Sophie's Smile: A Novel by Sheena Harper Read Free Book Online Page A

control this part of my life and I thrived on it. I held onto this ability, numbing my sanity along with it.
    I wasn’t able to control my parents’ love for each other or stop them from getting divorced. I wasn’t able to control Justin’s immature actions. I wasn’t able to have my spontaneous sister or artsy mother move back. I wasn’t able to escape my dark depression and my ability to feel, all too strongly, the emotions of those around me.
    I found myself starting to give up on myself—on life—all too willingly, as if accepting my fate—to live alone and in a constant stream of sadness.
     
     
    5
     
    Dad worked hard the next few years in order to move out of John’s place and into a place closer to town. A place of his own. Of course, a few days were harder than others and on those days he hid out on the recliner—with a beer in his hand, eyes, glued to the tube.
    Time seemed to pass without much change. Days, months, and years seemed to blend together with equal despair—closing our eyes and ears to the unhappiness that loomed over us like a dark impending cloud.
    A glimmer of hope arrived the day we finally bid John farewell with one last carne asada beer bash. Worried the long-awaited sun would sink back behind the thunderous clouds, we anxiously packed up Dad’s truck with our meager possessions, and headed out the next morning.
    The place was decent for the two of us: one-story, 550 square feet, built in the ‘40s, walls were lined with flowery paper, yellowed with age, and torn at the corners—this was the first to go—oak flooring, caked with decades of floor wax and neglect but otherwise solid, bathroom needed an overhaul (rust was evident around the faucet and shower head, toilet needed to be replaced, handy plunger was always near), but it was the kitchen that won him over. It was the crowning jewel to this old, decrepit place.
    Large range, sub-zero fridge, extra-deep cast iron sink with high gooseneck faucet, stainless silver appliances, white cabinets, tile backsplash, slate floors, granite countertops, and a corner island for extra counter space. Recessed lighting transcended a radiant glow to the black, white, and gray color palette lending nicely to the colorful knick-knacks that Dad enjoyed.
    Cooking was Dad’s activity of choice and the kitchen was his retreat. Owning a restaurant was his dream—far-fetched in his eyes, but to me, it seemed achievable like a ripe fruit just waiting to be plucked. He was a wonderful cook, especially when it came to Italian cuisine—Pizza Pie, his specialty. Like me, he was cast in a shadow of despair, lost in the depression to which he all too easily succumbed. Sure, there were roadblocks that led him there, hard losses, and negative twists of fate, but he had a choice and he chose wrong. I took after him in many ways…learned his ways…all too accurately followed his mistakes.
    At times he would toy with the idea of what his restaurant would look like, how he would run it, what would be on the menu. He even went so far as searching the listings in the newspaper or scanning the “for rent” signs as he drove back from work—taking the long way home—waiting for the perfect venue for his restaurant.
    I would occasionally join in, excitedly, candidly expressing my approval and pitching in my own ideas to bake desserts for his restaurant. But in the back of my mind I always feared that this dream would be just that, a dream, and would never amount to anything more. That he would never be able to open up a restaurant. That his depression wouldn’t let him.
    This terrified me. Although I loved my father and he had been my hero since I could remember, I inherited his negativity, and bluntly, his bad luck. I strongly believed that my fate would mirror his and I would live the rest of my life in pain, despair, and…loneliness. I thought I was destined to be alone; the future seemed bleak and unwelcoming.
    Sporadically, the sun sprayed its rays upon