Chapter 5 - The Speech of the Patriarch and the Smolder of Pain
The plates were cleared with a frantic efficiency by my mother,
who refused to let the kitchen staff do it because she wanted to show off her domestic martyrdom.
Then came the cake,
a massive,
three-tiered monstrosity covered in white frosting and sixty burning candles that cast a flickering,
hellish glow across the faces of the guests.
We sang the birthday song,
a discordant chorus of voices that sounded more like an obligation than a celebration.
My father stood up,
resting his heavy palms on the edge of the mahogany table,
looking down at his family like a king surveying his subjects.
He cleared his throat,
a sound like grinding stones,
and began his annual speech about the importance of loyalty,
success,
and blood.
"Sixty years,"
he began,
his voice booming through the rafters of the dining room.
"Sixty years of building something from nothing,
of ensuring that the name on our mailbox means something in this town."
He paused,
waiting for the nods of approval that came right on cue from Mark and Diane.
"And the only thing that matters in this world is family,"
he continued,
his eyes sweeping across the table,
conveniently bypassing me and Mia.
"Blood is the only thing you can count on when the world goes to hell,
as long as that blood isn't weak."
The word 'weak' hung in the air,
heavy and targeted,
a direct arrow aimed at the little girl sitting at the end of the table.
Mia shifted her weight in the chair,
a soft gasp escaping her lips as her leg moved at an awkward angle.
I bent down immediately,
my ear close to her face,
shielding her from the glare of the room.
"Are you hurting,
baby?"
I asked softly,
noticing the fine bead of sweat that had formed along her hairline.
"A little,"
she whispered,
her eyes welling with tears that she was desperately trying not to let fall.
"The metal is pressing into my skin,
Daddy."
I knew what that meant;
the lower hinge was misaligned,
rubbing against the raw incision site from her surgery.
"Okay,"
I said,
standing up and pulling her chair back with as little noise as possible.
"We're going to go into the den so you can stretch out on the couch,
and I'll take a look at it."
We didn't even make it three steps before the path was blocked.
Caroline had moved from her seat with an incredible speed,
her wine glass empty now,
her face flushed with the triumph of the evening.
"Already tired?"
she asked,
her voice cutting through my father's ongoing speech,
effectively hijacking the room.
"You've been here for exactly six minutes of actual conversation,
and now you're slinking away."
"Back off,
Caroline,"
I said,
keeping my voice dangerously low,
stepping in front of Mia to block her from my sister's view.
"She's in pain,
and we're going to the den."
Caroline ignored me entirely,
leaning around my torso to look directly at the trembling child behind me.
With a fake,
syrupy sweetness that made my stomach turn,
she spoke directly to Mia.
"Sweetie,"
she said,
her eyes wide and mocking,
"hurting and liking the attention you get from hurting are not the same thing."
May you like
The room went dead silent,
the final words of my father's speech dying on his lips as the real entertainment began.
