Better Than This

by Tia Souders

He flinched, and I too recoiled from the sight. I dropped my arm to my side, wanting to forever erase the image from my mind, then slid the wrappings back on, wincing when it hurt.

  “It was an accident.” His face paled, the lines smoothing into a ghostly expression as the words left his lips.

  “Prove it.” My face burned as I shot up from my seat and headed for the hallway without meeting his eyes. I tried to push down my rising emotions. No good ever came of allowing myself to feel. My ability to self-soothe by shoving everything inside and numbing myself with liquor or weed when necessary had come easily over the years. But this past week, I struggled. And right now, I found it real hard to ignore my situation.

  I moved to the stairs even as his heavy footsteps followed. Turning, I focused on his ice-blue eyes, identical to the ones that stared back at me in the mirror every morning, cold enough to make your heart stop.

  “Why did you stop caring?” The words gushed out from a well so deep inside, I didn’t know it existed, and a part of me wanted to take them back.

  “I’ve always cared. Everything I do is for you.” An emotion I couldn’t read flickered through his eyes, and I almost believed what he said. Almost.

  I straightened and barked out a bitter laugh. In the background, Mom passed by, her slippered feet silent on the tile. She held onto the entryway of the kitchen to balance herself before disappearing. The argument had given her the chance to sneak away and get her fix, as if she wasn’t already inebriated enough.

  Just another day in the Becker household.

  I glanced away from her to the darkened stairway in front of me and thought of the past week, the past ten years.

  “You gave me nothing,” I muttered and left my father behind.

  * * *

  I slept restless, tossing and turning, unable to find relief from my life, even in sleep. I dreamt fitfully. Snippets of both fictitious events and real life haunted me. I dreamt of the morning my father severed my finger. Except in the nightmare, instead of one finger, he managed to cut off five. Startled awake, I screamed into the quiet of the night until my throat became raw, and I convinced myself I hadn’t lost all my fingers.

  I rolled over on my side, imagining a time before my injury, before my mother’s drinking and my life went to crap. I closed my eyes and thought about what it was like to be a kid, young enough to only care about playing with dolls, pizza, and sunshine. Soon, I drifted, floating somewhere on the edge of sleep until I could taste cream and sugar and the summer air on my tongue.

  It was hot out. Rivulets of mint chocolate chip and strawberry ice cream dripped from the cones in Daddy’s hands. I waited for him on the bench, dressed in jean shorts and a brand new t-shirt from Ride City, the new amusement park.

  The rumble in my stomach contradicted the mound of cheese fries I had just inhaled. Then again, I had been on my feet all day, and Mom didn’t call me the garbage disposal for no reason.

  He drew closer, and my smile widened with every step.

  He sat down next to me, and for a moment kept both cones in his hands. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief while he pretended to take both for himself. But after a moment, he turned and offered up the mint chocolate chip cone—my favorite.

  “Let’s eat these. Then we have to go. Mom will be waiting for us at Antonio’s for pizza. Oh, and don’t even think of telling her I let you have dessert before dinner. She’ll kill me.” He tugged on the single black braid running down my back.

  “Secret’s safe with me,” I giggled.

  “Swear?”

  I looked up at him. His wavy, black hair framed a tanned, angular face in contrast to my porcelain complexion. Cool, blue eyes, his defining feature, matched my own.

  I thought of other times spent just with Daddy, particularly ones where he helped me out of a sticky situation. Like the time I climbed the old oak tree in our backyard and couldn’t get down. Or the time I tried Mommy’s necklace on in front of the mirror and then dropped it down the drain. Both times he rescued me. If there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that Daddy would always be there for me. We were a team, and so I smiled and curled my small finger around his.

  “Pinky swear,” I whispered.

