My stomach tightened. What he wanted, I wouldn’t give. Like with Dad. Every time he’d tried to break me, I’d refused. Because of Mom and me, Dad had never laid a finger on Matt. He never would. I’d kill him first.
Wendy had suggested trying to count prime numbers anytime I noticed myself spiraling into dark places. She said the brain couldn’t do something rational and irrational at the same time.
I closed my eyes. One, two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen, twenty...three? Yeah, twenty-three. Then came twenty...no, thirty-one.
When I opened my eyes, my room had turned dark. I had a vague sense of unease, like I’d dreamed something distressing but couldn't remember it. Raising my hands to rub my face didn’t feel like trying to lift lead, so I sat up. Taking my time to stand worked fine.
Had everything with Nick and the dog happened in a nightmare? I stepped to my window without knowing how to tell.
Light from the living room and kitchen glowed on the lower branches of the cedar and sycamore trees marking the boundaries of our backyard. Matt carried a garbage bag across the patio to the bins, a job I hadn’t done since the attack. He kept his brown hair long, like Nick.
Maybe I’d taken some of my brother’s features and mixed them with some other guys to craft Nick. Brains did freaky stuff during sleep. More than once, I’d dreamed about myself as a girl. Nick as a figment of my imagination made a lot of sense. I didn’t get all flustered like that around anyone, guy or girl, celebrity or classmate.
I checked my phone and saw I had a few notifications for my social media accounts. On one, the team quarterback had posted a photo from the night before. He and his girlfriend had gone to some New Year’s party. Chad wore a tux. Amy wore a tight little black dress. She stood with her back to the camera, looking over her shoulder while she leaned against Chad. His hand rested on her ass with his fingers curling under the hem of her dress.
The rest of the team had already left comments on it asking for details about what she’d done for him in bed. One guy had tagged me wanting to know about my night because I hadn’t posted about it yet. If I didn’t say something, the entire team would climb on my back about it for the rest of the school year.
None of them knew about the attack or my hospitalization, and I wanted to keep it that way. Telling them the truth wouldn’t help.
I stared at the comments for a long time before tapping my reply--I don’t remember her name.
Tomorrow at school, they’d laugh, slap my back too hard, and ask for details. By then, I’d have a story ready. Like I always did.
My stomach tightened and I wanted to throw up, telling me everything had returned to normal.
3
On my way to the kitchen to forage for soothing food, the doorbell rang. I was closest, so I answered it.
Homicide Detective John Avery of the Portland Police Department stood on the front porch in his usual classy suit and trench coat with his hands in his pants pockets. Once, Mom had mentioned that look as the reason she’d let Dad take her on their first date. He reminded her of Humphrey Bogart.
I hadn’t understood until we’d watched The Maltese Falcon. Bogie looked damned fine in that movie.
“Brian, hi.” Dad flashed a tentative smile. The monster wanted me at ease so he could rip off my arms and legs.
Mom had asked Matt and me both to not slam the door in Dad’s face anymore. She wanted us all to give him a second chance. Over my dead body would he get inside the house again. If I’d had the strength on Christmas, I would’ve tossed him out on his ass. Instead, I’d laid on the couch during a strained, awkward dinner.
He hadn’t given any of us gifts for the holiday. Instead, he’d told us all that he’d started therapy with Wendy. If he stuck with it for a few months, I’d call it a decent present.
“What do you want?”
Dad raised a hand. In a weird miracle, he didn’t act like he meant to hit me with it. Instead, he seemed to ask for patience. “I know I’m not supposed to just show up. There’s a crime scene a few blocks over, and I wanted to make sure everyone is okay.”
Apparently, he’d grasp at any excuse to torment us. “A crime scene.” My voice sounded dull and flat. “And you couldn’t use the phone.”
He raised his other hand in surrender. “You all have my number blocked. Which I understand and deserve. But it means that no, I can’t use the phone.”
