Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: PRIDE (inflated opinion of one’s self) (02/19/15)
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TITLE: The Name | Previous Challenge Entry
By Veronica Winley
02/24/15 -
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When very young, she and her two sisters could wear their watches only on Sundays and special occasions. The rest of the week, Papa kept them in his top bureau drawer.
After they were dressed, with hair bows straight, stiff crinolines ballooning their starched dresses and patent leather shoes spotlessly gleaming, they would stand still for his inspection. Unsmiling, he would look them over, then take out the watches and fasten them on their wrists. It was, Sylvie recalled, the only time he intentionally touched them. Then the stern reminder came.
“I expect you to behave yourselves today. Remember, you’re Prestons. Don’t bring any shame to my name.”
He would always look at Sylvie a moment longer than the others, as if he expected that if any disgrace occurred, it would come from her. However, the response was always “Yes Papa” with heads nodding and fat sausage curls bouncing in unison.
Although the watch ritual was once a week, reminders of “the name” came whenever there was the slightest possibility they would transgress in any way; or, Sylvie thought cynically in her later years, any chance they would be seen transgressing.
She learned this when, at age 17, she got pregnant.
Boyfriends were scrutinized very carefully, lest they encourage “the Preston Girls” to indulge in shameful behavior. However one mannerly young man, who came with good family credentials, slipped by Papa. When he found out Sylvie had done what he always suspected she would do, his fury was frightening to witness.
However, when things cooled down enough for the young man to meet with him, all he said was “Marry her before she gets too big and the neighbors see.” When the boy said “Yes Sir,” Papa had turned away in a symbolic, if not literal, washing of his hands.
Let it be written, let it be done. And it was.
Sylvie didn’t know why she had kept the watch. Its memories were not good. But now, thirty years later, she realized that she had to confront her father. The bitterness of the past was still too sour in her mouth.
The day she chose, bright with sunshine and cloudless, cerulean skies, mocked her inner storm. She saw him, seated across from her and hated the way he sat, elbows on the chair arms and fingers steepled piously. The slight smile he always wore, his head cocked to the side, made her feel like a child whose nonsense he was indulging.
She asked the easiest question first, one that wouldn’t choke her up.
“What would the neighbors have seen, Papa?”
She waited, although she knew he wasn’t going to respond.
“Was it that a “Preston Girl” made a mistake? That she desperately wanted a loving touch that wasn’t ritual or duty?”
The words coming faster now, she clenched her fists and leaned forward. Against her will, tears started to fall.
“Guess what, Papa. Prestons – and there are thousands, maybe millions of them – are no better or worse than anyone else. But they all need the same thing; LOVE, Papa, L.O.V.E!”
Shouting now, almost incoherent, her chest heaved with sobs, as tears dripped, unchecked, off her chin.
Then she whispered, “We didn’t care about the name, Papa. We wanted you to love us because…” She struggled with the words. “We loved you.”
With head bowed, Sylvie cried quietly, and then wiped her face as her tears slowed. Her words echoed in the silence of the room and she raised her head to look at the empty chair facing her. The imagined image of her father faded from her mind. His death ten years ago had not dulled it.
She sat, hands and heart still, quietly mourning what she’d never have. The irony was that when he made her marry, she stopped being a Preston. Sylvie wondered if he understood his sacrifice.
She gave a big sigh.
“Oh Papa, I forgive you. I’m so sorry if I disappointed you by not living up to your name.”
Standing up, she walked over to the window, the beautiful day beckoning. Arms folded, peace enfolding, she hummed. “Jesus, name above all names, glorious Savior, wonderful Lord.”
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If this is a true story I applaud your candor and sharing your story and finally your spirit of forgiveness.
Although I couldn't relate because my dad was truly the opposite, I could feel your palpable pain as I witnessed the entire scene pass in my mind.
God bless~