16. To hate or not to hate

It’s been 3 weeks since I saw Finnley at the restaurant for the last time. On the evening of our break up, I run into my classmate Ian. He is a drama major, studying acting. He sees me crying and gives me a huge hug. He is a tall, big guy, with blond hair and bluest blue eyes. I don’t hesitate and throw myself into a rebound relationship as fast as I can. Ian is sweet, reassuring, and protective. Somehow I find safety in his big arms. 

Ian often tells me: 

“I love your eyes, Jarka,”

“You mean my muddy eyes? Why?” I laugh.

“You silly, they are beautiful. So deep. Not like my boring blue.”

I try to believe him. 

Acting majors are a wild breed. They party, they drink, and do all the things that me and all the other obedient music majors try to stay away from. With Ian, I get drunk for the first time….. and the second time too. I try my first cigarette. I don’t like any of it and don’t attempt drinking or smoking ever again. 

Our little fling fizzles out fast and I find myself emotionally wiped out. 

Maybe I don’t need to be with anybody right now. I pour my sorrows into the piano keys. 

****************

I am back home from school for the winter break. It is a few days before Christmas.  I am staring through the apartment window once again, reflecting on my childhood. I purposely make several teenage noseprints on the glass. There are no friends playing across the street now. They are all teenagers too, almost adults now. I am looking at Finnley’s apartment windows right across the street, thinking about all the events that happened over the past several weeks. I still can’t believe we are over.

“Guess what,” my father interrupts my thoughts. 

“I am friends with your boyfriend!” 

He is clearly talking about Finnley, because he is not aware that we broke up. He has no clue about Ian either. He doesn’t care the tiniest bit about my dating life. Or my life in general. It is hard for him to see past all the obsessions and grandiose ideas. His brain won’t let him focus on anything else.  As long as his “piano God” is still in my life and I am still attending the Music Conservatory, he is just fine.

 He is grinning from ear to ear and I don’t bother to look at him. 

“Guess what, he is not my boyfriend anymore,” I mumble quietly so he can’t hear me. 

“Finnley loves my music. He will play it on the radio. Tomorrow I am taking a new recording for him to listen to. He will be excited.” My father is beaming like a 5 year old boy who just got an ice cream cone from his mother. 

“Great,” I say with disgust. I don’t want to hear anymore about this. I am sick to my stomach knowing that my father still bothers Finnley at the radio station. I am out of this mess now. 

But I am still so angry and hurt. I think I may hate him. It took my entire childhood and years of obedience, all these years of compliance, to finally come to this conclusion. I would never imagine that I would hate someone, especially not one of my parents. But if “HATE” was sitting at the very top of a ladder, then I have been climbing that ladder up step by step, little by little, year by year, to the very top. My father caused my breakup with Finnley.  And that was the final step that pushed me up to the top. Now I look down at him from my pedestal of hate, anger, frustration, and resentment. WHY are you my father????

What Christmas?

“Jarka, now is the right time. I need your help.” My mother tells me when she finds me brooding around. 

“Time for what?” I am grumpy.

“We are moving on December 23rd. We have a new apartment,” she responds.

December 23rd is in 4 days. 

“Wait, how, where….are we taking the furniture this time? We can’t carry all of that down. It’s 4 flights of stairs!” We live on the 4th floor and I don’t see how this is going to work.

“My friend is helping us. He is bringing several men to load the moving truck. We will go straight to the new place, it’s on the other side of town. Don’t tell anyone, I don’t want your father to find us. At least not right away.” I can see hints of anxiety in her eyes.

I know my father is traveling to see a friend in Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia. He is going to show him his recordings so he can get on TV…..eye…..rollllll….

“He is leaving on the 21st, in the morning and getting back at night on the 23rd,” she is reading my mind and answers my question. 

“Ok, so one day before Christmas Eve. Mom, what is he going to do? Is he going to come back into the empty apartment in the middle of the night?” 

Oh my gosh, and how about his piano?

“Mom! Are we taking the piano too?” I ask urgently, frowning. I don’t know what I want her answer to be.

She nods, “Yes, piano is going with us too. You need it, don’t you?”

Despite all of my feelings towards my father, I feel bad. I am picturing him walking into the dark apartment and standing between all the bare walls. He won’t even have a bed to sleep in. His piano will be gone. He is going to lose it. What is he going to do? 

I step down from the tallest step of my imaginary ladder of hate. I can’t sustain this feeling and can’t keep sitting on the tall hateful pedestal. As I slowly climb down the ladder, each one of the steps holds a different, new emotion and I am going through them all. One step up, two steps down, two steps up, one step down….I am teetering unsteadily within my internal emotional turmoil and hoping that one day I will step down, off the ladder, and stand firmly on the ground.

*****************

A moving truck is parked in front of our apartment building. Six large men jump out and are ready to work. I watch them all from the kitchen window, knowing this is the last time I can make a noseprint on the glass. I am certain I will never miss it. I put my nose on the window and then smudge up the noseprint all around, a goodbye window print. A minute later, I hear the elevator on our floor coming to a stop and then all of the big men pour into our place. One of them, clearly the “boss” comes up to me. “Hi, I am Joseph. I am your mom’s friend. I have heard so much about you.” We shake hands and he smiles. 

So this is the “friend,” hm. And his name is Joseph, just like my father. He seems very energetic and I see a spark in his intelligent eyes. 

“Ok guys, let’s get to work, chop, chop!”

Everyone is now moving fast, taking the furniture apart, packing everything into boxes and carrying it out of the apartment, loading it into the truck. It takes several men to carry the piano out. They have to carry it down four flights of stairs! They bump into the corners here and there and I occasionally hear a thud and swear words following it. My father would cry if he saw this. There are smudges and fingerprints all over his beloved shiny monster.  I wish they took this beast straight to the dump. But then I immediately silently apologize for my mean thoughts. “It’s not your fault, piano, so sorry.” I think to myself.

It doesn’t take long and the place is desolately empty. 

Once we arrive at our new apartment, the men work just as fast to unload all of our belongings. Wow, our new home.

“Good job, fellas,” Joseph pays every single one of them and pats their shoulders. 

“Thanks boss,” they grin at him and quickly disappear.

It is dark and we are left in a sea of boxes to unpack. Joseph is staying with us, apparently just to make sure all is well and we are safe. 

The next day is Christmas Eve and we quietly celebrate the holiday. No time to get a Christmas tree but we don’t mind. Mom still cooks a Christmas dinner for us, sauerkraut soup, fried fish, and potato salad. Despite all the yummy Christmas food, there is tension in the air. We haven’t heard anything about my father. He must have found the empty apartment by now.

Right now, all is quiet, all is peaceful. Snowflakes quietly floating in the air behind the windows. You can almost hear the swish of Santa’s sleigh flying high in the sky.