Cherry Cola Episode 2: Love - Part 1: "Hurting"

Cherry Cola

Episode 2: Love

Part 1: “Hurting”

My mom and dad divorced when I was about two and a half years old. 

Apparently it wasn’t a huge dramatic break up, or a huge saucy story about cheating. 

After 7 years of a relationship, 4 of those being marriage, she turned to my dad, eyes wide

but empty. 

“I made a mistake.”

They had been sitting on the porch, the summer night still and cool, but noisy around them. 

All he did was turn away and nod quietly.

The divorce went smoothly. 

She didn’t want the house, his money, or even me. 

She wanted her stuff, her dog, and her car.

A month after my third birthday, she packed up her things in her car, kissed me on the 

forehead, nodded at my father, and drove away.

We both never saw or heard from her again. 

Well, actually, I think I passed by her at a train station one time.

But anyway…..

I didn’t start asking questions about her until I was around 6 years old. 

Everytime I did however, no matter what kind of question it was, I got the same answer.

A flex of his eyebrows, and a shrug, staring at me until I recognized that that was his answer. 

Dad was a pharmacist, a handsome man who spoke in mumbles. 

My gym teacher said he always did that, like he didn’t trust anyone else with his thoughts. 

As a father, he was stern, but fair.

He would never punish me until I fully understood why I was being punished. 

And his punishments always fit the rule that was broken.

He was strict with them too, no laying off me or breaks being given. 

I was always supposed to do my chores and my homework without being asked, but he 

carried his own weight around the house too.

He also made sure that I had plenty of time for myself.

I think his favorite part of raising me was when I asked questions, or, asked for advice.

His eyes would light up, mustache curling into a smile.

I would see the same reaction at his job too.

I think he liked figuring out ways to make things simpler for people.

Perhaps he felt it was his calling to the world. 

Despite our easy living together, as I grew up and started to understand society and its roles

and expectations, our house filled with a palpable tension. 

It was mostly from me, he was as patient and as steady as ever, an immovable object in the 

nonsense of reality. 

Tiny arguments that didn’t make sense were starting to become a daily habit, usually due to 

me taking something he said to the extremes or finding his ‘commands’ annoying. 

Passive aggressive comments, door slams, groans and eye rolls became common slang in 

my dictionary when conversing with him.  

He never reacted, mainly because my grades were still good and my chores were done, so 

he thought he had no reason to punish me for speaking my mind. 

He told me later that he summed up my behavior as puberty and didn’t take it personally. 

About a month before my 15th birthday, the ticking time bomb that was lurking between us 
finally blew up. 

It was Valentines Day, and my head was swarming with a lot of thoughts from talking to my 
friends all day.

Some who had their parents, some who had one, weather from divorce or from death. 

Nonetheless, I started to become envious of each and every one of them.

Even if it was just in the faintest of ways, they understood their relationship between their 
parents.

I knew nothing. 

Why was my mom some shameful secret to my dad?

Did any of those feelings drip down towards me?

I came home, head dizzy and hot, heart heavy.

“Hey Possum.” Dad said, glancing at the door from his laptop, using a nickname I earned 
from a childhood love of knocking over the kitchen trash bin.

“Got you some candy. It’s upstairs on your desk, Happy Valentines day.”

He looked me in the face and gave me a quick sweet smile. 

I didn’t return it, leering daggers at him.

“Why do you hate mom?”

For the first time in my life, and I think the last time, I saw his eyes darken. 

“What the hell kind of question is that?!”

I was surprised, expecting his usual silent response. 

However, his words just added fuel to my fire. 

“I know how couples act Dad. People who miss their loved ones talk about it. You act like 
she’s the biggest stain of your life, like your biggest mistake, and that you’re way better and 
above her now. You won’t even move on and get another woman because you’re so stuck up 
your own ass, that if you can’t have her you don’t want anybody else, that you’re just 
expecting her to come crawling back to you.”

He stood up, and, also for the first and last time, raising his voice at me. 

“And who the hell are you to tell me anything about this situation?! You know absolutely 
nothing about the subject!”

“Well no wonder I don’t you don’t ever talk about it!”

“It’s none of your business what went on between us!”

“It is my business because she’s my mother!”

“And you barely know her! I doubt you even remember her!”

“Why do you think it’s for me to be hurting from all of this?!”

“AND YOU DON’T THINK I’M HURTING AT ALL?!”

His final bellow shook me, first from his tone, then from his words. 

We stared at each other for a few seconds, both of us embarrassed about our actions. 

We both took a seat on either end of the couch, avoiding eye contact, processing the 
situation.

