Freaky Green Eyes by Joyce Carol Oates Page B

sometimes, though I was conscious, I couldn’t move my arms or legs, only my eyes, I could open my eyes and I could see the hazy proportions of the room (but which room was it? Which bed was this?), but I couldn’t move, almost I could not breathe. She doesn’t mean it, darling. She’s only two. She can’t reason or think, darling. She can’t help soiling herself if she’s scared. She isn’t doing it deliberately. She’s only two. . . . I shut my eyes and slept.
    Days passed. Dad refused to speak with me.
    If we were in the same room together, he looked through me. He made a show of hugging and kissing Samantha, who leaped into his arms. “Daddy! Areyou going away again ?” But of course Dad was going away, to St. Louis. Baseball, a doubleheader. Which meant that Mom would be returning, and Mom did return, arriving with Rabbit in the station wagon, and I wanted to run with Samantha to greet them, but I kept my distance, I was wary. She will know, seeing me. At once she will know .
    I wore shirts with sleeves that drooped past my elbows. When a shaft of light pierced my eyes, set my head throbbing again, and my neck and upper spine, I held myself rigid, I gritted my teeth and didn’t cry aloud. I raided Mom’s medicine cabinet for extra strength Tylenol. I stole three capsules of something prescribed for “muscle spasm pain” but decided not to take them—I might like what they did for me too much.
    Daddy I can’t. I can’t apologize. Daddy please understand, why can’t you understand .
    Daddy?
    We all watched Dad on TV. Mom, Samantha, and me. And Rabbit.
    We were never nervous on Dad’s account—he was so assured and spoke so well. (Unlike his co-sportscasters.) The other men were intelligent and well-informed, knew players’ histories, statistics, etc., but Dad knew other, more personal things. He could discuss players’ individual strategies on the field, and pregame anxiety, and how it feels to be injured and expelled from the game while your teammates continue, and win. Dad interviewed a twenty-two-year-old pitcher from the Dominican Republic who spoke in halting English, and Dad was as enthusiastic and funny with him as if they’d known each other for a long time, and the interview concluded on the topic of the pitcher’s youth, and Dad said, “Your generation that’s inheriting the twenty-first century from us, you’ll have challenges, but you have the guts and brains to deal with them. I think you young people are terrific. Good luck!” He shook hands with the young athlete, and Ichoked back tears—it was like Dad was shaking hands with me. I felt this was a signal to me: he knew I was watching and he’d forgiven me.
    After Cape Flattery, Dad had all but ignored me. Now I felt there was a change. I could hardly breathe, I was so happy.
    Mom had been wiping at her eyes during the interview, too. When it was over, she said, “Well. Your father is magic, isn’t he?” But her voice was wistful, and I saw that she was turning the silver ring around her finger.
    It was two weeks, three days after Cape Flattery when Dad returned from St. Louis. The games had gone well, TV ratings were high. Dad called happily to Samantha and me, “Girls! Tell me you missed your poor old dad.” It was the first time Dad had looked me in the face since that morning at the Blounts’. I saw that yes, he’d forgiven me. I laughed and hugged him. I began to cry, I was so happy.
    Dad was like that. He’d flare up in anger and saythings he didn’t mean; then he’d go away, and when he returned, it was as if nothing was wrong. He never said he forgave us, or he’d stopped being angry. He just laughed and forgot. And expected you to forget.

EIGHT
skagit harbor: july 23
    When Dad returned from St. Louis, there was a new atmosphere in the house. As if Dad and Mom were determined to be