Of course he wouldn’t send a random flatfoot to check on us either. That option probably never occurred to him. “We’re fine.” The sooner he left, the better we’d all be.
“Good.” He flashed another tentative smile. “Make sure you lock up tonight, including the windows, and don’t walk around after dark for the next couple of days, okay?”
“Sure.” Like we didn’t already do those things because of him. I started to shut the door. My other option? Laughing in his face.
“Wait.” Dad shifted, making his trench coat flap against his legs. He wanted to stick his foot in the door, I could tell. But he didn’t do it.
“What?”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze. I glared at him, willing him to spit out what he wanted.
“I was wondering...” He straightened and directed his gaze to his polished black shoes. “There’s a boxing gym I go to. I’d like to take you and Matt there sometime so we can all hit things.” Raising his chin, he added, “If you want. You don’t have to.”
Wild fantasies of punching him in the face without consequences danced in my head. I wanted to watch his eyes widen in surprise and fear, then his head snap back. Blood would spray from his nose and he’d fall to the floor to beg for mercy.
“Yeah, I’ll go. When?”
“Great.” He smiled again.
The predator I knew he harbored didn’t show itself. Why? Mom had said he seemed like he’d crawled out from under a cloud, or freed himself from a monster. I didn’t believe it could happen like that. That crap didn’t switch off like a light.
“I’ll see about arranging it with Mom. Maybe we can do that through Wendy.” He nodded and turned to leave.
“How about right now?” The words blurted out of my traitor mouth before I could stop them. I didn’t understand what made me say them. My chest tightened and I braced for yet another broken promise.
“Don’t you have school tomorrow?”
“It’s not even six yet.”
He pulled out his phone and checked it. His brow raised. “Huh. So it is. You’d think we’d all get used to the early dark in the winter, but no one really does. It’s about half an hour from here. If you’re feeling up to it, I’ll meet you there in forty-five minutes.”
Part of me stood and blinked like a moron. Not only had he committed, he’d offered to let me drive myself there so I could leave whenever I wanted. Even if I didn’t think I could handle it, I wanted to see what would happen.
“I’ll be there.”
He gave me the address and left with a small wave. I shut the door and stared at it. This day could stop throwing me curve balls anytime.
Turning around, I found Mom watching me with a half-empty glass of wine in her hand and a crocheted blanket draped over her shoulders. She leaned against the wall and smiled.
“That was brave of you.”
“I guess.” I shrugged. My chest tightened and my palms broke into a cold sweat. What had I done? If I could hit Dad without consequence, he got the same freedom. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Rubbing my hands on my jeans, I wanted to run and hide.
“I’m not going to stop you. If you’re not feeling up to it, though, you can stand him up. God knows he’s done it to you more than enough times. He deserves it.”
Nothing would stop me from taking the coward’s way out. Except my dignity and desire to hold the moral high ground. Showing up when I said I would made me the better man.
With a shrug, I climbed the stairs. “I’m fine. If he’s going to try, I should let him, right?”
She followed me. “You don’t
have to. I’m not going to do anything alone with him until he proves he’s worth giving a chance.”
At the stop of the stairs, I stopped and waited for her because I needed to catch my breath. Did I have the energy to go trade blows and barbs with Dad? Probably not. Would I go anyway? Yes.
Facing Mom, I saw the tiny wrinkles around her eyes and wished I could take away her pain and worry. She hugged me. Her warmth would get me through this stupid night.
“Watch yourself. Matt will go if you ask him.”
“He hasn’t earned Matt,” I growled. Myself, I’d risk. Not Matt. Never.
Mom kissed my cheek. “No, he hasn’t. Be careful.”
“I will.”
Leaving her there, I headed into my room and dug through a drawer for workout clothes. If I proved myself enough tonight, I’d accidentally-on-purpose forget to give Coach Rollins my doctor’s note in the morning. If it beat the hell out of me, I’d hand it over.
