Jennifer Fischer
Texas, 1995
The smoke billowed as it unfurled in the damp West Texas air. He paused to watch—grateful to have this evening and moment to himself, to relish in this pleasurable, secret act. He savored it before resuming his more common backyard pastime: pacing.
The dog paced alongside him—hustling to match his short legs with his long strides. He glanced at the pup and thought of his daughter—now a teenager preoccupied with other things, but once a little girl—stubborn, insistent, running along with him, mile after mile, committed to keeping up.
As she edged closer and closer to her final year in high school, he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that she would soon pass him by. He took another drag on his cigarette—this time for comfort. Though he had raised her to be strong and independent, he still wasn’t ready. She was his baby. What would remain when she moved on, ran past him, took flight?
What would he do when her life was no longer a preoccupation? He dropped the cigarette and stamped it out before picking it up and tucking it away. His next ritual began—he’d always been a fan of ritual—hide the cigarette butts, wash his hands obsessively, splash his hands and neck with Brut cologne, gargle with Listerine, and top it all off with an Altoid.
These were the smells that would make up her childhood, the items that would so often be found in his stocking at Christmas. They were his signature, just as secrets would be one day.
For now, they were safe. Buried. Deep. The ruse, in full bloom. His backyard interlude had steadied him. He was now ready to embrace his wife and daughter—no doubt needing his embrace after an evening of shopping which often ended in angry words and open wounds.
It was a critical part of the process—the process of parenting, of preparation, of eventual separation. He opened his arms and made sure his smile was warm and wide. His strong arms had so often made everything better for both mother and daughter. Now, he sensed this power beginning to slip away and held them both a little tighter—in defiance of the sand shifting beneath their feet; the Earth spinning a bit too fast; the winds blowing a tad too hard.
They let him. They welcomed his embrace, not ready either for the changes up ahead. For a moment, all was well.
There were no secrets. No trivial arguments about clothing. No faint smells and dark memories. No regrets. No uncertainty, only a loving embrace asserting that everything would be fine.
Somehow they all knew that this assertion was both an absolute truth and a bald-faced lie: that it could be both at the exact same time.
He released them, heard their doors shut behind them, and crossed the living room to enter the kitchen. Once there, he opened the fridge and cracked open a fresh, cold Coors Light. Dinner was served.
Jennifer Fischer is a writer, mediamaker, and teaching artist whose work has been featured by NBCLatino, ABC, Univision, Fusion, NBCBLK, etc. Her film THE wHOLE premiered at Amnesty International’s 50th Anniversary Human Rights Conference. Recent publications include pieces in Ms. Magazine, Last Girls Club, Literary Mama, Oranges Journal, and Under Her Eye, forthcoming from Black Spot Books. An essay of hers appears in What is a Criminal? Answers from Inside the U.S. Justice System, an anthology from Routledge published in January 2023. She also loves international travel and has lived and studied in Cairo, Egypt, in addition to traveling around the Middle East, Southeast Asia, and other countries. In 2017, she traveled to Rwanda for a self-created writing retreat.