‘A Stronger Craving’

Photographer Sierra Lynn is a crossgenre writer and multimedia artist from Drexel, Ohio. Through experimental encounters, inconsistent recollections, and personal sentiments, they utilize memory as a resource to revisit, reinvent, and redefine the past. Their creative work has been featured in The Passionfruit Review and Fork Apple Press.

A Stronger Craving

I traced the small wood-carving my dad made for my birthday present when I was little letter by letter. L-O-R-I-L-Y-N-N. What a meeting that must’ve been. My family must’ve gathered around in shadows, rubbing their hands together like cartoon villains, and hissing ‘yes, let’s give her the old-fashioned name that never appears on gift shop keychains.’ As if inheriting their problems wasn’t enough. 

I gently knocked on Momma’s bedroom door.

She rolled over with sleep still in her half-closed eyes. “Look at you, Lori. All dressed up for Eating Sunday.”

My black flats were already blistering the backs of my heels. Her wall clock’s ticking tapped me on the shoulder with the thrumming speed of a hummingbird. Tick, tick, tick.

Before the divorce, we went to Trumont Methodist Church about ten minutes from our old house. Dad was a more casual churchgoer, only going on those infamous Eating Sundays. No one bothers to explain how to survive family, but one unbreakable rule was certain: traditions demand routine. I’d been out of routine for years.

I kissed Momma’s cheek and left without another word.

The first spring breeze sent a little shudder through my body. A puff of smoke poofed out of my car’s engine and flooded my nostrils with diesel-fueled stench.

I drove down that old back road to church like I’d never stopped going. There are some roads you can’t travel on again, but life has a way of pushing us towards the all too familiar.

***

Dad smoked in his bathroom long as I could remember, right next to my room. I hated it. I’d come home from school to my pillows reeking of cigarettes. The stink of it yellowed the walls. No matter how much I asked, he refused to take it outside. I’d ask again and again.

Please? No.

Please? No.

Ignoring me became his specialty.

Sometimes I’d come home after hard days where band practice didn’t go well or I said the wrong thing in front of friends and crushes, and the air carried more smoke than oxygen. 

It got to be too much. 

One day, I got home from school early and scampered through his bathroom for every pack of cigarettes and ashtray in sight. I tossed it all into the front yard. Cracking sounds of the ash tray glass blare through my ears to this day. That earned a couple backhands to my face, but I didn’t care. 

“You do that again, and I’ll tear your hide.”

It was the first full sentence he’d spoken to me all week. Hell, probably all month. I even grinned when he turned his back. Least he cared enough to notice for once.

He confronted Momma about it that night as she walked in the door. Still in her work clothes, she grimaced the way she did at her morning alarm. That’s how it was by the time high school rolled around. Either silence or fights. I never knew how it started that way; maybe I wasn’t supposed to know.

Momma gestured for me to hand over my phone. “You’ll get this back next week.”

My eyes widened. I’d never gotten in trouble trouble before. 

When Dad shut his bathroom door, she perked up slightly and handed my phone back. “Don’t pull that again, or I really will take this.”

“Wait, aren’t you mad?” I asked.

Pressing her lips together, her face broke out into a grin. “Probably should be, but it’s clearly been a long day. For both of us.”

Her under-eye bags had their own bags. Sleeping on the couch that year didn’t help. Momma never flat out said we’d leave. She didn’t have to.

***

  I pulled into the church parking lot in a big spot next to Grandma, who hunched over her trunk about to drop a container. I rushed to her side.

“Well, hey Lori.” Grandma set down the containers and hugged me tight. “Glad you could make it.”

I smiled and glanced down at the ground.

After two more trips to her car, we spread out everything across the big wooden kitchen table. Grandma put her biscuit tray in the oven to keep warm and ladled her silver crock pot almost in the blink of an eye. It was impressive, mainly because I knew way more about eating than cooking, a sin in our family lineage on all sides.

Then that all too familiar rhythm that once made me tap my toes. 

On Christ the Solid Rock I stand. All other ground is sinking sand.

“You ever learn to play on your flute?” Grandma asked grinning.

She remembered. After the divorce, my dad’s family stopped coming to band concerts and halftime performances at football games for fear of running into Momma. I didn’t know what to think, not that anyone ever asked.

I shook my head.

“I thought about making extra chicken and dumplings since they ran out last time, but I said I’m getting too old to be carrying all this around.” Grandma said, “They’re always here in case you can make it to church.”

There came the gut punch. Her voice softened in the way only a grandmother’s can, the code for I wish you’d visit more often. I was always her helper on Eating Sundays growing up. Once preaching started, she took me by the hand and scurried quietly to the kitchen. We’d sing hymns to ourselves while setting out silverware and pulling hot dishes out of the oven and cold plates from the fridge.

“Yeah, band’s been keeping me busy,” I muttered back.

“When’d you get to be so grown, huh?” 

