Left for Garbage

That’s why Deeley ended up in the trunk. Yep, leave it to her mother to have managed saying exactly the thing to make Denise finally realize that if she ever wanted to be happy, she needed to do something drastic. Denise had tried to find a way out which could have saved both her and Deeley, but Deeley was hard to take. She could walk away from her parents, but not Deeley. But she still loved her, and Denise knew that if she only had a better home life, one that was her home life, a place where she was in control, she might have learned to like being a mother and she would’ve found a good father for Deeley.
    A week after Mom’s lecture, she had met Bla ine who was both hot and rich. Two weeks after their first hook-up, she’d told him she thought she might be pregnant. That was the night before Saint Patrick’s Day. Blaine had laughed in her face and said, “Sorry to hear it. Who’s the lucky guy?”
    When Denise had dissolved in tears, assuring him it could only be him, his face had tur ned ugly and he let her have it.
    “Now , I’m really sorry to hear that, but even if it’s true, it’s not my deal. I don’t want you, I don’t want a kid, and I’m sure not gonna be with some chick who already has some other guy’s kid. Tell you what though, Denise, we had a good time and I’m willing to pay for it. Send me the bill when you take care of business.”
    The next day, while everybody in the world had been out partying at Downtown Disney or over at Winter Park, she was still replaying Blaine’s brutal words while trapped at home yet again by her hated maternal responsibilities.
    Sometimes she could drag Deeley along to some guy’s apartment and kill the day, but not this day, not Saint Patrick’s Day, where a two-year-old would mean no entrance to every place worth being. No entrance - the story of her life since Deeley, but there was an exit. Only one way now, and harsh, yes, but if it was quick, then it would be over and everybody’s better off, everyone is free.
    Denise had been too down to even bother to make up an excuse for her father about why she wasn’t going to work that Saint Patrick’s Day, and with barely controlled rage she had avoided both him and Deeley. She had stayed in her bedroom, curled up on her side all day, with teeth clenched to keep from screaming at the building pressure in her chest an d, of course, every two minutes Deeley would come in and pat at her, pull at her, tug at her, saying, “Mommy seepin. She get up?”
    Denise had squeezed her eyes shut and laid there stiffly until about the tenth time Deeley bothered her, and then she finally snapped and yelled for her father. When he appeared at her door, she burst into tears and said, “Oh my God, Dad, really, you can’t keep Deeley out of my hair for one lousy hour? My head is killing me. God, please, can’t you just keep her away from me?”
    Her father had stared at her with that assessing look she hated as he reached down and scooped up Deeley. His tone was meant for the little girl so he kept it mild, like of course he would for Deeley, but his words for his daughter not so much. “Sure, Denise, me and Missy here will go have a little swim before Ko Ko has to go to work, but I do have to work, Denise. Somebody has to.”
    Denise had groaned and pulled the pillow over her head , hoping to shut out his voice, but he continued speaking in that same soft cadence.
    “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, but when I leave for work you will get up and take care of Deeley , and by that I don’t mean stick her in front of a video while you stay in here feeling sorry for yourself. Do you understand me?”
    When Denise didn’t answer, he repeated it more strongly.
    Denise sat up abruptly and met his angry eyes. “Dad, I think you should call in sick today. I’m really feeling …” Her voice trailed off, hoping that in her tone her father would hear all the things she couldn’t say aloud: I’m feeling trapped like never before, I can’t breathe anymore in this life, in this role all of you want me to play. Tell me you love me, tell me you understand. I can’t do this, can’t be her mother, shouldn’t have to. Tell me that you’ll make it right, tell me I’m still important to you, that you still see me at least a little beyond her. Help me, Daddy, save me from what I’m thinking of doing.
    If Keith saw any of this on her face, he didn’t acknowledge it. He simply repeated his admonition about being up