I make handprints with my seven year-old hand onto the fogged window of our 1992 Chevy. Then, I rub my tiny hand in a circle so that I can peer into the outside world. In the outskirts of New York City at night, life is dulled. The busy sounds of the day are now just the slight sound of TVs from inside a few houses. The sight of dew on the finely cut grass and light inside the rooms of the many houses hits my eyes. I have always imagined being in one of those perfect houses, where a perfect family eats a perfect dinner. The houses slowly disappear to where it is much more deserted. There is no sound except a few crickets playing their familiar tune. I suddenly hear my father, Jaime, cursing violently as our car slowly comes to a stop. He whispers something to my mother, heard only as mumble by me. He opens the car door, “I will be right back Rugrat.” he says in an unusually calm voice. His dirty, old track shoes, with a blue stripe on each side and dirt engraved in the laces, step out onto the black tar. I hear a slight squeaking sound from the shoes sliding on the pavement.

I look out the opening I have made in the fog on the window. My father kicks the front of the car strongly, and I feel the car sway a little from side to side. Then, he walks away at a fast pace. I watch his muscularly tall figure as it disappears slowly into the darkness.

I look at my mother in the passenger seat, she is sitting cross-legged, as she usually did. Her died blonde hair blows as she rolls down the window and her hair blows. Everyone says I’m a spitting image of my mother, with her hazel eyes, and thin figure. “Where did daddy go?” I ask, as I have a very curious mind. “Don’t worry, your little heart sweetie, he just went to get help for our car.” My mother said this with a soft smile on her face, as she did commonly.

She turns on the radio, and I see her chewed up fingernails (a nervous habit of hers). The dull sounds of classical rock travels to my ears. We both sit there, motionless, for endless minutes, not saying a word. I stare at the clock. 1:23AM O’clock I see, and tell my mother how funny I think this is. I start to giggle, but she doesn’t. I stop and try to retain my laughter.

Much later, my eyes start to close. I open them as I hear my mother softy sobbing, wiping her tears on her oversized gray hooded sweatshirt. I want to comfort my mother, yet, I myself am scared. I crawl over the compartment holding my father’s STIX Cds, and onto my mother’s lap. She holds me tight with her warm body.

I try to be strong for my mother, but, endless thoughts rush through my head. “Is he hurt? Did someone hurt my daddy? Did he just leave us?” Then, a terrifying thought comes into my mind, “He could be dead.” I try to stop these thoughts, and hope that help just takes a while to find.

The orange-red sun slowly rises over the horizon. The bright glare of the sun beats down into the windshield of our car. I didn’t sleep one wink last night, and still, no daddy. My mother speaks gently and softly, mouth trembling, telling me we will have to walk. I jump out of the car, through the same door my father had gone out of many hours earlier. I hold my mother’s sweaty hand, which is tightly clenching my tiny hand. I smell the scent of my mother’s perfume, the sweet smell of lavender, as we walk. We pass deserted intersections, with graffiti on the stop signs.

Finally, I start to see cars. My mother waves her hands in the air, but no one stops. The people are too busy wrapped up in their own lives to reach into ours. “I’m too tired to walk, mommy.” I say, quickly regretting it once she snaps back, “Don’t complain, just walk!”

A small Quick-and-Fill gas station emerges from the morning light. I wait next to the blue pay phone in the parking lot that has various stickers all over it. My mother calls her best friend Jen as I try to interpret the sayings on the stickers. When she hangs up the greasy phone, we both sit on the curb, waiting once again.

The red SUV pulls up with Jen in it. She pulls her black sunglasses off and looks at us. I realize we must look pathetic sitting there, both in dirty clothes on the verge of tears. We get in the car and take the hour ride to Jen’s house. Jen and my mother are talking about various topics I have no interest in, so I just stare out the window. At Jen’s house, I am finally safe, yet I don’t feel safe. I’m still very scared for my father. The events that went on last night are haunting me already as I sit on the gray-white carpet in Jen’s living room, watching cartoons. The phone rings, and Jens answers it. She hands it to my mother. My mother says, in a tone filled with so much anger and hostility, “Hello Jaime.”