This is a work of semi-autobiography and therefore should be considered fiction. Names and events have been altered. "Seven Years Bad Luck" is an ongoing series. This is part twelve.
I don’t know when Matt and Dad come back from shopping. Too late for dinner, so I helped myself to a microwave meal from the freezer. My old room is next to the master bedroom, so when I hear the loud rustle of paper, I wander over.
“Get outta here!” My dad barks at me, shuffling my presents presumably behind him.
“One second,” I say lazily, plucking up some wrapping paper and tape for my own use before sauntering out. Way too old to be excited about keeping presents secret anymore. I didn’t look only out of courtesy, and because I was never the type to peek anyway. When I was little, I just calmly accepted that I would receive presents when they were given to me.
“So lucky,” I murmur a little bitterly, as I filch the kitchen scissors for my wrapping.
The night passes and morning comes without ceremony. We sit on a couch that my dad scavenged off the street after a hurricane, and quietly pass the presents out. I wasn’t here last Christmas because I was studying in China and the semesters there end after New Year. I forgot how awkward family gatherings are when we don’t have a family pet there to take the edge off and focus our attention on. I miss our old pet, Toby the beagle, a lot, especially during times like now.
“What the hell is this?” My sister mutters when she opens her presents. It’s a bunch of jewelry, generic and tangled together.
“Oh, I bought that through the mail, this company sent a catalogue with all these deals on their jewelry,” Dad says real pleased. No one else is convinced that this means that this is quality stuff. ‘Hey,’ I thought, ‘this means Dad went Christmas shopping ahead of time, for once.’
“Thanks,” my sister Jacquie says, the distinct honk of her tone sounding really ungrateful. Although maybe I’m not the best judge; admittedly I’m prejudiced against the source.
I glance over to see if Dad likes his presents, and then notice something for the first time that morning. “Hey, why’s your thumb black?”
“Oh, this? Banged it up good when I was fiddling with the siding last week. Good and swollen now!” He gives a thumbs up with his huge, inflated black thumb.
“Jesus,” I say, staring dumbly at it.
“Yeah, look, that’s not the only thing.” Dad pulls up his sleeve. “Look, I’ve got red lines going up my arm now.”
I tense up all over.
“Dad, that looks like blood poisoning.”
Dad notices my tone and doesn’t like it. “I know what it is,” he says and doesn’t elaborate. His finger traces one of the red lines.
Why hadn’t any of us noticed? I thought blindly. I had been staying at my mom’s house for the most part, but shouldn’t I have noticed yesterday? What the fuck were my siblings doing, they’ve been staying over with our dad completely since the beginning of the holiday.
“It’s blood poisoning,” I blurt out, and stand up. “You need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m not going to the hospital.”
“You need to go RIGHT NOW.”
“And I said I aint going!”
“You need to go RIGHT FUCKING NOW, DAD.”
“I SAID ‘I- AINT- GOING’, bitch! God, you sound just like your mother.”
I scream my lungs out at him, dad yelling defensively back. The more upset I get, the more dad absolutely swears he’s not going to the hospital. Finally, after shouting for I don’t know how long, lapsing and starting again, I’m near incoherent, sobbing, and messy with tears. I grab my presents and leave, needing to escape.
