Soft Belly, Cleft Chin, Big Glasses

             We do this once a month, give or take. There’s me (soft belly, cleft chin, big glasses) and my dad (soft belly, cleft chin, small glasses), wrapped in soft, white bathrobes, lounging on the wooden sun-beds of a sauna’s ante-chamber. He’s listing all the times he let me fall.

             One time you got on a wet slide.

His mouth is downturned, pulling his whole face down in a cartoonish expression of guilt.

             It was too fast and you hit your head on the ground.

He looks ridiculous, like the whole of him might just collapse & pool in wrinkles. I smile, pull my skin taut, enjoy the soreness of the bruises on my chin.

             I’m sure that’s the source of all my problems.

He turns toward me, like the most plausible explanation for my absurd mix of neurotic anxiety and mild cruelty is the fact that I fell, once, as a child. He stares at remnants of glue the band-aid left. I laugh, loud.

             C’mon. We established with Dr. Galli that the issue’s with the premature delivery.

He nods, murmurs around his cup of tea.

             I know, I know. You’re right. Traumatic birth, and so on.

His voice stumbles on the end of his sentence, trampled under the sound of Mom’s heavy steps down the stairs. We both turn just in time to see the door open, and feel the cold air rush in, startling the mellow, hazy warmth of the room. Mom stands rigid, bright and sour in the middle of the empty door frame. She’s wearing the heavy, smothering thing she calls her nice winter pyjamas, beige flip flops, and pearl earrings. She is— everybody agrees— a white tooth in a dark mouth.

             I’m going to bed.

I let her glance wash over my body (soft belly, –, –).

             Your chin is bruising already, Erica.

I hum, press my lips together. Today, again, I stumbled on limbs too long; folded in on myself in a vain attempt to regain control, collapsed, hit my chin on my knee. I bled some. Dad was convinced that I had bitten through the skin below my lip, looked at me stricken the whole way home. Over dinner, he described in detail my terrifying fall, the resulting grievous injury, and his admiration for my incredible courage.

             She didn’t even cry!

Mom assumed an expression of such incredulity at his earnest, childish statement that I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. Out of my mouth gushed big gurgling gulps, hiccups like boiling water overflowing.

             Alessandro.

             What?

             She’s a grown fucking woman.

On the way to the sauna, I’m still not breathing right, belly aching from the last rivulets of laughter. Dad looks at my smile. He starts his list.

             One time, you fell and bled your sock red while I was watching.

             One time, you fell on your back— there’s a fissure in your vertebrae now— while I was watching.

             One time, you fell— passed out— because I was watching and thought you were fine.