The Bike by E. Hughes (U.S.)

Genre: Literary Fiction, drama

It was a ten-speed bike. I remember looking over my mother’s shoulder to get a glimpse at the doorway of my father rolling it into the house. It was my sister’s 12th birthday. I was excited by the prospect of owning a bike for the first time. Even though the bike was for Mia, we shared everything so it was as good as both of ours, anyway.

I was nine years-old but never learned to ride. Over the years, I was grateful to have owned a pair of roller-skates, so I never felt left out or as though a piece of my childhood was missing because I never owned a bike. When kids rode their bikes down the street I quickly grabbed my skates and took off after them. I’d grab a hold of the edge of one of their seats as they peddled and let the bike pull me as fast as it could before I finally let go, skidding uncontrollably down the sidewalk or street. I had a blast. The skates were size-adjustable, metal, and fit around my shoes. If you were a kid in the eighties you probably owned a pair.

The wheels were metal and quite noisy. It produced the jarring grinding sound of heavy steel scraping against uneven concrete that sometimes made you fall if you hit a bump too quickly. You sort of got used to band-aids over skinned-knees.  I rode the skates hard, hoping they would spark when I hit the brakes or skid to a screeching halt. Sometimes, I’d take those loud metal skates outside as early as seven or eight in the morning and circle our city block wearing pigtails and a bright-colored bubble romper… the kind that you had to tie in bow at the top of each shoulder. They were thin and cotton. I had several of them in multiple colors so picking out my own clothes and racing outside was an easy task, especially in the morning before my mother woke up. I’d wake the neighbors skating around the block, but they let me be. Even then, at six or seven-years old I loved the quiet and stillness of the early hours and the sweet pungent smell of morning dew. It was the 1980s and still relatively safe, even in our slightly sketchy neighborhood.

A year before my sister was gifted the ten-speed bike I outgrew the loud metal skates and upgraded to the kind you’d find at a skating rink… ankle-high skates with pink wheels and laces on the front. They were light, which allowed me to incorporate fancy dance moves, maneuvers, and tricks into my skating routine. But getting a new bike raised the specter of my excitement significantly. My sister Mia was happy about the gift, though not as happy as I was.

Mia was a quiet sort of person who lacked the child-like exuberance I often exhibited. We had a working mother so we were latchkey kids who mostly took care of ourselves during the week. Mia had to be responsible for me when she was as young as seven years-old and had taken on a number of other household responsibilities unbefitting someone her age while our mother worked a job as a secretary. This gave Mia a level of maturity and gravity beyond her years at a very early age. While I was skating, playing double-dutch, break-dancing on broken-down cardboard boxes,  exploring our neighborhood and alleyways in search of  “dead bodies” or for animals with broken limbs, Mia was listening to Rick James, Michael Jackson, and Paul McCartney on our record player and thinking about boys. She’d always been that way. So while getting a bike was fun, she wasn’t as interested as I was… just mildly amused by my exuberance. Seeing me happy made her smile.

As soon as our father drove away we took the bike outside. Neither one of us could ride so we taught ourselves, getting on, and falling sideways…trying to peddle and keep from tipping over. We’d make it a little further each try, taking turns…me, waiting impatiently every time Mia got on the bike. We’d go back inside for the night with scrapes on our ankles and knees from falling over or getting raked by the sharp metal ridges lining the pedals. However, by the end of summer, we both had sufficiently managed to conquer the bike. By then, the ten-speed was in awful shape. The chain would come off or snap mid-ride, causing us to fall. The spokes in the wheel were bent and dented. Too many falls had badly damaged it. This was not a huge concern. My birthday was a few months away and another bike would be coming our way. We’d treat that one better, especially since we both knew how to ride. The first ten-speed was “on-the-job” learning experience.

Me and my sister knew how to share with each other because we learned at an early age and shared almost everything our entire lives. Of course, there were many ups and downs, as well as cat-fights, but in the end there was always a sense of loyalty. We understood how to look out for each other even if we were mad at each other. We even shared each other’s deepest secrets, and for Mia, there were many. I don’t think a day went by during my childhood that I ever disliked Mia. Perhaps because she always felt so grown-up…like someone who was more than a big sister to me.

Mia was also very pretty, which only added to her grownup charm. Because of this, she was wildly liked by family members…especially the family members on my father’s side. They’d taken a special interest in Mia, interest that they’d never taken in me. Sometimes they’d stop by to pick her up and take her to family events or for regular visits with their families. My mother would allow her to go but the invitation to join them was rarely extended to me—so rarely, that when the invitation was finally extended because everyone on my father’s side of the family was likely going, I usually declined out of a strong sense of pride. There were times when I ended up going anyway, usually because it was our weekend at my father’s house. I hated family gatherings. Some of the adults—one in particular, was downright rude and made a point of letting me know that I wasn’t welcome.

“Ursula!” she’d say in an agitated voice, calling me away from the other children. “Get your bald-headed raggedly butt over here and finish your food.” My aunt Tippy was always looking for a reason to chastise me over something. And she never let me forget that I was too skinny for her liking. “With your bony, bald-headed butt!” she’d screech.

I’d do what was asked and get away from her as soon as possible. I was grateful the other aunts ignored me. They ignored me so much I couldn’t keep their names straight because there had never been an opportunity to get to know them. They avoided eye contact or talking to me as much as possible. Mia noticed, but didn’t understand why. Sometimes they’d make a fuss over the way I looked.

“Big-headed girl, she looks like Tweetie-Bird,” one of the adults would laugh. Tippy would wait until the other adults weren’t around, especially if my step-mother wasn’t in the room before she’d make snide off-handed remarks that took the insults to another level. “With your ugly, self,” she’d say.  My stepmother was nice and seemed to like us, so Tippy would not have talked that way in front of her.

