sun was out, but there was frost on the ground that day. I’ll never forget it; we exchanged spider rings. Mine was orange, his black. We stated our vows and swore we would love each other for the rest of our lives. That ended abruptly. Come to find out, about three weeks later his dad was stationed elsewhere and Robbie had to move. I cried for days. I had just married my best friend, and he had to leave me. What was a woman to do?

That’s how I learned about the beauty of butter pecan ice cream. I had come home from school that day, face red, tears soaking my shirt, looking like I had just got into a fight with a kid twice my size when my momma asked me what had happened. I explained the whole ordeal with Robbie’s dad having to change states. Nodding, my mom said, “Pick out a movie.”

There I was, seven-year-old me, sitting in pajamas watching The Princess Bride, slurping down butter pecan ice cream, trying to forget the pain in my chest. My mom, understanding my dilemma, sat diligently with me reminding me that everything was going to be okay. I promised her that it wasn’t going to be okay. Robbie was my very best friend.

That day should have taught me a lesson in disappointment; but it didn’t. I am as stubborn as a mule. When Brett came along, I was smitten. I was 15 years old skating to the Hokey Pokey. I turned myself around and as soon as I saw him, my eyes froze while my body shook all about.

He was tall. Handsome. Looked like a 15-year-old basketball player. Wirey with some hint at muscle tone. My left foot and right foot forgot which foot was which and what to shake causing my skates to slide underneath me. Luckily for me, Brett noticed right away and came to my aid.  

“You okay?”

My cheeks reddened. I nodded. If I wasn’t okay, I quickly became okay the moment he had his hands on my arms helping me up. That was all it took. I was head over heels in love. He held my hand the rest of that night as we skated along. The disco lights shining, the music blasting, and none of that mattered as we swayed to our own little rhythm. It was perfect.

Every week following that one, I went skating to meet up with Brett. Every week we held hands and skated together. We even had a song. It was, On Bended Knee by Boyz II Men. Me and Brett were amazing partners. He would twirl me, dance with me, and he even taught me how to skate backwards.

It was during that time frame that I learned to do my own makeup. My mom knew something was up when I had her show me how to put eyeliner on and asked her about lipstick colors. The minute she asked, I started telling her all about Brett. How he was my age, what school he went to, how he wanted to grow up and play for Chicago Bulls, how he was just perfect. Mom always listened with a smile on her face.

About a month later, I came down with influenza. It was a nasty flu. I was in bed with a fever of 105. My mom worried about me and had to keep giving me ice baths. I was out of school for a week. That was the week I missed skating. Finally, when I felt better the following week, I showed up for skating. My hair was done extra pretty, my make up was on, and Mom had even bought me my own thing of lipstick. It was great. That is until I laced my skates and looked up to see Brett holding another girl’s hand on the rink.

When my mom picked me up that night, my cheeks were stained with my cheap eye liner, face was red and gross, and I swore off skating for good. We got home that night, and mom passed me the tub of butter pecan ice cream as we watched Pretty Woman. It was a rough night, but I made it through.

Standing there staring at the empty living room, I had questioned where everything went wrong. I was on my best behavior. I really was. I didn’t give him a reason to be angry with me. Not one. There was nothing I knew I could have done better. Not a single thing. I glanced around the room, trying to see past my own tears, and I noticed the cookies were still sitting on his plate from the night before.

This year was supposed to be perfect. It was my first Christmas on my own. I was 19 years old, by myself, trying to be an adult in this adult world. I acted right. Treated people well. Did everything I could, and Santa couldn’t even come and leave me a gift under the tree? I should have believed them; but I just couldn’t fathom my mom, being a single mom, working her hardest to provide for us, leaving presents under the tree for us every year. Santa had to have been real.

Apparently, I was wrong.

My mom was just a superhero.