And We Were Together, So it was Okay....

I've been thinking this a lot lately, and I'm sure it's normal, what I'm thinking. But my parents have been fighting more than usual. I wish I could say that it were actual physical fist fights that result in bloody noses and swollen eyebrows and I'm the referee in the middle checking on each of the warriors in the corner, asking, "You ready? You gonna make it? Next rounds up!" But nothing that entertaining.

The verbal abuse makes me uncomfortable to say the least.

It's always about something trivial. My father starts asking about whether they should add my little brother to the insurance policy. My mother automatically jumps on him with her nagging voice and says, "Well, of course we have to! Who else is going to pay for the repairs when he drives the car into a tree?" And then they go back and forth.

Or when my mother asks when my Dad will finish fixing the broken van so she can start buying bulk items because they don't fit in the small sedan. "Why are you always pushing me? Always nagging about something? The van will get fixed when I fix it." And then they go back and forth.

Or when my dad asks what's for dinner and my mom explodes, "You are so lazy! I'm tired of cooking for you. Go buy yourself some fried chicken! I'm tired, going to sleep."

Or when my mom is tidying up and my dad is looking for a bill he'd sworn he'd left on the coffee table. "Where is it? Where'd you put that letter? You're always moving my stuff around! Nothing is ever where I leave it! Stop touching my things!"

It's hard for a child to watch their parents like this. Especially when you're grown and you feel the animosity they've developed for each other. When you're a kid, you sort of drown that out. Turn the tv volume up a little louder. But now, I hear their words, listen to their accusations, and cringe at the hateful feelings that have rubbed them both raw.

Because you know that they're your parents and there was a time when they were in love with each other. That's why I'm here. And that's why I have two sisters and a brother. That's what love is: meeting someone, dating them, getting married, buying a house, raising a family. It's hard seeing that idyllic image of love melt into a ten minute argument about how bad my father cooks or how my mom talks too much.

On very few occasions, do my parents talk about their early years, before the kids, before the mortgage and car payments, before I started getting uncomfortable around them at the breakfast table and one of them would open their mouth only to be met by the other's venomous retort. But sometimes, I'd get little tidbits.

We'd drive around the old East Dallas neighborhood and my mom would gaze out the car window and point to a row of apartments. "That's where I'd used to live, Annie. When I first came to Dallas and the mission was helping us out. We were refugees and they helped us for two months, but after we'd have to find our own means of income. That's when I met your dad and he'd help me out so much. I don't know what I'd do if it wasn't for your Dad."

And me and my Dad would go to the library and as I pulled into the parking lot he'd sigh, "Your mom and me would go to that Vietnamese restaurant all the time over there. It was not good food. But it was cheap. And we were together, so it was okay."

But now I worry about them when they're alone in the car together. I wasn't sure what was worse, when I pictured them at each other's throats or in complete, utter, dead silence.

My mother always nags about my father losing his memory. Forgetting things. Dates, his car keys, important letters, things like that. Usually every night when they lock up the store my mother shouts to him, "Make sure you don't leave the keys on the door! One of these days you will and the robbers will clean out the whole place. That'll teach you to lose your memory."

Tonight, at around 10PM, my father knocks on my door. It's pretty late and they don't usually come by at this hour.

"Dad?"

"Yea...I think I left my keys inside the store somewhere. I can't remember. Can I borrow yours?"

"It's so late. Can't you look for them tomorrow? I'll drive you in the morning."

"No, I want to check now, just in case they dropped somewhere around the store. I don't want someone breaking in."

"Are you sure? I can come with you."

"No, it's late. I'll just take your keys and you go back to sleep."

Reluctantly, I get my copy of the keys and hand them over. I watch him drive away into the darkness. I wonder if he will find the keys in this pitch blackness. If he has a flashlight. If the cops will think he's trying to break into the store this late. If a band of ruffians will find him and hurt him somehow. Or if maybe he just needed to get away from my mother. To have sometime by himself, driving in silence in the cold, midnight air.