Priscilla's Purpose

I have been told I was a people-pleaser my whole life. I suppose I am. I feel as though I’ve been put on this earth to care for and about others. From my annoying but well-meaning sister to Grandma who calls me her favorite grand-child, I want to do right by them all. I want them to feel my love and gratitude every time they come into the room. My day-to-day life may not be exciting by others’ standards (least of all my parents), but I relish in those precious moments at the end of the day where I can put my love and adoration on display.

Ever since I sensed my existence, I have felt indebted to those around me, especially my parents. The gratitude I have can feel almost painful, it is so immense. There are times I feel overcome with emotion about my love for life and those sharing it with me that I need to stop what I’m doing to    tell others how much I care for them. I have found that this, more than any other expression of appreciation, fills the hearts of others the most. Don’t we ought to do that more; show people our love and passion for living? The world would be a better place if we all just expressed how we feel and experienced life the way it’s meant to be experienced: fully and with reckless abandon.

There are times, however, when I do not feel the urge to help and care for others. There is a man Dad calls his “business partner” who comes over occasionally. I made it quite known I did not care for this man. I rather persistently told my parents about it whenever he came over. To be fair, it was rather rude of me to express this to them in front of him, but I felt strongly that they needed to know this man was no good. You see, I have always been a good judge of character, and usually my parents appreciated this. But every so often, they preferred me to keep my mouth shut. I am averse to inauthenticity, I’m afraid, and I would accidentally let my disgust slip. More often than not, my parents would excuse my behavior (“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s usually such a sweet girl.”) and send me to my room. I would spend the rest of the night sulking in bed until the offending creature left. I tried to avoid this outcome at all costs by busying myself in my room as soon as they arrived. I love and respect my parents, but they befriend some real duds. I am wise beyond my years, and some day they would look back and realize I had been right all along. I did not want that day ever to come, though. I can’t bear to see my parents upset.

One crisp Autumn day when I was about 7 or 8 (going on 50, as Dad would joke), the inevitable happened. I knew this day would come again. Due to my parents’ poor judgement, I was always having to help defend us from dangerous strangers. Some might say my parents were a bit aloof, or even neglectful. I am just so glad they have a daughter like me: one who could protect them from the dangers of the world they so blissfully turned their gaze from. It was almost as if they purposefully were avoiding looking life in the face, thinking their ignorance could protect them. (It could not. That is why I was born, clearly.) It is hard not to convince yourself that your life’s only purpose is to serve and protect when you are constantly being put to the test to save your most beloved people in the world.

So, we were home one Sunday, relaxing and basking in the glow of our happiness. I remember it was a Sunday because Dad was surprised when someone pulled into our driveway. We almost never had anyone come over on Sundays, except occasionally Grandma, and I am always glad to see her. (She usually gave me little treats and gifts, you see, and she was always down to play and smother me with kisses.) The vehicle was loud, but anything would have felt loud in the still October air. I could not see the person sitting in the van, but I know someone was in there. The windows of the van were darker than normal, and I could not quite make out what they were doing. They did not turn off their engine, which felt sinister. I stared out the window, trying to assess the situation. Was this cause for alarm? I sometimes was quick to react to things (I had been called “reactive” on more than one occasion), but then again there was often a lot to react to. Mom and Dad reacted to nothing and really relied on me to warn them of potential danger. I had a knack for it, apparently, as my parents would often remind me. (“Nothing gets by you!”) I would do anything for the ones I loved, and that sometimes meant putting myself at risk to save others. Thankfully, I had not experienced any real life or death situations, until now.

The intruder opened their car door slowly, but still did not exit their van. My eyes fixated on the scene, looking for any indication that we knew this person. Although I did not recognize the vehicle, I thought maybe this was all a hilarious mistake, and it was our friend Charlie and his dad Roy. I loved when Charlie and Roy came over. Charlie and I always had the best time, and it usually meant our parents would let us play outside in the yard unattended. The shenanigans we would get into would make the hair on your neck stand up! God, I love Charlie.

So anyways, it was not Charlie. And it was not Roy. I had never seen this person before in my life. They slowly and very carefully hopped out of their van, making virtually no noise. (I heard them, obviously, but my parents were none the wiser) They slowly strode to the back of the truck and opened the sliding door. The sound alerted Mom who glanced briefly in the direction of the window, before turning back to her task at hand (fumbling with the glasses in the cupboard. Real important!). The prowler was shuffling around some items in the back of the van, although I couldn’t see what they were.

However, I knew enough to know they were looking for the perfect weapon in which to break into our home and likely take us hostage, or worse. It was at this moment that I started to alert my family.

In blissful ignorance, Mom and Dad stood in the kitchen, Mom leaning against the sink and Dad opening a bottle of wine. I was stunned but continued my nervous hollering. The screams were as much an attempt at alerting Mom and Dad as they were at intimidating the intruder. Neither happened. In my experience, however, it’s always best to be as loud and big as possible to prove your strength (much like when confronted with a bear, or so I’ve heard). There’s also the tried-and-true strategy of the “stare down” which I’ve used with various degrees of success. When all else fails, it’s time to run and hide, which I’ve never had to employ, thankfully. I’m proud to say, I’ve been able to keep my family safe, which is good because, like I said, it’s my only reason for living.

Sometimes, I’m able to scrounge up something heavy and sharp, just in case my previous attempts at threatening the trespasser are thwarted. This was one of those times. Brandishing a weapon I found in the mudroom (a hard stick-shaped object made of some sort of natural resource), I lunged toward the door to keep the madman out. I could feel my neck tighten and saliva dry up, causing me to lick my lips. Ducking behind the door, I looked over at my parents who were standing in the kitchen, in direct alignment with the maniac outside. To my utter horror, my parents had not even registered the danger. I have always been told I have a sense about these things, but for them to not even notice! Especially with my going on about the intruder! I could barely catch my breath and my parents are sipping wine and laughing about some absurd joke Dad made. (God love him, but he hasn’t a comedic bone in his body) I started screaming even louder, alerting my parents to come help me, or at least take cover. I knew they were talking to me, probably yelling in horror as well, but I could not hear them. I could barely hear myself. I felt the blood rush into my ears, and I could only hear the pulsating of my blood circulating to my brain.

After several hours, the intruder finally crept toward their van, clearly realizing we were not going down without a fight. Panting, I collapsed my body onto the ground by the front door, exhausted and trying to regulate my heartrate. I felt proud. I felt brave. I looked to my parents for approval.

“Oh wow, Priscilla! You saved our lives! What would we have done if that evil man had put the Amazon package any closer to our front door?!” Mom chuckled, patting my head while rolling her eyes.

Dad smiled and called me a “dummy” while scrunching the scruff on the back of my neck. “This damn dog brings me so much joy, sometimes.”

“I’m gonna be a freaking mess when she’s gone,” Mom says with a somber smile. “I could do without the howling though.”

I make a mental note to work on my pitch and cozy up on Dad’s feet. I need to let them know I’m never leaving, so they continue to feel safe and loved. Knowing I have saved my parents and they are grateful for my existence, is enough to lull me to a peaceful sleep.