Glass Coke Bottle

The grass has yet to grow over my father’s grave before my stepmother is on the phone making arrangements for me. I can’t say I am surprised or that I blame her. I never made it easy for her. Her ice-cold shoulder was all I was blessed with. Her presence froze my skin and my mood quickly followed into the tundra. Unlike the warm cozy blanket I used to feel from my mother’s company. Those two women were as different as mud and water. “Just give her grace dear,” my mother said to me when my father introduced this hard-boiled woman to me. I would never understand why my parents couldn’t be together. Why did he need someone else to fill my mother’s beautiful shoes? She was good enough. She was better, of course. I attempted in so many creative ways to scare this woman off. My imagination made me smile. One time I sprayed Febreze on her gourmet pizza when she left the room to use the restroom. My father was working late that night and it was just the two of us. I knew it wouldn’t hurt her, only sour her tastebuds. She spit it out immediately and excused herself. She claimed she was tired and went to bed. Her old wretched body would not bless her with children so I thought she would try harder to warm up to me or at least care if I like her or not. She didn’t. Her only interest was my father. That never made me happy. I didn’t want another woman worming her way into his life. A life that was meant for my mother and me.

“The car will be here soon. Get your things,” the evil woman spewed in my direction. She turned on her expensive heels and sauntered off holding her martini glass, careful not to spill it. Vodka and olives is the only thing she’s been ingesting since my father’s death.

I swallow hard. “Of course,” I say as I casually make my way up the stairs to my bedroom for what is probably the last time. I open my door and step inside. I breathe in the familiar smell that fills me with peace. My eyes scan the room and catch a glimpse of an empty glass Coke bottle on my shelf. The burning in my eyes swell up quick as if the memory just slapped me hard in the face. A single tear accidently slips out of the corner of my eye and burns all the way down my cheek. Every Christmas my father bought me a glass bottle Coke. My favorite. He told me the story every year and my face gleamed every time as if it were the first time hearing it. I cherish those old stories from my father's childhood. There’s something naturally sweet about hearing stories of a man that I see as indestructible, when he would tease his big sister in playful fun. As the story goes, my grandfather would buy my father and his sister, a glass bottle Coke every week during the weekly grocery run. In those days, all the Cokes were in a glass bottle. These days it is more of a special commodity than the norm. My father in all his boyish haste, would swig it down fast without hesitation or regret. My aunt would slowly sip hers and make the whole bottle last all week. She would taunt him with this undoubtedly desirous fact. He would sneer and pretend he didn’t care. Of course he would try to sneak a sip or two from her bottle. I laughed every time I heard this story. I loved seeing a dafter side to my otherwise tough shelled father.

I realize that my knees have buckled, and I’m kneeling on the floor clutching at my throat. As if trying to dig this relentless lump out of my throat would make his absence somehow hurt less. This giant hole in my being would never be filled. It’s one good reason why I no longer care that she is shipping me off to a boarding school. Now that my father has left this world and is now rightfully returned to my mother’s side, there’s no use holding on this present world. I’ll live under a bridge if it means not looking at her face once more.

I reach over to grab my suitcase when I catch a glimpse of a paper under my dresser. I scooch down further to grab it. It’s a picture of the three of us on our last vacation together as a family. My father, mother, and I were vacationing in the Caribbean. The soft white sand sprinkled its way across our towels and beach blankets. Our wet hair hung around our shoulders. Carefree smiles slathered across our faces that held up big round sunglasses. My smile now hangs a little lower knowing this scene can never be recreated.

Later that evening at dinner, after we nursed our burned red skin, they broke the news to me that they were splitting up and would be equally sharing time with me. My entire world crumbled and washed out to the sea that night. Or so I thought. Isn’t it funny how we moan over certain aggressions until our losses continue to get bigger or deeper until we feel as if our whole identity has been completely erased? My lungs involuntarily let out a big sigh. 

I tuck the picture in the side pocket of my suitcase. I couldn’t care less about some stupid boarding school this witch is sending me to. Nothing can harm me any more than I already am. This world has split me open and gutted out every last morsel of who I ever was.  One day I will see my parents again and that day will be up to me. I will take the reins and start driving myself through the rest of this journey. I’m scrambling around for the last little bit of control over my own life. I force myself off the floor and proudly stand to my feet. I wrap my fingers around the glass Coke bottle and add it to my belongings. It will be useful later. I straighten my jacket and I grab my things. I head down the stairs with a new perspective.  I smile because nobody can take this away from me. Strength. I welcome this new beginning. This path will lead me back to my parents.