  We finished our ice cream in silence. I made an extra effort not to get any of the melting treat onto my clothes and smiled when I glanced down at my clean shirt. Mom had eyes like a hawk and would identify the stains instantly. We rode rides until our feet and stomachs ached. And, of course, we ate our fill of junk food. I played all the games my father’s wallet could handle—which turned out to be a lot, and to top the day off, we were meeting Mom for pizza. It had been one of those days I never wanted to end—one that would stay with me all summer long. One I wished I could relive over and over.

  “So Sammy, are you excited for school? Third grade. That’s a big deal.”

  I paused. The smile I wore before had vanished. I shrugged my shoulders then slumped back in the seat. “I s’pose. But I have Mrs. Weaver for English.”

  “What? Do we not like Mrs. Weaver? What’s wrong with her?”

  I traced my finger along the edge of the table. “S’posedly, she favors the boys. And Chrissy told me she’s an old witch.”

  He chuckled before smothering the sound with his hand. “You know what? All you have to do is be yourself and she’ll love you. Don’t worry about what the other kids are saying. Sometimes people have reasons for acting the way they do, but that doesn’t mean they’re not good or any different from us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, maybe she is lonely. Or maybe someone she loves is having problems…”

  I blinked, letting his words soak in. “But how do you know? What if that’s not it? Maybe she really is an old troll.”

  Dad patted me on the arm then went back to eating his cone, talking in-between bites. “I just know. Trust me. Besides, how could anyone possibly not like you?

  I grinned. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  Five minutes later, we left to meet my mother. At the restaurant, the scent of tomato sauce, garlic, and cheese filled the air. Despite all the food I had eaten earlier, my mouth watered. Lately, I had no end to my hunger. Mom said I would probably have a growth spurt soon.

  Mom waved from her seat in the back, so Dad grabbed my hand and pulled me along toward the table.

  “Hey, baby,” she said to me. She stood up and gave me a tight squeeze before pulling me into the booth beside her. Daddy sat across from us and started nibbling on a bread stick. He smiled as he ate so she wouldn’t know we had been noshing on amusement park food all day.

  My stomach clenched as we settled into the booth, but one look at Mom and her radiant smile allowed me to relax and sink back into the cushions. Her golden hair hung in waves at her shoulders, and her emerald eyes sparkled with excitement. She placed her hand on her swollen belly and grinned. Her wedding and engagement rings caught the light and twinkled in a way I always admired.

  Reaching across the table, Dad took her hand. “These are good bread sticks. It’s a good thing you had these waiting because I’m famished.” He winked at me.

  When I winked back, Mom laughed and shook her head. “Yeah. Like you two haven’t been eating junk all day.” She narrowed her eyes at Dad. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my appointment?”

  “Appointment?” My father scrunched his face and pursed his lips. He was such a bad faker. “Oh yeah. I almost forgot.” He put the bread stick down and leaned back in the booth. “How did it go?” His gaze searched hers, waiting for the news they had longed to hear.

  “I know what we’re having.”

  I bolted up in bed, blinking myself awake. Perspiration soaked my pajamas, causing a shiver to ripple through my spine. I pushed the blankets back and shook my head, trying to further clear away my dreams.

  I hadn’t dreamt of the night Michael was born in so long, and it wasn’t something I often thought about. That evening, my parents discovered the baby growing in Mom’s b
elly for the past seven months was a boy. Previous ultrasounds had been unsuccessful in determining the sex due to the baby’s lack of cooperation. For five years, my mother had tried to get pregnant, and for five years, my parents dreamt of having a boy. After several rounds of fertility treatments, it finally seemed she would carry to term.

  But it had also been the night which started the landslide that changed everything. After dinner, the three of us departed, and Mom drove alone in her car. Dad had been questioning the brakes for the past month but hadn’t taken the car in for repairs. Excessive speed combined with wet roads caused her car to spin out of control and her brakes locked. She smashed into a tree.

  When she arrived at the hospital, the doctors discovered the accident had spurred premature labor. Several hours later, my brother was born.

  Only he wasn’t breathing. He lived only seconds, just long enough to see my mother’s face, and for my father to kiss him goodbye.

  4

  Early morning rays of light pierced through my bedroom window.

