Doomed

^{DECEMBER 21, 10:58 A.M. PST} A Kitten’s Tragic Denouement

Gentle Tweeter,

Yes, my father slapped me.

And yes, I might be an uppity preteen romantic with aspirations to become a long-suffering Helen Burns, but I do know that getting walloped across my sassy, too-fresh-for-my-own-good mouth was a lot less fun than I’d always imagined it would be.

In the well-appointed bathroom of the Beverly Wilshire, as the chilled waters of that kitten-choked commode overflowed beside us, my father’s blow fell, scarcely hard enough to turn my head, but the sharp sound of it reverberated hugely in the tiled space. My meaty child’s hand hurt more from swatting his rugged face than my cheek hurt from his counterswat. The ready expanses of mirror showed us both: my tiny handprint reddening his face, my own rage darkening my visage. My mom stood nearby accompanied by maids and PAs and assorted hangers-on, her tapered fingers having flown up to mask her eyes from the brutal scene. Bits of orange fur rode the cresting tide, and we were—all of us—swamped. Only the unlikely adopted stranger stood apart from this domestic tragedy. The surly blackguard youth, he was a harbinger of disaster from some distant, strife-torn, blood-besotted fiefdom. This, the glowering countenance of a man-child no doubt suckled by rapacious wolves, this was Goran. This was the taut moment of our first encounter.

In the days and weeks to come, in Nairobi and Nagasaki and Naples, my father would not-subtly transfer his affections from me to this surly refugee waif. As I had so recently channeled my unhappiness through my kitten, my father would come to make indirect statements such as “Goran? Would you tell your sister that she isn’t getting anything for Christmas—except perhaps a seat belt extender.” Not that we celebrated Christmas. Not that my father even acknowledged me; no, I was Goran’s sister or my mom’s daughter, but I’d become invisible to him. For my part, as he could no longer see me, I could not speak to him. Thus we ceased to exist for one another.

In Reykjavik and Rio and Rome, I’d already become a ghost to him.

After that came the unhappy episode of Goran slashing the pony’s throat at EPCOT Center. After that came Goran stealing my mom’s People’s Choice awards and hawking them over the Internet. By then my father had begun to soften, but it was too late, because it was soon after that, very soon, that I would be dead for real.