When I was very young about seven or eight, my family had taken a vacation to Disney World. I know I was very young because my sister was still a baby. Anyway, I guess to save some money my father had figured on attending one of those timeshare breakfasts. They give discount tickets to the parks for attending. Being very young and seeing the roadside outlets—storefronts shaped like tropical fruit, colonial ships, and mouse ears—I got a little too excited on the way to breakfast. There are kids, I mused, real kids who get to live here all the time. When was Mickey Mouse, a face around the neighborhood probably, going to jump out and greet me? When would we see the grand finale? This, place we’d arrived at, this was just a parking lot.
“Breakfast?” I cried into the blistering blue morning, my voice echoing over the vehicular sea, “I can’t wait through breakfast! Tower of Terror!” My father’s monstrous mitts grabbed hold of my arm, a twig not yet a bicep, and the bloodshot old man stifled a throaty scream through his teeth, “the fucking baby is slee-ping!” I suppose I was being too loud. We checked on my infant sister still snoozing, soundly strapped into her car seat.
I can’t recall now when the bruise formed, this warped watercolor of yellows and blues. Sometimes I think about it. Now that I’m grown I do things I’m ashamed of and there’s a mark, a totem I guess, keeping me on guard. And that thing seems to always be there. Little things. Following me. Staring. Look at me, my empty finger might say when I lose my wedding band. Look at me, my wide eyes say after briefly nodding off at the wheel. I’m not going away, the shame says even after I’m once again wearing the band. Even after I’m shrieked awake by steel guardrail. I’m always looking out, spinning the titanium band on my finger or looking in the rearview. When you’re a child you don’t realize all these secret items people carry with them. I wonder what symbol of shame my father carried around that park all week, as it followed him, holding his hand, what he felt when I stepped before that ginormous silver globe and raised my glowing arm to the azure sky.
Anyway, he bought that timeshare after all.
Daniel Eastman is a writer residing in Allentown. His work has been featured in Stone Canoe, The Write Launch, and Sink Hollow Literary Journal. He was awarded the 2019 S.I. Newhouse School Prize for Creative Nonfiction.