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she had somehow turned her phone on do-not-disturb after the rummage sale.
and went with it all day and into this morning.
fun to have a shield, and recall she's the one that even before the mobiles would turn her cordless landline ringer on silent and put the answering machine volume down and put a piece of paper on the blinking message indicator light.
she enjoyed her alone time.
she was bred with alone time.
bred to entertain herself.
she realized it at the rummage sale yesterday. none of the posh macon ladies really talked to her and she was alone at her member check-in station and the sale was dead. one person every thirty minutes. she chatted a bit to Susan who was super OCD and weird - lovely. and she didn't want to be that cliche on the cellphone - besides she was fucking sick of the frenetic monologue she had had with the robot about love.
so she doodled. there was a pad and a pen there, so she just made the most complicated drawing she could - and remembered this is what she used to do in school. she did that think she loved where she did rows of semi-circles then semi-circles under them - and she even was starting to put dots in them. and of course she drew a princess and a necklace, and a face, and hair and water and a boat and a palm tree.
and then it was over.
she had a beer or two at the pizza place
patted herself on the back hard that she didn't order a pizza.
went home
waited for the closure.
and in the morning. she woke up after more dreams that she can't remember but he was in. and she saw something on instagram on emotionally absent mothers. it wasn't often she did this, but she sent the link to her sister, "I know it was our father's fault, but this really resonated with me." especially the part about indecisive no boundaries. but who knew if the sister would even watch.
who had the luxury to care.
guard it up kid.
and of fucking course, she comes back to the father - and the weird aspect of living in a town he met her mother in - a town he partied in. and she resents all aspects of him having any sort of fun - even retrospective fun - until the fucking accountability he needed to take.
but the thing that brought her to the keyboard - it was this inability to believe. much like with Neal and the driving - this inability to believe based on one piece of evidence. for Neal, it was the driving. (how could he not love her and go to effort).
the father was similar but different.
she was still stuck on it but she forgot it for decades sometimes. it wasn't a simple revelation like "he doesnt' love you."
it was insidious.
she remembers before the rupture, how she loved going to his home. his second wife had the eye. she could make aesthetics. The terrible thing was she had lots of cats. Kristy was allergic to cats - highly and would wheeze for hours if she wasn't careful and of course she loved the cats.
her father would pick them up by the scruff of their neck. she could tell they didn't like it, but he didn't listen. he was too busy spinning inside his own head. she would learn that later.
so instead of "how could someone spend time with me and effort and drive and not feel any love for me."
it was "how can anyone hurt me and still say they love me."
later, the second daughter turned LIV and woke up on a Sunday morning and was empty of all things past. she wore the same thing she wore yesterday, the pink and black polka dot skirt from the cool shop in Oakland that was ethical and god she loved the cotton feel. she had debuted this skirt in Antibes France while eating her second husband's 50th birthday dinner hungover.
she also wore the big Theif dusky blue t-shirt. she still wasn't in love with the design and aesthetic, but she'd cut the sleeves off and that made it better. it was a good quality no-sweatshop shirt.
she paused.
god.
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