The Ever After of Ella and Micha

Chapter 13

Ella

Telling Micha’s mom was a piece of cake. Well, except for the part when I told Micha my strange thought process about having the wedding in Star Grove because I’d feel closer to my mom. That was a little weird. But Micha being… well, Micha, he made me feel okay about feeling that way. Lighter. Which is good, because there’s a chance that after I tell my dad, not just about the wedding but about my grandmother and the box she sent me, the lightness may shift to graveness.

Micha goes over to my house with me, our fingers entwined like we’re kids about to tell something really bad to our parents. But we’re not kids and getting married isn’t a bad thing, but sometimes talking to my dad can turn that way. Although it hasn’t in a while. He’s actually been really nice and chatty lately.

When I enter the house, I nearly drop dead on the floor because it’s clean. There are no alcohol bottles littering the yellow and brown countertops. He’s bought a new kitchen table, too, a new-used kitchen table anyway. It’s white and has a bench on one side and two chairs on the other. The floor is still stained, but it has recently been swept and mopped, the air smelling like Pine-Sol mixed with cinnamon. There aren’t any past-due envelopes on the counters or table. I remember the last time I was here how the house was going to get foreclosed but he managed to get it out of it, working overtime and paying the amount past due.

“Wow,” Micha says as he turns in a circle, rubbing his jawline as he examines the kitchen. “I feel like I’ve entered an episode of The Twilight Zone.”

I let go of his hand and cross the kitchen to the table, picking up a decorative ceramic rooster. The head pops off and it starts to make a loud rooster noise as I glance inside. “Oh my God, there’s homemade cookies in it.”

Micha laughs as he strolls up behind me. “You sound so adorable.” He sweeps my hair to the side and his lips caress the back of my neck. “Getting excited over cookies.”

I take a cookie out, put the rooster head back on, and then set it back down on the table. “So what? The only cookies I ever had when I was growing up were Oreo cookies.” I bite down on the homemade chocolate chip cookie and turn around to face him. “And you would always make us share those and then would take the half with all the filling. You always gave me whatever I wanted except when it came to those damn cookies.”

He steals a big bite of my cookie. “What can I say? I may love you but I love frosting just a little bit more.” He swallows the cookie and then opens his mouth to steal another bite but I stuff the entire cookie into my mouth, lifting my eyebrows, giving him an arrogant look.

Arrogance rises on his face too and then he covers my mouth with his, slipping his tongue between my lips, trying to steal bites of chewed-up cookie.

I jerk back, laughing, and making a repulsed face. “You are so gross,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

He licks his lips and then grins. “I win.”

I stick out my tongue, which has gooey chewed-up cookie on it. “That is what you just ate.”

His tongue slips out over his lips again. “And it was so, so good.”

I shake my head, but can’t stop smiling, and then I roll my eyes at myself because I’m turning into one of those girls who gushes around their boyfriend… fiancé… soon-to-be husband. Reality suddenly slaps me in the face and my eyes widen.

“Holy shit, I’m going to be Ella May Scott.” I breathe, not sure whether I’m panicking or just surprised.

Micha’s mouth sinks to a frown, the arrogance dissipating. I’m not sure if it’s because he just realized that too or because of my alarmed statement. I open my mouth to say something, but then my dad enters the kitchen and my words get stuck in my mouth.

Despite the clean sight of the kitchen, my dad still looks grungy and rough around the edges. He’s wearing an oversized plaid jacket over a holey navy-blue shirt and his jeans have paint on them, along with the boots he’s wearing because he works as a painting contractor now. His face is unshaven and he looks a little heavier than the last time I saw him a year ago but his eyes are clear, not bloodshot, and while he does smell like cigarette smoke, it’s not mixed with the smell of booze.

He stumbles over his boots when he sees me standing in front of the table and then catches himself on the door frame. “Holy shit.” He takes a good look at me as he blinks. “What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t make it home this year for Christmas?”

I huddle closer to Micha, almost as a defense mechanism. Even though I know my dad is doing much better, I can’t entirely forget the past. When he was drunk. When he blamed me for my mother’s death. When he wouldn’t even look at me because it hurt him too much.

“Yeah, we had a change of plans,” I tell him as I feel Micha’s fingers brush my own.

My dad lets go of the door frame and steps up beside the counter. “Well, I’m glad, Ella,” he says awkwardly, a trait that is very common whenever we’re around each other. He massages the back of his neck tensely, glancing around the clean kitchen. “If I would have known you were coming, I’d have stocked up the cupboards and stuff with food or something.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “We’re actually staying over at Micha’s house anyway.”