Shrugging, I paused to take a real good look at her. She hadn’t changed much. Older people rarely do. Her short grey hair curled up the way it always was did with a little finessing, and she still wore her light pink cardigan over her flowery spring dresses. Her eyes were a deep brown like Dad’s. Like mine. 

“I made some green beans too. I know how you like them,” she said.

I nodded and put the plate of deviled eggs in between the bowls of butter beans and corn. Grandma brought her food into those very same porcelain containers with the pink roses on the sides.

“So whatcha been up to, girl? Tell me some things.” Grandma elbowed me with a smile.

“I got a solo this year. For marching band, not concert band. They give me my own spot to stand in during the set and everything,” I squeaked out. 

Grandma rambled on about getting to a game to see me sometime. I could’ve hugged her if we weren’t in the thick of the pre-lunch hustle. Maybe we’d get back closer to when things were better. When craving connection wasn’t such an urgent, desperate constant in life. Her words dissipated into noise after a while, but the sound was sweeter than music.

I didn’t need to be reminded which drawers had the silverware and dish cloths as if the knowledge was woven into my DNA. I laid out the forks and spoons next to the plastic plates at one of the table corners along with the red gingham dish cloths that Grandma always put the giant pot of chicken and dumplings on.

Reliving Eating Sunday might as well have been leaping into a time portal with every piece of the room, like the tiny chunk of white paint I peeled off the wall by the fridge when I was three. Grandma didn’t even tell my dad; she just made me write a few sentences about being a good child on the chalkboard in the Sunday school room. Despite the pre-lunch prep, she used to read my favorite bible story, the one where Jesus turned the loaves and fishes into a big feast for a big crowd. 

“It’s good to have a helper in here again, makes time go by quicker,” Grandma said.

Trumont Methodist had about 105 members, but usually 50 or so showed up for Eating Sunday. Most everyone brought something. Even Dad used to bring porkchops.

The oven clock said 11:45. Preaching ended at noon. My face heated up at the thought of Dad arriving with the smell of pork grease or cigarette smoke haloing around him. 

“You hear from your dad much?” Grandma asked out of the blue.

Did she read my mind? Was it tattooed on my forehead? 

“Um, every so often,” I lied. 

Why dampen the mood with the truth?

When I started playing the flute in middle school marching band, I kept asking again and again if he could make it to competitions and parades throughout the years like Momma did, and each time he’d say: “I’ll see.” He must’ve had a really hard time seeing since he never showed, not even last year when I had my flute solo at the Christmas concert. Momma used to say men were best at making promises they couldn’t keep. It’s hard to keep a promise you never make. 

A strong gurgling sound erupted from my stomach, and I gave Grandma a sheepish smile.

“Somebody’s hungry,” she teased.

I laid out serving spoons on top of the containers for the cole slaw and green beans, I touched the back of my hand to my probably red face, scurried to the bathroom mirror.

“Yep, beet red,” I muttered.

The heat came from outside, but my face vacuumed it all up.

“What was that? You talking to yourself?” Grandma blurted.

I jumped. “Uh no.” 

The clock chimed noon. My heartbeat echoed in my throat before I swallowed the nerves whole. 

I stepped aside against the backwall as churchgoers strolled in wearing multi-colored ties and willowy dresses. Some spoke to Grandma about how great the food smelled. Others greeted me with knowing yet unknowing glances. 

“Lordy, ain’t seen you in a while,” Mrs. Guthrie, the nice but overly perky old lady with the pointy fingernails, said. “How’s your Momma doing?”

Still divorced, thanks for asking. 

“Fine. Um, I like your dress.”

I faked a grin as best as I could. Once that can of worms opened, the pecking questions multiplied. Are you in high school yet? You dating anybody? Don’t you sing in the choir or something? 

By the grace of Grandma, she nudged me over to get ready to say the blessing. I let out a deep breath. 

The screen door screeched open like a beast on the prowl. 

Dad walked in. He barreled out one of his cough-ridden smoker’s cough-laughs with the preacher. 

I couldn’t move. My feet were practically glued to the floor. How do you greet someone you haven’t seen in years?

He patted my shoulder with one of his giant gorilla hand. “Hey Lori, how are you?”

I mumbled a half response. That’s one way to do it, I guess. 

He moved along to the person next to me as if he didn’t hear. How predictable. 

Grandma popped over. “You see your Dad yet? I know he’s missed you.”

You sure?

After we all joined hands and said the blessing, everyone urged me to grab a plate first. Piles of eyes weighed over like low-hanging tree branches. I scooted back and tried to get someone else to go. Politeness and awkwardness are the two pillars of Southern church etiquette. Why fight tradition? 

Dad trotted over, separated two plastic plates apart, and handed me one. I took it, biting the inside of my bottom lip. I loaded my plate with two chicken legs, green beans, biscuits, two deviled eggs, and scooped up a bowl of chicken and dumplings too. The whole time I was one step behind Dad.