  I lay in bed, rolled on my side with the comforter pulled high. Despite my throbbing head, the whoop of a bird echoed in the distance. From the looks of things, it would be a beautiful day. I wished I cared.

  It was Wednesday morning—the day after my assault on June’s property—and my alarm hadn’t gone off. I reached over and picked the clock up to discover I hadn’t set it last night. It was after nine. I was late to school, a notion which suited me just fine and gave me an excuse to skip altogether since I was in no mood to see anyone. Socializing was the last thing on my mind, and I certainly wasn’t up for twenty questions about my hand or the blatant stares from other students. Concern for what Mr. Neely would think passed through my mind before I shoved it away. What did his opinion matter anymore? Our days of early morning practices were as good as over. There was no longer a need for his guidance.

  Thwack. Thwack. The pounding on my door caused me to jump.

  “Sam, I need to talk to you. Get downstairs!” my father said.

  “Argh,” I groaned. I should’ve known I wasn’t getting off the hook.

  I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded, then pulled back the covers, flung my legs over the edge of the bed, and stood. The pounding in my head intensified. My palms flew to my temples to ease the pain, but I yelped when my injured hand made contact with my face. I brought my hand back down and examined it. The bandages were covered in dirt and blood.

  I needed to change out the soiled bandages. Instead, I lowered my hand and tried to forget about it. I walked over to my closet, throwing open the doors with my good hand. There was a distinction now, I realized. Between my hands. The good and the bad.

  Without much deliberation, I snatched a pair of black skinny jeans and a black hoodie off their hangers. I threw my pajamas on the floor and replaced them with the clothes. The weird sensation of something missing on my hand picked at me, but I tried to ignore it. Moving to my nightstand, I grabbed the myriad of silver rings and adorned my right hand only—no point in drawing attention to my injury. My limp hair hung half-out and half-in its pony tail, but I didn’t care what I looked like, so I left it be.

  I stepped over to my bed and sat on the edge, on top of the mussed blanket. Outside my window, I could see down into June’s yard. The wreckage next door was vivid even from the distance.

  I blew out a long breath. “Man, I really did it last night, didn’t I?”

  My father was angry for obvious reasons. But what did anyone expect? You chop off someone’s lifeline and all bets are off. And my guitar was most definitely my lifeline. My own personal tether to sanity in a crazy world.

  I picked at a loose thread on my purple comforter with my callused fingers—badges of honor earned from years of playing. My gaze shifted from the window to my guitar. I took in the beauty of my Gibson L-200. Made of the finest rosewood, the instrument was more than durable. And it had been put through the ringer over the years, yet the music created with it remained unmatched. Each note had an unparalleled clarity and bite thanks to the balanced and particularly stable fingerboard. The crown inlays made of genuine mother of pearl shone in the sunlight. It was beautiful.

  The desire to play gnawed away at my heart. I could have tried. I probably should have, but I just didn’t have it in me. Because what would be worse than not playing would be discovering I absolutely, hands down, flat-out couldn’t.

  I got up, grabbed the guitar, and placed it in its case, then slid it underneath my bed. I would never forget its presence there. It was like covering a giant blemish with concealer—you still felt and saw its presence, only slightly less jarring. I stood up and made my way toward the hallway. The last thing I wanted was for my father to come looking for me.

  I took my time on the stairs, wishing I were back in my room and under the covers, where I focused on nothing except the steady rhythm of my breathing until I fell asleep. I entered the kitchen and sat across from my father at the table.

  “I spoke with June.” His gaze remained on his oatmeal. One after the other, he shoved heaping spoonful into his mouth.

  I listened, wondering if I should feel nerves of some kind. After all, I was probably going to be punished. “Oh?”

  I glanced over at my mom as she sat down next to me. The plate in her hands trembled then rattled when she placed it on the table. Usually this type of thing from her would annoy me. These moments—ones with Dad, Mom, and I all in the same room together—were ones I typically tried to avoid.