My dad’s gaze flickers back and forth between Micha and me. “Well, that’s good, I guess.”

Silence draws out between us and I can’t help but think about what my mom said in the journal about him. How she wasn’t thrilled to be marrying him. How her mother didn’t want her to marry him. How depressed she was. Did he know about all this? Because he once told me things weren’t always bad, that things used to be good between them. Was it because my mom hid her depression and dark thoughts from him? Is that how I am with Micha since I can’t seem to talk to him about my fears of getting married and having a future?

Finally Micha clears his throat and jabs me in the side with his elbow.

“Oh yeah.” I shake my thoughts out of my head. “I actually have something to tell you.”

My dad looks bewildered as he leans against the counter and folds his arms. “Okay.”

“You remember how I told you a couple of weeks ago that Micha and I were getting married?” I rub my finger along the stones of the ring, trying to calm the nervousness in my voice. I don’t even know why I’m nervous, other than that I’m worried that my dad is going to say or do something that will ruin the amazingness I’ve been feeling lately. I think it’s just scars from my past that are causing the worry, but they’re still there.

My dad nods. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, we were going to get married in San Diego, but we decided to come back and have the wedding here,” I tell him. “This weekend actually, on Christmas day.”

His eyes enlarge and then travel down to my stomach. “Ella, you’re not…” He shoots Micha a dirty look as he stands up straight and looks around the kitchen, avoiding eye contact with both of us, appearing uneasy even for him. “You’re not…”

As it clicks what he thinks I throw my hand over my stomach. “What? No. I’m not… I’m not pregnant. God.” I can’t believe he’d think that. I’ve been careful not to let that happen and have been on the pill for a year now.

He frowns, looking unconvinced. “Okay.”

Micha chuckles under his breath and I narrow my eyes at him. “This isn’t funny,” I hiss, but laughter threatens its way up my throat, too. I know it’s not funny, especially since I found out that my mom and he got married because she was pregnant with Dean, yet it is. He’s acting like a dad and it’s hilarious because I’m twenty years old and this is the first real time I’ve seen him come even remotely close to playing the part.

“I promise she’s not pregnant, Mr. Daniels,” Micha says, shooting me a quick grin. “We just decided it was time.”

Mr. Daniels? I mouth at him. Really?

Micha nonchalantly shrugs and gives me an innocent look, mouthing, What?

My dad’s gazes flicks back and forth between Micha and me. “But you’re… you’re so young.”

“So were you and… mom,” I point out with hesitancy because it goes against what I’m trying to prove, but he doesn’t know that I know about mom being pregnant when they said I do.

“Yeah, but…” My dad trails off, staring at the back door. “That was different, though… things between your mom and me… they were complicated.”

“Because she was pregnant.” I reveal that I know the truth, unable to keep it in any longer. When his eyes snap wide, I add, “Mom’s mom… my grandmother sent me a box of her stuff and it had this… mom’s journal in it.”

There’s a pause where I can hear everyone breathing and a car revs its engine from somewhere outside.

“That wasn’t from your grandmother,” my dad says with a heavy sigh, unfolding his arms. “Well, it was, but she didn’t mail it to you. Her lawyer did.”

“Her lawyer?” Micha and I say at the same time.

My dad nods, looking very uneasy. “She actually passed away about a month ago and I guess there was this box found in the nursing home with your name on it. The lawyer handling her will called me up, looking for you so he could send it to you.”

She’s dead? I’m a little shocked and I feel strangely saddened, which is weird because I never spoke to the woman. But still she was my grandmother.

I don’t know how to react because I didn’t know the woman at all, yet it makes me sort of sad, knowing I’ll never get to know her. I’d even considered it for a brief second, when I’d read over her note in the box, and now the possibility is gone.

“Why didn’t you give me a heads-up?” I ask my dad and Micha protectively scoots closer to me, like he can sense something bad is about to happen.

My dad reaches for his cigarettes in his jacket pocket. “Because it’s hard to talk to you about that stuff… especially about stuff like death and certain people.”

“About my grandma?”

“And about your mother… because it was a box of her stuff and I wasn’t sure how you’d react or how I felt… feel about it.”

