Best New Fiction: Today, Every Day, Yesterday, Tomorrow by Cuyler Meade

Today, Every Day, Yesterday, Tomorrow

by Cuyler Meade

Today, 4, my daughter is humming along too loudly to her bedtime song. “Hush, sweety,” I say. “It's time for night-night. You need to sleep, baby.” She hushes. She's a good girl.

Today, 12, she is singing beside me as I play the piano. “Hello from the other side,” she belts, emphatic, having never been to either side before, or, really, anywhere. She hits the notes, though. I believe her.

Today, 10, I have lost my patience. I’ve tried so hard to be gentle, but she is simply refusing to respect our rules. My voice explodes the walls of our home. “Why?” I keep asking her sullen face. “Tell me why this is so difficult. I don’t understand.”

Today, 1, she is trying to sit on a low stoop, but she’s too far away. Feeling out with her little diapered bottom, she crouches, waiting to meet something solid. “Back up, just a bit more,” I withhold a ripple of laughter. She’s unfazed. She doesn't bother to look. Just takes tiny, faithful steps backward, until she finds a seat.

Today, 15, in her journal, I read that she hates me. I suppose she didn’t expect me to read it. The words sting half as much as my guilt. But she’s young. It’s how I protect her. She could be getting high, or starving herself, or kissing boys, or worse. None of that. Today, anyway.

Today, 6, she’s the only first grader in the talent show. She sings, angelic. I’m not one to cry, but there’s no hiding my pride.

Today, 14, she buries her face in hands covered in blue ink and black nail polish. Her mascara smears, ringing her eyes like a harlequin doll. She won't tell me what’s wrong. She will only weep. She would rather I leave. I do.

Today, 11, her mother found about a hundred candy wrappers under her pillow. She lied to my face last week when I asked her. Now here they are. I don’t know what to say. I look her in the eyes and can only shake my head in disappointment. I watch as my opinion lands like lead weights in her lungs, but say nothing.

Today, 4, she holds me tight as I carry her into school for her first day of Kindergarten. She looks me in the eyes when I say I’ll see her tonight after work. I can see she’s afraid, but she walks into class alone, anyway. I stare at the door that closes behind her for a long time.

Today, 18, she tells me she doesn’t need a ride to college, after all. I drove all the way to her mother’s to pick her up. I leave angry. I cry in the car.

Today, 11, she begs to be allowed to go to the street fair with friends, no parents. I hesitate but relent. When she comes home, she tells me about how she sang karaoke in the park for strangers. She refuses to sing the song for me.

Today, 3, she grips her baby brother's truck in her puffy fist and slams it down atop his doughy head. He's alright, but her mom and I are startled. We don't hit. She coos over him while he cries, a consoling caretaker for her own victim. “Issokayyy. Issokay. Yoo okayy. Poh baybee.”

Today, 16, I’m driving her home from her volleyball game, and I have some ideas of how she can earn more playing time. She’s not a fan of my coaching. By the time we pull into the driveway, we’re not talking to each other anymore. At least it’s quiet.

Today, 2, she swaddles her Pooh Bear stuffy in her old baby blanket. She sings to him and cradles him in her arms. She gives him a kiss on the nose. She gingerly dumps him in her old bassinet we brought out of storage for the baby.

Today, 14, she is sad again. Or angry. I can't tell the difference. Maybe there isn't one.

Today, 13, she wears her mother's old dress. She smiles shyly as I insist on a picture I'll never want to look at again. She looks too much like my ex.

Today, 19, she texted to tell me she’s only going to her mom’s for Christmas. Maybe I’ll get next year.

Today, 7, she choreographs a dance with her brother. It's adorable. He can’t quite keep up, but her every step is flawless. I smile for hours afterward.

Today, 17, she is wearing a black tank top and jeans with the white sneakers she drew all over with Sharpie. I think so, anyway. I haven't seen her since yesterday, but I’m pretty sure that's what she wore when she left the house that morning. We were yelling again. I was angry. She stormed out. I don't remember what I said to the slammed door. I'm sure she doesn't either. I hope she doesn’t.

Today, 14, I pick her up from the school dance, bumping Shakira. Soon enough, neither of our hips are lying. I say I want to get to dance with her, too. She smiles. I haven't seen that smile in a long time.

Today, 15, I beg her to sing with me while I play the piano. She says no, then cries for a while and leaves the room. I stop playing.

Today, 22, I heard from her for the first time in quite a while. She promised she was doing well, said she called her mother too. I asked if she’d let me come see her when she’s off for spring break. She said she’d text me the address of where she’ll be staying. That was this morning. I can’t decide whether I should ask again.

Today, 2, she runs to me on chubby little legs. She lets me scoop her up in my arms and lift her high above my head. She giggles and squeals with delight, saying my name over and over. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

Today, 5, I tell her I'm not going to sing her a bedtime song anymore. She's a big girl now. She can go to sleep on her own.

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Cuyler Meade is a father of six and a husband of one living and working in rural Northwest Colorado. Cuyler’s fiction has been published by Elegant Literature, TL;DR Press, Intrepidus Ink, Eggplant Emoji, Trash Cat Lit, Bullet Points, Rat Bag Lit, Temple in a City, and Trampset. He writes stories about relationships, parenthood, guilt, disappointment, grief, and discovery.