  My mother stared at the dry toast in front of her with vacant eyes. The acrid scent of booze lingered in the air around her.

  I turned my head away, wishing badly for a cup of coffee and some pain killers. Wrapping an arm around my stomach, I hoped to quell the rising nausea. “Why don’t you get on with whatever you want to say?”

  The muscles in my father’s jaw twitched. “You realize June could’ve called the police last night?”

  I shrugged. “So?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my mother’s gaze flicker to the cabinet above the refrigerator while her yellowed teeth bit down on dry lips.

  “Look at me when I’m talking!” He slammed a fist on the table.

  Mom jumped next to me, but I didn’t flinch. After getting your finger cut off, not much scared you.

  “I know you’re depressed, or whatever it is you are, but that’s no excuse for acting like a lunatic. You can’t just go around trashing people’s yards on a whim. You’re going to have to live the rest of your life with your hand. You need to get used it.”

  The tiny thread holding me together snapped. “I know that!” My breath came out in short puffs, my bottom lip trembling. “You don’t think I know I have nine fingers? Every morning, I stare down at my flipping hand and realize what I’ve lost. I’ve lost everything! I know there’s no going back.”

  Hold it in. Just keep it together. “But thank you for the reminder,” I said. I swiped at my eyes and held my breath until my lungs burned. When I managed to gulp down another breath, I looked back up at him.

  He took a bite of his oatmeal, chewing in quick, sharp chomps. The muscles worked in his jaw. “You’re being a bit dramatic, and I don’t know what else to say, Sam. I expect there’s nothing I can say to make you shape up. So, let’s start with your punishment.” His eyes found mine. “Luckily, June’s not pressing charges for the damage. She’s agreed to settle this privately. She has no need for money, but she needs some help. You’re to go after school and work—a few hours, a couple times a week—with whatever she needs. She mentioned something about cleaning out some of her stuff and doing some organizing. You can work out the schedule with her.”

  I lifted my brows. “You want me to work for her?”

  “Yes. It makes the most sense. You did a lot of damage over there, and vandalism is a real crime. So, you’ll work off your debt.”

  I waited for the pangs of guilt to come, but they didn’t. Instead, I felt empty. Just a
s I had for the past week. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t feel good about what I did. After all, there was a time when I loved June like a mother. And following the accident, she had been my rock. She was the only one there for me when my mother first started drinking herself into oblivion and my father had left me to fend for myself, turning to accusations and another woman. But then June pushed me away when my life hit rock bottom. I needed her help, possibly more than anything I had ever needed in my life, and she sent me away with little explanation to ease the pain. I shouldn’t have wrecked June’s yard. But I wasn’t entirely sorry either. In a roundabout way, it had been a long time coming.

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “What if I refuse?”

  “You’ll do it. If you don’t, you can kiss your pretty little guitar goodbye.”

  The air wheezed from my lungs, like someone had punched me in the gut. The room dropped twenty degrees, and all the blood drained from my face as I fought to keep my composure. “Fine. I’ll go.”

  He grinned. “Good. There was a time when you would have spent all your free time there if you could. I’m sure you’ll adjust.”

  “I remember. Until you demanded my visits stop, and she suddenly had no time for me anymore. It’s funny how these things work out.”

  I watched my father, noting the way the vein in his forehead bulged with the accusation. Finally, I said something that affected him. Mission accomplished.

  A loud clatter cut off my train of thought. I turned toward my mother, who was bent over in an attempt to retrieve her plate. I had almost forgotten she was there.

  The toast lay on the floor at her feet. She tried to pick it up with shaking hands but swiped at the tile, missing her breakfast. A grunt escaped her. “Gott-ittt,” she slurred. When she sat back up, her greasy blond hair hung in her eyes, obscuring her gaunt face.

  I had seen enough this morning. But when I rose from the table, my father’s hand clamped down over my own. I glanced down. His large mitt covered half of mine, including the place where my ring finger used to be. I swallowed hard and slid it out from under his.