We all end up having people who were once in our lives with whom we are not currently in contact, through their choice, our own choice, life happening, or friendships simply fading away into memories. This series will come in letters to individuals, friends who once sat comfortably in the best friend category, family from whom I have chosen at last to protect myself, and perhaps an acquaintance or two I believed was a friend until proven otherwise. These emotions dwell within me, unexpressed, so maybe they will make their cautious way out into the world, entertain someone or another, perhaps enlighten someone else, or make someone’s load a tad lighter. Read on for the introspection of the only Lael Braday in the universe. Blessed Be, my Lovelies!

I lay across my bed reading a book laid on the floor next to the bed. Hearing a harrumphy throat clearing, I sat up and tilted my head questioningly at my father in the doorway. He walked in and sat next to me on the bed, clasping his hands together, staring at the floor. I copied his body language without thinking, dreading what my mother had sent him to tell me. Well—he began—I know you’re a teenager now. Yeah—I responded. Shifting, adjusting his pants, rubbing his beard, he tried again—I just want you to know what’s going on, you know, with boys and all. I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes before assuring him—Daddy, it’s not like I’m dating anyone; the boys in this town don’t like me. He looked at me funny and said—I betcha some boy does like you, but he’s just shy, cuz you know, you’re a pretty girl. My laughter surprised him, and I shook my head as though he was clueless. Boys in my school saw me only as a target. Well, in any case—he told me as he again stared at the floor—one day you’ll like a boy, and then things will happen. What things, Daddy—I asked, appreciating the realization—things like threesomes and fetishes and maybe adult toys. Good lord—he hollered as he jumped halfway to the door and inquired loudly—where the hell did you learn that shit. I couldn’t help grinning as I answered—Daddy, we have cable; you don’t need to tell me about sex.

From the living room floor, I watched the roaches crawl across the ceiling. When they began to fall, I hurriedly wrapped the blanket around me and tucked it in as best I could. Uncle J’s death was unexpected and Aunt D came unglued, dragging my cousins from sibling to sibling. I crossed my fingers they’d be moving on soon. Alas, they enrolled in the local school, the meanest two in my grade…not twins, just one dumb one. They tormented me daily, on top of the usual bullying I received from my classmates, so that in the evenings I would ride my bike around town until dark, hoping dinner would distract them. I was ordered to come home straight after school and stay there by my mother, adamant that I show compassion. The night I took to the streets on my bike, sobbing, I returned long after sunset to find my father waiting for me in his garage. I homed in on the light as a beacon of refuge. He was fiddling around, doing a little of nothing, as he liked to say, when I entered. Without turning around, he told me—Your mother’s angry with you. He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. There was nothing to say. Facing the counter again, he said—I got you something—and brought a little box to me. We sat on his workbench so I could open it. My gift was an itty bitty radio with a pullout antenna. He took it from me, placed it on a little table next to an overstuffed chair he’d dragged down from the attic, and plugged it in. Next to the chair, he’d put a small bookshelf and filled it with some of the books from my room. He hugged me and said—You can come read in here after school; I’ll let your mother know where you are.

He came in quietly and stood just inside the doorway. I continued perusing my bookshelf, waiting for him to announce his reason to enter my bedroom, a rare occurrence. After a couple of throat clearings, he walked over and sat on the edge of my bed, patting the space next to him. The hair on my arms prickled my skin, a vague unease settling in my stomach as I sat next to him. My father then asked me—You know your mother and I love you, right? I jumped up to face him, asking too loudly—Are you getting a divorce? He blinked and shook his head before smiling and assuring me—No, no, nothing like that…sit, sit—patting the bed again. I sat up straight and stared at the wall through a few more throat clearing harrumphs. When he finally spoke again, he told me softly—Should you ever need any surgeries…—and I again took to my feet to search his face for answers. Am I sick—I asked him—I don’t remember the doctor saying anything. Shaking his head frantically, he implored—Please sit down and stop looking at me. I complied, and he continued—If you have back pain, or shoulder pain, or need any kind of surgery…—I burst out laughing. Daddy, look—I said—I know I’m only 15, but I will never, ever want breast-reduction surgery, and you can take that to mother. He nodded, hugged me, and walked out as quietly as he came in, leaving me rolling around on my bed giggling.