Three years old, back of my parent’s black, late 80’s Mazda 323. Northern California’s sunflowers whip past my window. A sign flies by.

“Daddy? What’s that sign say?”

“It says ‘DO NOT PASS,’ sweetie.”

My three-year old gears started turning. Realization dawned, then–slowly–panic. Do not pass. But we just passed?! BUT WHY DO THEY STILL HAVE A ROAD AFTER THE SIGN? Did my dad just break the law?! WHY IS HE SO NONCHALANT ABOUT THIS? Attempts to communicate this concern come out in little blurts and screams of fright.

“WE CAN’T GO PAST WE CAN’T GO PAST DADDY WE’RE GOING PAST!”

He laughed. I frantically searched my mother’s face for help. She ignored me and smiled to herself. I glued my face to the window, searching for cops who would definitely arrest us.

 

 

Four years old. Same car. Driving along the I-5 corridor, the road turns rather sharply to the left, thick walls of trees closing in on either side. To the untrained eye, it appears as though the road simply ends.

“Daddy? Does the road end up there?” I point from the safety of my booster seat.

“Oh, you’re right,” he says, “it does!” He begins to pretend to jerk the wheel from side to side in panic. “Aaaaaaugh we’re gonna crash, oh noooooo!”

Frantic, I look at my mother, who again just chuckles to herself in the front passenger seat. Back at my dad, who is still not taking this situation seriously. Why are they okay with this?!

God dammit.

If they won’t save this family, I will.

I unbuckle my booster seat and leap into the front seat, propelling myself forward with all the speed and power my legs can provide. My aim is dead-on for my target: the steering wheel. I grope madly for it, my father pushing me chest-first into the back seat as my mother tries to pull me towards her instead. Everyone is shouting.

I manage to give the wheel a solid jerk to the right—better to aim for the shoulder than the wall of trees ahead of us, or the wall of concrete to our left. The car jerks across three lanes, cutting off a minivan and several small sedans. Horns honk, but the car is now once again under control.

“DAMMIT, TIFFANY!” My father shouts, struggling to resist what must have been a strong urge to smack me.

“Well, you shouldn’t have antagonized her, William!” my mother shouts back, settling me on her lap in the front of the car. “She doesn’t always understand your jokes!” She calmly explains the optical illusion to me, but my knuckles are still white until we reach the turn.

 

Seven years old. Brick red house in Eugene, Oregon. My mom has gone to the store to run errands, my dad is stringing up Christmas lights in the rain. I should make a nice warm fire for daddy to come inside to when he’s done hanging the lights! I think.

I am such a good kid.

I sneak outside and grab some chopped oak from the pile under the carport. I run inside and dump it on the tile in front of the stove, wiping the splinters from my arms and jumper. I jam the wood into the stove and pack the spaces full of newspaper and twigs from the kindling basket next to the couch. With a thrill of adrenaline, I strike a match.

This must be what it feels like to be an adult! I am such a good daughter.

I light the newspaper. It burns for a moment, then dies out. I light another. Same thing. Finally, I poke the paper and twigs and blow gently on the flame until it gains momentum.

This is growing unsettlingly fast. There is now a respectably-sized bonfire in the stove, but I don’t remember the flames coming out of it when mommy and daddy do it. I turn around and see that smoke has filled the house. The alarms don’t go off because the batteries are dead. WHAT DOES A GOOD DAUGHTER DO?!

 

I fling open the living room window, then run for the kitchen to fill the tallest glass I can find with water. This was what they did in the movies. I dump glass after glass in the stove, but it’s not putting out the fire—just a little bit on the bottom. Glass after glass. The stove starts to drip as water laps over the edge of the door. WHY ISN’T IT GOING OUT?!

My dad runs in, leather working gloves still on. I can see the Christmas lights half-strung outside, rocking gently in the wind outside.

“What the hell is going on?!” It’s one of the few times he’s cursed in front of me. Blood rushes through my head, I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

“YouwereoutsidehangingChristmaslightssoIjustwantedtodosomethingniceforyouandhaveafirewhenyoucomeinIdon’tknowwhyit’snotworking!” I begin to cry.

The rage and shock fade from his face. That vein in his head stops popping, but his forehead is still red from stress.

“It’s okay.” He grabs a fire poker and spreads the logs out and rolling them in the ashy water that is now covering the tile, his pants, and the carpet. Eventually, the flames die down enough for him to reach and close the flue. Later, he will say that he appreciates the thought, but that I should not be playing with fire. My mom comes home to an ash-soaked floor and asks what the fuck just happened. I clean it all up once the fire is dead.