As I changed into sweatpants, I thought about going to school in the morning. Matt and I would drive over together. The moment I shut off the car, we’d separate. We had different friends. His preferred spending lunch indoors so they could draw or read despite the weather. Mine always wanted to lurk wherever they could spend the most time checking out girls or harassing JV players.
Personally, I preferred the latter over the former. We didn’t do anything really awful, though. Everything we did to those kids had happened to all of us as freshmen and sophomores too. Chad called it team building and a tradition.
Football season had ended at school, of course. We’d won the district this year, then lost in the last round of state finals. Two guys had gotten scholarships. I hadn’t expected one for football. Lacrosse, on the other hand, held a lot more promise. If I didn’t get at least a partial ride for that, I had to go to Portland Community College.
Pulling on my shoes, I forced myself to breathe a few times. Dad didn’t deserve to know anything about me. I’d go to this gym, beat the crap out of him, and leave. No talking. He didn’t deserve to learn anything he could use against me. I didn’t want to hear his excuses or apologies.
Whatever he said, I would keep my cool. We didn’t need Dad. After he left and gave up trying, everything changed for the better. Nothing he offered could help us.
I slid into my car thinking about ways to deflect any questions he might ask. Did I have a girlfriend? None of his business. How’s Matt doing? Fine. Is Mom okay? Yes.
No problem. I could do that all day long.
4
Dad had transformed into his casual self with sweatpants and a Portland PD T-shirt. I remembered him like that on Sundays. In the morning, he’d wrestle with the ancient lawnmower, a relic he’d refused to replace with a newer model. Then he’d mow the lawn and fix things around the house. When I got old enough, he’d showed me how to change air filters and light bulbs. Later, we’d dredged rotting leaves out of the gutters and pruned the trees together.
The boxing gym had a bunch of other guys in the same kind of shirt. They beat on punching bags with fists and feet. Two men sparred in a boxing ring, wearing protective gear and bouncing more than swinging. Ceiling fans whirred and the front door stood open to the outside chill. Despite that, the place stank of sweat. Humidity clung to my flesh. I had no trouble leaving my coat in a cubbie with my shoes and socks.
I faced a hanging punching bag, the kind tall enough to practice any sort of fist or foot attack. Faded red boxing gloves confined my hands. Beside me, Dad tugged on his own pair.
“Have you ever used these before?”
Shaking my head, I prodded the bag. “They feel weird.”
“You get used to it.” Dad turned to his bag and raised his gloves. “They keep your hands safe so you don’t break fingers or bleed all over the place.”
If I took my eyes off him, did I have to worry about him hitting me instead of his bag? I didn’t know. My gut churned while I waited for disaster.
Dad stared at a spot on his bag and hit it with swift strikes. His gloves thumped it in the same spot over and over. I remembered that precision and strength directed at me.
For my tenth birthday, he’d given me an aluminum baseball bat, but not to play the game. Instead, he’d shown me how to use it as a weapon. My car emergency kit included that bat.
The next time I visited Oaks Bottom, I’d carry the bat with me. That dog wouldn’t know what hit it.
Shaking off thoughts of the dog, I focused on my bag. Dad seemed intent enough on his that I didn’t worry about a sucker punch. I still edged to the side so I could keep him in my field of view.
Hitting the bag distracted me from life, which counted as a positive. Like on the field, lots of things didn’t matter. The ball mattered. Winning mattered. Lines on the ground mattered.
“How’s Matt?”
The questioning began. I didn’t let Dad distract me. My little brother had straight A’s, a girlfriend Mom and I both liked, and solid art skills. Whenever someone asked me about him, I wanted to gush about how great he was.
“He’s fine.” Nothing more for Dad.
“And Mom?”
All the relief I should’ve gotten from exercise evaporated. My stomach clenched and my jaw tightened. “Also fine.”
Dad thumped his bag a few more times before asking, “How about you?”
I don’t know what, but something inside me snapped. “Two years, three months, and six days without you giving me a new bruise. So I’m pretty good.” My face burned, my gut roiled, and my head hurt.