My mouth makes an O as my dad opens the pack, plucks out a cigarette, and plops it into his mouth. He pats down his jeans for the lighter and finds it in his back pocket. Once he gets the cigarette lit and inhales a soothing cloud of smoke, he looks more relaxed.

“It’s a touchy subject for both of us.” He reaches across the counter for an ashtray near the sink. He taps the cigarette on the side and then holds it in his fingers, smoke filtering through the room and erasing the delicious cinnamon scent. “But my… therapist says I should start working on talking about it more, especially with you.”

“You’re seeing a therapist?” I’m surprised. “Since when?”

He looks over at Micha with reluctance, then sticks the end of the cigarette into his mouth and takes another drag. “For a month. My sponsor thought it’d be a good idea.” His phone rings from inside his pocket and he holds up his finger. “Just a second,” he says as he retrieves his phone. He checks the screen and then answers it, walking out of the kitchen.

“God, are all the Daniels seriously messed?” I mutter under my breath. “He’s seeing a therapist, too? First my brother, then me, and now my dad. It could be like the family motto: enter my family and your head’s going to get messed up and you’ll have to have a shrink put it back together again.” I peek over at Micha.

“Don’t even think it,” he warns. “You’re not crazy and you’re not going to ruin my life. You’ll only ruin it if you leave me.”

His words remind me that I’m not that person anymore, the one who pushes people away. I need him and he needs me. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.” I blow out a breath. “But can you give me a minute?” I ask him. “I think I need to talk to my dad alone.”

He seems reluctant. “Are you sure? Because I don’t mind hanging around even if it means enduring your dad’s awkwardness.”

I nod and give his hand a comforting squeeze. “I just want to ask him a few things about my mom and I think he’ll answer more easily if it’s just me.”

Micha remains still for a few seconds longer and then, nodding, he backs away, holding onto my hand until we’re far enough away that our fingers slip apart. “If you’re not back in, like, an hour,” he says, opening the back door and letting snow and a chilly breeze gust in, “then I’m coming back for you.”

“Micha, what do you think’s going to happen?” I joke. “It’s just my dad.”

He intensely holds my gaze, making a point without saying it. There have been many times where painful, hurtful things have happened between my dad and me.

“All right, see you in an hour,” I promise and he steps outside, drawing his hood over his head as he shuts the door.

I pull out a chair and sink down into it, then steal another cookie from the rooster jar. I’m stuffing the last bit of it into my mouth when my dad walks in, clutching his phone.

He glances around the empty chairs. “Where’d Micha go?”

I swallow the cookie and brush the crumbs off the table. “Home for a little bit, so you and I could talk about some stuff.”

“Yeah, we do need to talk.” He sits down, then glances at the rooster on the table without the lid on. “I see you found the cookies.”

“Yeah, but who made them?” I wonder curiously. “You?”

He shakes his head as he puts the lid back on. “No, Amanda did.”

“Who’s Amanda?”

“This woman I met while I was staying at the alcoholism treatment center.”

“Was she another recovering alcoholic?” I ask.

“No.” He pushes his sleeves up and rests his arms on the table. “She was the secretary there.”

“Oh,” I say. “So… are you, like, dating her?”

He scratches his head. “Um… sort of… I guess.”

“Oh,” I say, at a loss for words. It’s weird he’s dating because he’s my dad and the only person I’ve seen him with is my mom, but then again their relationship was beyond rocky. “Is she the one who cleaned the house?”

His hand falls from his head to the table. “No, I cleaned it. Why?”

I shrug. “Just wondered. It looks nice.”

He gives me a look, like he wants to say more, but then he changes the subject, relaxing back in the chair. “So what was in the box?” he asks rigidly. “I know it was stuff that belonged to your mother, but what exactly?”

“Mom’s journal and a few other things, like drawings and photos.” I pause at the sudden increase of my heart rate. “I didn’t know she liked to draw.”

He stares down at the table with a sad look on his face. “She did when she was younger,” he says quietly. “But she stopped not too long after we got married.”

It’s so hard to be talking about this aloud, asking him questions, but I force myself to continue because I want to know—understand. “Why did she stop?”

When he glances up, his eyes are little watery. “Because she stopped enjoying it and so there was no point, at least that’s what she told me.”

I trace the patterns of the wood in the table, staring down at them, because I can’t look him in the eye with what I’m about to say. “You told me once, when I was… when I was dropping you off at the recovery clinic, that things weren’t always bad. But when was that? I know her bipolar disorder progressively got worse, but even from the start it always felt like mom was sad all the time.”