He pulled out a chair for me next to his. I huffed. Why did he want us to pretend to be the perfect father-daughter pair at that exact moment? Oh right, people were watching.

I slid my plate over and left one chair between us. “Grandma can sit there if she wants.”

His sideways glance flickered between me and his plate. I wolfed down one of my deviled eggs then laid my hands flat on the table. Meanwhile Dad’s fast chomps and sticky food smacking in the roof of his mouth demonstrated table manner habits I’d tried and failed to break. 

I was my father’s daughter, but I didn’t need to prove it. 

Scooping up a spoonful of chicken and dumplings, I wound up with broth dripping down my chin. Dad handed me a paper napkin to wipe my face. Once my chin was clean, I watched as he spooned some green beans and had to wipe down his chin the same way.

I opened my mouth to speak, not even knowing what I would say. Something. Anything.

Grandma yanked out her chair. “Y’all never could keep food from runnin’ down your chin that way. Wonder where that came from.” 

She and Dad chuckled together. I kept my head down.

By the time I scarfed down both chicken legs, she tapped me on the shoulder. “Why so quiet?”

I shrugged and dipped a biscuit into leftover chicken and dumpling broth.

“You got any boyfriends at school?” Grandma egged me on.

I love my Grandma, but of course, no one’s perfect.

“Say nah, Lori never got boy crazy, but shoot I’m glad of that,” Dad chimed in.

Since when do you care again?

My plate was empty. I went outside to get some fresh air. How could the man before me this Sunday be the one I used to never spend Sundays without?

***

Sometimes after church, Dad used to take me fishing. Momma never cared for the quieter atmosphere created by small beading echoes of pond water splashing the underside of a boat. We’d ride down the dirt road behind Grandma’s house until miles of pine trees embraced us like a long-time-no-see reunion with a best friend. As a little girl, being Daddy’s fishing buddy on the boat was our time.

One time I asked, “Daddy, does this pond have a name?”

“Nope, maybe we should give it one,” he answered.

While he pulled apart pieces of worms to put on our hooks, I gazed at the sky’s reflection of the orangey pink glow of the sunset cascading across the water. “What about Sunset Pond?”

To this day, I’ll never forget how he smiled and snorted a chuckle out. It was the only time I’d ever seen his smile stretch so widely. 

He put an arm around me. “A quite pretty name from a quite pretty girl.”

Those Sunday afternoons had a never-ending peaceful feeling. It was impossible to guess how many fish the two of us ever caught. It didn’t matter. My father’s toothy grin and shaggy hair hidden under a camouflage cap with a matching jacket was a sight I could unmemorize if I tried. Believe me, I tried. 

***

A finger tapped my shoulder.

“Whatcha doing Lori?” Dad asked, lighting up a cigarette.

Of course, he came outside to smoke. I crossed my arms and leaned back against the nearest tree. A piece of bark itched at my neck, and when I moved back, I saw something I hadn’t seen in years. Dad’s carving. 

Daddy’s Girl Lori.

I’d forgotten all about that. The letters were jagged and crooked. He’d only used a pocketknife, but back then, anything he could do out in nature, he would do. Any piece of wood was a canvas for little keepsakes. It didn’t look the same as it did in my head, but it was still there. He was still there.

I traced each letter. “You ever get down to the pond?”

His eyes cut to the carving, and he smiled. “You remember going fishing down there don’t you?” I nodded. “What did you call it?”

He remembered. 

“Sunset Pond.”

“That’s right.”

I was still there too.

Dad stomped out his cigarette, before we locked eyes for a moment, still as can be. He assessed me the same way he used to stare at a fish he’d caught. A piece of food must’ve crawled on my face. 

Without a sound, he tackled me into a hug. It happened so quick I didn’t really have a chance to return it since my arms were being crushed, but comfort found its way among the strangeness anyway.

“I’m glad you made it, Lorilynn. I’ve missed you.”

Unexpected air breezed easily into my lungs. A want more than a need. Sometimes people don’t change. They become a physical artifact of who you used to be. I could’ve denied him the way he came to deny our family in the end, but I would’ve been denying me. I knew where we once stood, in places we might not ever go again, but hanging onto that would only keep me from where I needed to go. He probably wouldn’t change, but I still had the chance to.

We trotted back into church and said goodbye to everyone. As we moseyed to our cars, Grandma pecked my cheek and told me to come visit. He said something similar. I blinked a couple times with a dumbfounded smile and said, “I’ll see.”

Daddy’s tree carving reflected in my windshield as I cranked the engine.

Victoria Thompson is currently working as an Adjunct English Professor at Longwood University in Farmville, VA where she earned a Bachelor’s degree in English. Upon graduation, she acquired a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing from West Virginia Wesleyan College. She spends her days writing and reading fiction featuring empowered women finding their voice amidst trials and tribulations.