Invisible Bites

I reach a brick motel, its walls strung with webs gleaming under the full moon. The cacophonous crows and zooming cars have washed away the motel’s soul, leaving it numb and still amidst the rush.

This is going to go well, I think. Ever since I ate that cake slice and became invisible, I’ve been feeling better about myself. Why did I ever doubt myself?

I walk through the “lobby,” search for room 13, and knock on the cold red door.

Before I can wonder if Dad’s home, footsteps thump toward the door. I take out the pocket mirror I found in Mom’s room, but when I look through it, all I see is the deep night sky swirling above, with the moon glowing like a crystal ball.

A shiver ripples through my body.

“Um … hello?”

I look down at my father, realizing how much I’ve grown. I haven’t seen him in many years, but he’s still the same thin man with ruffled brown hair and square glasses. He looks through me until his brown eyes land on the pocket mirror. In his view, it’s floating.

His cherry nose pales and he stands still as a statue. Slowly, he reaches for the mirror in my hands. When his fingers brush against mine, he jumps back like a scared cat. His eyes the size of saucers, he starts to breathe heavily, staring through my green eyes, but not into them. 

“Wh-what are you?” he asks, in a shaky, broken voice. His pupils frantically search the stone walkway.

Suddenly, my soul is being pushed back while my body remains, and I feel like I’m about to fall, only I don’t. I can’t move. I’m only a character, at  the mercy of my master. Then, as quick as it came, the feeling’s gone.

And another settles in. Why did I come to Dad’s motel apartment? He’s untrustworthy, dishonest, most likely drunk from losing another job.

When I look at him, his jaw is dangling like a puppet’s, and his ashen face is replaced with one of pure shock. Now, he’s really looking up at me.

It’s not every day that you see someone appear in thin air. I’ll give it to Dad for not screaming. No. I’ll give him nothing. He barely fought at court. Barely wanted me.

I briefly wonder why I wasn’t thinking so much earlier. It’s like the invisibility did something to me mentally. I can’t let it happen again.

“Hey, Dad,” I muster a casual voice.

Silence.

An owl hoots.

Some crickets chirp.

Then, he speaks in a squeaky whisper.

“This is all my fault.”

He tells me everything, while I’m staring at the hot chocolate I refused to drink. He works as a cartoonist in a Nickelodeon show about talking vegetables, so he lives - in his words - “economically”. It’s why Mom and Dad divorced. I live with Mom because helicopter parents are better than alcoholics.

I keep a straight face through his speech. It’s more of a rambling thought. When he’s done, I focus silently on the scritch-scratch of the rodents scrambling within the walls. Dad sits on a dirty yellow armchair with a flushed out face.

What was Mom wearing this morning? Her apple perfume, as always. And her red lipstick. And her clothes? Probably another power suit. Maybe magenta?

Dad looks at me, waiting for an answer. I push aside the questions clogging my throat. “So let me get this straight,” I finally say. “You got yourself a cake that could make you invisible. But, it was accidentally shipped to my Mom’s house - on the night of my birthday last Sunday, by the way. I’m thirteen now. So when Mom ate the cake, she became invisible, like me?”

He nods miserably.

“Why make yourself invisible?” I ask.

“Tell me: when you’re invisible, don’t you feel so confident, relaxed? Confident?” He emphasizes the words with admiration.

I did. I thought I had everything under control. I felt good about myself for once. I thought maybe I could impress Mom!

“Well, you might’ve noticed . . . I’m not very confident. Piece it together, and you’ve got it.” He slumps on his couch.

He’s right. I feel stupid thinking I had a solid plan, thinking I could do anything by myself. It’s useless trying to find someone invisible who never wants to see you again. She might disown me after this. Then I’ll become like Dad, since I’ll have no one to depend on.

“So now you want my help to find her, don’t you?” Dad stands up now, and paces around the room, mumbling to himself, brainstorming.

I think that’s what Invisible Me came here to do - ask him for help. Invisible Me was okay with others doing everything.

But I’m back to my “rebellious attitude,” as Mom calls it. And now, I want to make choices. Real actions.

I can’t just forget how horribly wrong this attitude went last time, though. My last decision is the reason we didn’t celebrate my birthday. Neither of us were glad I existed.

“I’m useless and unloved.”

Dad stops and I realize I just said that. He’s staring at me with eyes that aren’t pitiful or confused - they’re somber. 

He sighs. “Kid, you’re not useless, you are loved. I love y-”

“Mom doesn’t.”

“I have no idea what your mother is doing or not doing. I haven’t seen her in five years.”

“This isn’t about you,” I challenge. I know I should be an understanding daughter and nod and be silent, but right then all I can think is, Dad doesn’t understand. 

Dad stiffens, as if I’m about to throw a tantrum. 

I might. My mind is a mix of puzzles pieced incorrectly. “I’m tired of everyone doing things for me, then getting annoyed at me for not doing something. And then doing even more things for me. Mom is just another one of those people. You are another one of those people. It’s almost as if the cake . . . it wasn’t like everyone else.”

Dad doesn’t get what I said. I don’t really, either. “It’s just . . . even if I see her again … things won’t change.” There’s no point in talking, but I can’t seem to stop. All I know is that I’m sick and tired of my life.

“So … what do you want to do?” Dad asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I just- … I just don’t know. I love Mom, but she treats me like I’m a baby. And I guess - now that she’s invisible - I don’t really want to … change that, because … now I have the chance to do things myself.” Each sentence feels like I’m releasing some weight from my shoulders, only for more to fall down.

I’m such a bad daughter.

A river of tears hotter than fire flows down my cheeks. My fingers are too tired to stop them.

“Kid, listen to me. Your controlling mother’s gone, and you get to have some freedom. But that doesn’t last you long. Soon, you’ll be like me: ordering cake to feel good, drinking to save my sanity. Actually, I’m not sure if that’s working. The thing is, in the end, she cares about you. And sometimes, that’s a whole job on its own. So give her some time and some talking to. Change is a tortoise. It’ll get there, and in the end you can sleep in your shell. And I’ll . . . I’ll give you a push.”

Dad leans back and stares forward, content with his words.

Slowly, I feel something warm embrace me like a blanket. Looking down, I see magenta fabric.

There’s a sniffle, but it’s not from me.

And then, I smell something familiar.

Apple.

It smells like home.