My mind was reeling, from his words, from some feeling that I would not understand until 
much later in life, and the crawling fear of my looming punishment. 

I’ve never screamed at my father before. 

From the media, and from my friend’s accounts, that seemed like something that would 
instantly get you punished.  

I jumped when he finally spoke up.

“Get in the car.”

His voice was unsure, shakey, soft. 

I followed his command, the tension that loomed between us and in the house now 
morphing into slimey awkwardness. 

The car ride was silent, I didn’t turn on the radio, nor was he even doing his usual mumbling.

I even tried to keep my shifting and swallowing and breathing as quiet as possible. 

He pulled up to the diner that I always claimed like smelled like too much ketchup, and 
silently walked inside.

I followed his lead, both of us getting a table and sitting down across from each other, 
avoiding eye contact. 

The waitress walked over, smiling, refusing to read the mood. 

“Beer for me… Cherry Cola for you Possum?”

I nodded, staring at my lap. 

We were silent as the drinks arrived, eventually he ordered us pies. 

Coconut cream for him, cherry for me. 

After a few sips of drink, and a few bites of pie, he wiped some crumbs off his mustache, 
clearing his throat. 

“It’s like I always tell you Possum, you should never have a serious discussion with an 
empty stomach.”

I didn’t react or look up. 

He sighed, tapping his fork on his plate.

“Look…. I’ve been selfish. Very selfish.”

I finally looked up, not expecting him to have started the conversation that way. 

He then slowly started telling me the story of the day mom decided to leave, which honestly, 
left me with more questions than answers.

But that wasn’t his fault.

“I love your mother. I’ve always loved her. Which is why when she told me she had to go, I 
assumed it was for a good reason.”

He paused to use his napkin to wipe some cream off his face.

“A lot of people… Don’t understand this. Saying she left me for another man and that I 
should of tried to convince her to stay. Even if she did go for another gentleman, great! I 
want her happy. All I want is her happiness….”

He took his last spoonful of pie. 

“I…. didn’t want you to hate her. I didn’t want you to judge me the same way everyone else 
has. I didn’t want to admit I was hurt way more by her actions than I’d like to admit. I came to 
all of these conclusions without thinking about how you would feel. And…. I am not only 
ashamed, but I am honestly sorry. I would never blame you for never forgiving me, but I’m 
still going to ask if you can.”

I stared at him, playing the straw in my mouth, not sure how to handle being put in this 
position. 

 My dad stared at me with heartbroken eyes, with so much guilt, I suddenly felt bad for not 

noticing how much pain he has been in this whole time. 

After a moment of silence, I decided what my answer was going to be. 

“Caleb got detention for yelling fuck in the parking lot today.”

He blinked, taken aback by the statement. 

He seemed to chew on it, before he slowly nodded, smiling softly and taking a deep breath. 

“I hope it was worth it at least?”

“He saw the grade for his stats test online.”

He laughed, he laughed harder than he should at some teenager being stressed by 
academic failure, but it was clear there was years of pain and guilt melting away inside. 

After that day, everything between us was back to normal, with a lot less tension. 

We talked several times about that day and the events that led up to it, but we never spoke 
about mom again. 

With his guidance, I got a full ride scholarship and he drove with me across the country to 
help set up my dorm. 

I visited every year for the holidays, always happy to come home to someplace familiar. 

When I was 26 years old, he said to the pharmacy staff that he was tired so he wanted to 
head home early and rest. 

He died in his sleep during the night. 

They aren’t sure why he went, he was relatively healthy man who didn’t smoke or drink, 
only 48 years old. 

Almost half the town went to his funeral, as did I.

He was born, raised, and died in that small Montana town

I wasn’t sad.

He would of been real mad at me if he learned I was sad.

He had a good life and I had a good life with him. 

He left with both us knowing we were comfortable with our relationship. 

I visit him on his birthday, leaving him flowers, knowing it annoys the fuck out him spending 
money on such a useless gesture.

Is it so useless if I get to tease him in the afterlife though?

I sometimes think about that day, and only about two years ago did I finally realized what that 
overwhelming unknown feeling was.

No one ever talks about it, but it’s something every child experiences with their parent.

The day they transform from omnipotent all knowing sage, into the same sweaty, awkward, 
stressed, human being you are. 

My dad was wrong.

His sin wasn’t being selfish.

He had a much darker sin, a sin that every parent on the planet carries with them, no matter 
how much they try to scrub it away.

The sin of being a human being with emotions, wants, needs, and ambitions. 

Honestly, there will never be a perfect child in this world until we learn how to cut that shit out.

Until then, the cycle continues. 

Transcriptions by: 8BitCola21@gmail.com