The glass, The amulet, The coiled snake

A story about a father and his daughter, after dinner.

Dinner time. It was at dinner time, or just after. It was the three of us, like always: myself, Lillian, and our daughter, Kaitlin. Dinner time. Family time. We had a good conversation. Kaitlin seemed more lively than usual, even. She had a real answer when we asked her what she did at school. She said there had been a fire drill, and one boy who had been held back a grade got confused. He thought the school was really on fire. He fell on the floor and started screaming, she told us. The school nurse had to give him a shot. It was a good dinner. Which is why this is all so inexplicable.

Not a minute passed, and then we heard it. Glass breaking. Glass shattering. Glass shattering on the floor. A broken window, we thought. A stray bullet, an intruder. Our home under attack. Lillian gets up too fast and almost blacks out. She has to sit back down with stars popping in her eyes. She could have fell and hit her head on the edge of the table and died. It almost happened. She could have been in a coma for months, or had traumatic brain injuries that affected her behavior or personality. She might have stopped loving her family. She might have lost fine motor skills, and stopped being able to drive. It could have happened. I can’t make sure she’s okay because I need to find the broken window. I check all the windows in the front. None are broken. Then I see it’s not a window at all. It’s the glass on my Japanese print. My Japanese print with the daimyo and the geisha making love, with the sliding paper door left open and the snake coiled in the branches of a tree outside, watching. Kaitlin’s broken it. She broke my print. It’s all fallen to the floor in shards.

I want to hit her. I want to shake her and scream at her and make her feel at least a little bit of the fear I just felt. The fear I can still feel pounding in my head. I wish she wasn’t too old for a spanking now. If she pulled a stunt like this a few years ago she would have been sleeping on her stomach for a week. I think about getting the strap off its hook in the closet. But I control myself. I demonstrate self-discipline. I set an example for her. I just raise my voice. I don’t yell at her, I just raise my voice.

“What happened? What were you thinking?”

“There was a bug. It’s not my fault. There was a bug. I had to kill it. It was on the glass and I squished it. I just hit it a little too hard. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. I’m bleeding, Daddy. It’s not my fault. It was so big I was afraid I wouldn’t kill it unless I hit it hard. It’s not my fault. I’m bleeding.”

I see that she is; there’s a trickle of red running from her wrist. I start to feel a little silly. It’s just some glass. There was real no harm done. This will be an excellent learning opportunity for her.

“Don’t worry, pumpkin. I’ll kiss it all better.” I take her wrist and raise it to my mouth and gently suck at the cut. I feel her blood in my mouth. Strong, salty, metallic. It tastes how my daughter’s blood should. How I expect her to. She doesn’t pull away. She tenses a little, but she doesn’t pull away. Not even when I slip my tongue in a little, to make sure it’s all clean. I don’t want her to be infected.