Solar Flare

Short Story. A conversation; an intervention; a familiar intersection; a full circle. Addiction runs in the family.

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

Her eyes. You can’t look her in her eyes. You're clutching your cup of coffee so tightly that you think it might explode, but your daughter’s tense shoulders, crossed arms, and slouched posture make her look scalded already.

Your hands. You hope she can’t tell that your hands are shaking. She would know what it means, but she’s not looking at you. She’s staring at the floor, her matcha espresso whatever-the-hell sitting untouched on the small table between you.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say here,” you say. “I love you. You know that, right?”

Her fingers twiddle beneath her folded arms, beneath clothes that look clean and new. She doesn’t look anything like the brave little girl you tried to teach confidence, but there’s no way she’s becoming what the school fears.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.

Neither do you, of course, but you don’t have a choice. They found drugs in her locker. You have an obligation to do something about it, even if it’s just have a conversation. You know she’s not the type, that this is likely nothing more than some rebellious, attention-seeking, angst-ridden part of being a teenager, but you really don’t need the attention. If someone at the school turned the magnifying glass around and found out that you haven’t talked to your sponsor in two months…? That you quit going to your meetings…? That you’ve started using again…?

“They called me, Steph. They told me—”

She groans, cutting you off. “It’s not a big deal.” She glances around in visible embarrassment, like this is just some uncomfortable lecture.

You open your mouth to say something, but the words evaporate as soon as you catch sight of the woman staring from across the shop. She’s one of the mothers from school. Her face is warped with disdain, but what gives you pause is that it’s pointed at Stephanie, not you.

Why on earth would she be looking at her?

“It is to the school.”

Blonde highlights. In her hair you suddenly notice blonde highlights that you haven't before. The lines glow jagged in the early morning light, a stark contrast to her natural dark brown — the work of an amateur — and all at once it feels like you’re seeing her for the very first time.

You’re seeing you in her for the first time. It makes your blood run cold.

Perhaps you aren’t taking this as seriously as you ought.

How many times did someone try to tell you that you might have a problem? How many times did you tell both yourself and others that it was not a big deal?

Lies. You’ve told so many lies in order to avoid consequence, and yet you never stopped to consider that the biggest consequence of all might just come in the form of the person sitting right across the table.

“Honey, I — If I search your room, or the house…”

You lean forward, trying to impress that you are here for her; that you will understand; that you might be able to help her if she will just open up.

“…will I find anything? Will there be any more?”

She looks up at you at last, and for the tiniest of moments you think she might. You think she might actually confess. A confession would at least assuage the fear that she is, in fact, just like you, but her face hardens into what you can only describe as contempt.

“Nothing that belongs to me,” she says, an edge in her tone and a bitterness in her sharp blue eyes.

It’s an accusation; a deflection. She’s accusing you of using to deflect the attention off of her. You’ve done the same thing before, too, but does she know there is truth behind it?

“Steph, I—”

“Do you really want to do this here?” She leans forward, too, glaring at you with eyes that are alight with fiery resentment. They contain a threat. “Can we please go home?”

Her eyes. You recognize something in her eyes. It makes your heart stop and your shoulders deflate. You try to look away to contain yourself, lips pinched into a line of defeat that you want to conceal, but Stephanie doesn’t stick around long enough to see it anyways. She knows that she’s prevailed, so she shoves herself away from the table noisily and storms out into the twilit street.

Your first instinct is not to follow her. Without thinking, without pausing for a moment to consider if anyone might be watching, you retrieve one of the pills from your pocket. In one smooth motion you lift your cup, pop the capsule into your mouth, and to your great horror look up to see that nearly all eyes are on you.

The couple at the other side of the room, who were smiling at one another with big attentive eyes when you first walked in, are both frowning. They avert their gaze as soon as your eyes meet theirs, before moving on to the man four tables away. He, too, looks quickly away, back down at his phone, pretending like he hadn’t been watching. The barista, too, resumes her duties with a taut expression, a poor attempt at appearing like this is what she’s been consumed with the entire time. But worst of all is the mother, because doesn’t look away. Her eyes flicker with vindication, a smug triumph, and its intensity — not to mention its clear implications — are too much to handle.

Hot. Your cheeks are hot as you lower your head and rise from the table. You feel as though you’re being watched — and you are — as you slink away after your daughter.

She’s waiting for you in the passenger seat of the car. When you get in, she snorts. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

And you think you should’ve done more to impart upon her the hard truth: that what goes up always, always comes back down.

“I’m fine,” you snap.

And you think you should’ve shown more, hidden less: to let her see and perhaps understand the consequences of flying too close to the sun.

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