He stopped. His gaze stayed on his bag, and he had something in his expression I didn’t recognize. Something like regret or resignation hunched his brow and turned down the corners of his mouth. Dad started to say something, but stopped before he made any noise.
Then he took off his gloves and tossed them aside. With his bare hand, he patted his cheek. “Go ahead. If it’ll help, do it. I won’t block, resist, or fight back.”
“What?” Had I heard him right? No, I couldn't have. The monster I’d known for the past four years would never offer that.
He breathed in and out and didn’t look at me. “I’m your father, and I hurt you. I never--” Shaking his head, he cut himself off. “This is my fault, and no one else’s. For once in your life, hit me back.”
“This is a trick.” I hadn’t meant to say that aloud. The words tumbled out of their own free will.
“No. It’s not. Take off your gloves and hit me. I know you’ve fantasized about it. Do it and see if it compares.” He tucked his hands behind his back.
How did he know me so well after not seeing me for so long? Queasy and dizzy, I tugged off my gloves and raised my fists.
I’d hit people before. On the field, my body crashed into other bodies all the time. Off the field, I got into fights like anyone else. Faced with the chance to inflict the same damage on this man as he’d inflicted on me, I didn’t hesitate.
My knuckles slammed into his cheek. His head snapped to the side. He staggered a step. Righteous glory sang in my veins. Something was off, though, because he didn’t bleed. I hit him again, in the kidney. He grunted. I hit him across the jaw. He hunched over. This didn’t go like in my fantasy. Until he bled, I would keep hitting him.
I remembered him backhanding me because I’d forgotten to take the compost bin to the curb. He’d dragged me outside with his hand around my throat and shoved my face in the bin long enough to gag on the stench of rotting food and yard waste. Then he’d slammed me against the bin and let me fall to the ground.
Getting up meant more punishment. I’d stayed down. Some lessons didn’t take long to learn.
“You were supposed to protect us,” I snarled.
No matter how many weights I lifted, he always stayed stronger. No matter how hard I trained, he always hit harder. No matter how much I ran, he always moved faster.
Someone grabbed me from behind and lifted me off my feet. Voices clamored for attention. The fog of memory cleared an
d I saw my father on the floor. Blood spatter glistened on the mat and stained his shirt. He held his nose and stayed down. More blood smeared my knuckles.
What had I done?
“I’m fine,” Dad said, his words slurred. “It’s fine.” He blinked a lot.
When I didn’t struggle against the man holding me, he let go. I didn’t know what to do. Seeing my dad like that... How did I feel? I didn’t know. This should’ve made me feel good, like serving justice. Other voices in the room sounded distant and strange. The ground beneath me rolled like an earthquake.
I ran for the door. My pulse thumped. Someone shouted my name. Low-pitched buzzing filled my ears.
Before anyone could stop me, I unlocked my car, slid inside, and started it. The blood on my hands smudged the steering wheel. Not until I reached the first red light did I realize I’d left my shoes and socks behind.
Broken, battered Dad swam in my vision. How many times had I dreamed about that moment? I was supposed to declare a righteous victory and step on his quivering form to leave him behind forever. Instead, I wanted to throw up. If those men hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve beaten him to death.
Not sure where I’d driven, I stopped the car in darkness. The headlights showed me the empty parking lot for Oaks Bottom. At least I hadn’t autopiloted to a police station or Dad’s apartment complex.
In the backseat, I found my locker room shower bag. Mom had packed it for me and put it in the car, maybe while I’d slept this afternoon. It always had a small towel and pair of flip-flops, among other things. I used the towel to wipe my hands. Did I need to destroy the bloody thing, like evidence? Why did I feel like I’d murdered someone? What would Wendy say when I told her about this?
Wendy didn’t need to know.
Pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, I berated myself for thinking that. Of course I’d tell her. Dad saw her too. When he showed up to his session with a dozen cuts and bruises, and tape over his broken nose, she’d ask and he’d tell her.
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