I had no idea what I’d done to rub his family the wrong way but they couldn’t stand me, and I couldn’t stand them. Did they think picking on me was funny? Did they do it to the other children? If they did, I didn’t see it. For some reason it felt like I was always the target. But this had given me a quiet strength, a deep sense of pride and the ability to stand up for myself. Even though it hurt my feelings, their words didn’t make me crumble. Being a family outcast taught me not to bend to authority or abusive voices. I hated ignorance of any kind. Thankfully, I didn’t interact with them often. Between the rarely extended invitations and the fact that I carefully avoided them, I managed to escape any unwanted interactions.

Soon the school year would start and Mia and I eventually healed from the scrapes and bruises we endured from the bike over the summer. I was looking forward to October. My birthday couldn’t come soon enough. I didn’t talk to my father often. In fact, I can barely remember having a five minute conversation with him. Our weekends at his house were mostly spent with our stepmother and younger sister. He was always out until late night hours and when he came home we were already asleep. I didn’t pretend to understand the nuances of their relationship and I never questioned why he did certain things. For us—he was a bit of a legend…a hero when we compared him to our mother. He was a likeable man—an entertainer with a lot of friends and people around him. His laid-back personality was very similar to Mia’s. But he was also a secretive, distant, sort of person, and not at all mature in the ways that Mia was. But perhaps I felt that way because I never got to know him.

It wasn’t long before October rolled around along with my birthday. Mia always had great birthdays but mine were always met with misfortune…perhaps because it was so close to Halloween. I was jinxed!

The year before was a bit of a disaster when my mother lost her wallet along with the money she had saved for my birthday cake and presents. So instead of celebrating my birthday we went to visit her sister. I spent the entire day putting on a brave face. With weak half-smiles meant to make everyone feel better, I hoped no one noticed the tears swelling in my eyes when they looked away. The dam finally broke when a cousin mocked the bag of Halloween candy her mother had given us as we sat on the floor with our legs folded watching, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. The cousin had leaned towards me and cackled, “Is this all you’re getting for your birthday?” knowing full well we didn’t have any money to celebrate.

As I burst into tears, my aunt’s instant reaction was to slap her across the face for making fun of me. This was a sensitive subject in the family that day. We were all trying to tip-toe around it and hearing the words out loud was like ripping open a gaping emotional wound. And while the lost wallet was an accident, I still managed to feel like no one cared about me—I felt overlooked. Why did it always happen on my birthday? Still, I felt guilty for resenting how my birthday turned out that year. My mother was miserable and angry with herself so I dusted myself off and put on a brave face for her. The end of the month was always rough for us and she honestly tried her best to keep us fed and with a roof over our heads. Naturally, my father didn’t show up or have anything to offer—not even a happy birthday wish, which would have made my dismal day much brighter. I’m not even sure if he knew it was my birthday. But since he’d shown up with a bike for Mia earlier that year, I was certain this birthday would also be different for me.

Thankfully the day met all of my expectations. Even though finances were tight, there was birthday cake and birthday presents. No party, we rarely did those. Mama disliked company so we celebrated with my brother and Mia just as I had anticipated. It was a low-key affair.

I’d gotten a new Sweet Valley High book, a Barbie, and a She-Ra castle. Still, I watched the clock and listened for the doorbell all day—occasionally running to the window hoping to see my father unloading a bike from the trunk of his car. I waited and I waited as the hours ticked by and soon, noon turned to dusk, and dusk to night. I eventually went to bed sulking and disappointed, yet not in the least bit surprised. A feeling of loneliness and isolation washed over me as I lay in bed gazing at the window, still hoping.

When hadn’t these people disappointed me? Over the years I chalked it up to “middle-child syndrome” but even that didn’t seem a good enough reason for my family’s indifference.

My mother and father split while she was still pregnant with me. He’d left her for another woman. I was in the precarious place of connecting two people who no longer wanted to be together while Mia had the privilege of being the oldest—the first born, the first to do everything. She had the privilege of being a child conceived out of love and I had the privilege of not being wanted. Pretty much anything I did after Mia wasn’t really of interest to anyone because I was tacked on at the end of a dying relationship.

A few years later my father and stepmother had a child of their own. She was their baby…the youngest. A cute little jelly-bean. I adored her.

Eventually my mother moved on to a new relationship too. It didn’t last long, but she had a son—and he was her pride and joy. Her baby. Sadly, she was a woman who favored male children and exhibited feelings of derision and hostility towards her daughters, so Mia and I learned to rely on each other for emotional and mental support. I slowly began to understand why Mia was so mature and aged beyond her years as I started to see patterns in our family I didn’t notice before.

In the end I learned a valuable lesson from the bike…the first of which was not to expect anything from anyone. People can’t disappoint you if you don’t expect anything from them in the first place. I never received a present, a card, or acknowledgement from my father that year, or any other year thereafter and I was at peace with that. I decided if he didn’t extend the opportunity to have a conversation or a relationship with me then I would not extend the opportunity to him.

So we rarely spoke over the years…unless we absolutely needed to, and eventually, we no longer needed to. He maintained a close relationship with Mia and his other children and I moved forward in life, content with the unspoken solitude and mutual distance between us. But it became the template for how I would handle other relationships in my life. The bar I set was high. I had to feel like I was special to someone. I never fully understood why I was different from the other children and as much as I wanted answers from family members I knew I would never get them. Eventually, my relationship with all of these people would fade until we became strangers…no harsh words spoken or sad goodbyes… There’s an outcast in every family and I just happened to be the outcast in mine.

I eventually met the man who would become my husband, a person who made an effort to make every birthday special. As the matriarch of our family, when I had children, birthdays were always a big deal in our house. There was always a celebration where everyone was cherished and no one felt left out or forgotten.