He’s silent for a while and I worry I might have upset him. But when I look up at him, he’s just staring at me like I’m a person, not a painful reminder of the woman he once loved, which is how he used to look at me all the time.

“Things were never one hundred percent normal when it came to your mom,” he says, his voice strained. “But in the beginning she had way more ups than she did downs. And her… episodes… they were few and far in between.”

“Was she ever happy?”

Again it takes him a moment to answer. “She was happy sometimes. I think anyway. It was so hard to tell.”

“Why was it so hard to tell?” Deep down, though, I think I know the answer. Because sometimes it’s hard to be happy or to even admit that you’re good enough to be happy, that you do deserve it, so you refuse to feel it, fight it. It’s my own thought process sometimes and I hate it, but I’ve also learned to deal with it… I think.

He smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “It’s just the way she was, Ella May. And I really want to believe she was happy, even though she didn’t show it.”

It’s weird hearing him call me that and it throws me off and I let a question slip out that I probably shouldn’t. “Why did you love her?” I ask and then pull a remorseful face. “I’m sorry, Dad. You don’t have to answer that.”

He shakes his head, more water building up in his eyes. “It’s okay. You can ask me things. I’m doing better with… stuff.” He pauses, deliberating, and then his breath falters. “I loved her because in the beginning she was erratic and impulsive and she could make life really surprising and… unpredictable. ” He stares over my shoulder, lost in memories and for a brief moment he almost looks happy. Then he blinks his eyes several times and the look disappears before he turns his attention back to me. “I think she was happy when she had you. And Dean.”

I can’t tell if he’s lying, but I don’t really care if he is or not. He might just be saying it to make me happy and I’ll take it. “Thanks, Dad.”

“No problem.” He seems like he wants to say more, squirming and popping his neck, like he has nervous energy flowing through him. “Ella, I don’t want to make you mad but I… I really wish you’d think about waiting to get married.”

What? “Why?”

“Because…” He rubs the back of his neck and leaves his hand there with his elbow bent upward. “You’re so young… and should live your life before you tie yourself down to grown-up stuff.” He lets his arm fall to his side.

It takes me a moment to speak, because there are a lot of mean words that want to push their way up my throat. Like the fact that I was tied down by grown-up stuff since I was four. Bills. Cooking. Cleaning. Taking care of people. That stuff is not new to me.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, but I don’t mean it. I back toward the door, zipping my jacket up. “And, Dad… thanks for talking about Mom.”

“No problem,” he replies. “I should have talked about her more, I guess.”

I don’t say anything. I agree with him, but I don’t want to say it because it’ll only hurt him, ruin this whole weird, good father/daughter vibe we have going. I open the back door and the wind blows inside, dusting snow across the floor.

“And, Ella,” he calls out as I’m about to step out into the snow and the glacier-cold breeze.

I pause and glance over my shoulder. “Yeah.”

“If you need any help… I mean, with the wedding and stuff if you decide to do it… I’m here if you need me,” he says, shifting his weight.

“Thanks,” I tell him, confused because he wants to help and it’s not something I’m used to. “I’ll let you know, but I think Micha’s mom’s on top of a lot of stuff. She’s super excited.”

He looks a little bit disappointed and I open my mouth to say more, but I can’t think of anything else to say so I wave, walk outside, and shut the door behind me. I feel somewhat bad because he seemed upset about my declining his help, but at the end of the day Micha’s mom was more of a parent to me than either of mine. Micha and she were my family since I was four, not my dad, my mom, or Dean. It was just his mom and Micha, but mainly Micha. He was my past and he is my future.

I pause as I’m about to hop over the fence, the snow knee deep and soaking through my jeans as I have a revelation that slams me square in the chest. From the day Micha begged me to climb over the fence for the very first time, we’ve been inseparable, except for the time I ran away to college. He took care of me. He loved me. He showed me what love was. And I think deep down, even though I couldn’t admit it a couple of years ago, I secretly hoped that he’d be in my life forever—that I’d end up with him. That I’d still be hopping over the fence to see him when I was twenty years old with his ring on my finger. That fifty years down the road I’d still be with him, sitting on a porch swing, drinking lemonade or whatever it is old couples do.

It makes my heart thump in excitement and terror because I think it’s time to let go of the dark things that haunt my past, let things go that I might not want to, so I can move forward into a future with a simple fence, juice box, and a toy car.