by Saylor Bliss
I can't even stand for her to touch me. I don't want to feel her skin against mine or to think about her sores leaking out on me. I sleep on a pallet on the floor so I don't have to be next to her—on the nights she sleeps—and so I don't have to pretend to sleep when her and Frank are naked on the nights she doesn't sleep. I hate being near either of them.
I hate them.
Her hair is smothered down, pressed flat to her scalp and greasy. I wonder silently when she last used the bathroom for showering. Her clothes are starting to hang off her body now, too. I notice as her shirt sleeve falls down her arm, exposing her pink bra strap. She pushes it back up as she stands.
“Come on, baby,” she says as she walks to the door.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I slide my feet into my tennis shoes. They hurt to put on. I outgrew them months ago, I think, but I don't have anything else to wear.
“To Sam’s. Hurry. You can tie them in the car,” she says, glancing at my feet. I slide my foot in the other shoe and walk out of the room. I don't complain about going to Sam’s anymore. He’s a nice enough guy. Him and mom always go to the back room when we get there, and I don't see him again until we are leaving.
The first time I met Sam, he scared the living crap out of me. We drove up to this white mobile home with blue shutters and blue swans all over the yard. Mom got out and walked straight up to the door with ease. I could tell she had been there before, and she was not worried at all when this giant of a man opened the door. He stood there, taking up the entire doorway with his wide shoulders, and ducked slightly to keep from hitting his head while he looked out. I couldn't make out any other features on his face. I was so terrified.
He stepped back, and Mom walked right up the steps, pulling me in after her. I remember looking around the living room, my eyes landing on anything and everything to keep from having to look back at the giant black man. Then he dropped down on one knee and took my tiny hand in his, drawing my attention back to him.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Charlee. My name is Sam,” he said.
“He—hello.” I stammered out a greeting.
“You thirsty? Hungry?” he asked, and I glanced up at Mom, not sure how to respond. He didn't wait. Instead, he walked to the kitchen and made me a fried bologna sandwich and a glass of Kool-Aid. When he was finished, he placed them both on the bench of a sleek black piano.
“You sit here and practice on this old thing all you want. Me and your momma are gonna go to the back and talk for a few minutes. Ok?” he said sweetly. l nodded my head, already taking a huge bite out of my sandwich.
I don't know how long they stayed in the back room talking, but when they came back out, Mom had the same glass-eyed look I was used to seeing when she came out of the bathroom. We visited Sam several times a week after that, and every time we went, he made me the same fried bologna sandwich and Kool-Aid and left me to play on the piano. It was our routine, and today, I was craving the normalcy it offered.
When we walk in the door today, Sam already has my sandwich ready for me, so I sit at the piano and begin stroking keys in an off-tune rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star for a few minutes before my stomach demands I take a bite of my food. Mom and Sam head straight to the bedroom at the back of the trailer. I don't go back there. Ever. I did once, a few weeks ago. I had drunk two full glasses of Kool-Aid and had to pee so badly, I thought I was going to bust, so I snuck down the hallway in the direction I hoped the bathroom was in. I found it, the last door on the left of the hallway. Sam’s bedroom door stood just in front of me at the end of the hall. I knew it was his bedroom, because I could hear my mom and Sam in there.
“Take your clothes off.” Followed by the rustling of fabric.
“Mmm. Damn, that’s a beautiful white puss. I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you.”
I sat on the toilet as quietly as possible and tried to block out the moans and grunts coming from the bedroom. The walls were super thin, and as much as I tried, I couldn't ignore them all. I finished my business and held my hands over my ears as I ran from the bathroom amidst creaking bed frames and my mother's loud cries of ecstasy.
Today, I can hear Sam's deep voice as they walk down the hall. “I’ve done told you, Dawn, I don’t have nothing for you today.”
I manage to push all thoughts of Mom and Sam as far out of my mind as I can while I bang around on the keyboard until I hear the screaming and yelling. I stop pressing keys and listen closer, trying to hear what they are arguing about.
“I know you have some, Sam. You just don't want to give it up.” I can make out my mom's shrill voice easily. She is screaming at the top of her lungs. A door opens and slams shut, only to be opened again. Sam appears from the hallway and immediately notices me watching the exchange with wide eyes. It's easy to tell he is angry. His face is flushed and his breathing is heavy.
“Why don't you want me no more, Sammy? Why am I not good enough for you? Did you find someone else?” I see a light go off in her mind. “That's it, isn't it? You found someone else.”
“Dawn, take your daughter and go home. I told you, I don't have ANYTHING!” He yells at her, causing me to flinch. Mom doesn't miss a beat. Reaching across the piano, she snatches me up by wrapping her hand around my upper arm. My glass of Kool-Aid wobbles on the bench, threatening to fall over as she yanks me up. I feel tears burning behind my eyes, threatening to fall. The grip she has on my arm is tight enough to bruise. My fingers are beginning to go numb before she shoves me toward Sam. He catches me effortlessly.
“Take her then. I'm not young enough or pretty enough for you? Take Charlee.” Her lip raises in a sneer. “I know you like the little brat. Do whatever you want with her. Just give me a hit!” She ends her statement on a whine. I look back and forth between them both, not fully understanding the things she is offering, but judging by the look on Sam’s face, he does.
“Fine,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. Mom breathes in a satisfying gulp of air, like Sam has just given her oxygen to breathe.
“I knew you’d come in handy one day,” she says with a conceited smirk.
Sam leans down and whispers in my ear, “Just sit here and play for me, ok, Angel? I’ll be right back.”
To my mother, he simply demands, “Come.” She jumps up and follows him greedily to the back.
“Play loud, Angel,” he calls back to me. And so I do, but even still, I am able to hear the screaming. Sam is angry. Furious, even.
“What are you doing, Sam?” Mom cries before I hear the first the slap of skin against skin. I cower, recognizing the sound of someone being hit . . . hard.
“You tried to SELL your kid to ME!” Another slap. “For a hit?” Something shatters. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he roars.
“Just give me one, Sam. You can take her,” she begs. A loud noise, like something being thrown against the wall, followed by wailing. Several minutes pass by. My fingers hurt from constantly beating on the black and white keys. No matter how hard I jab at them, I can't shut out the screams. They play over and over in my head long after she is quiet.
“You can stop now, Angel,” Sam says when he returns to the room.
“Where’s my momma?” I ask, hating the way my voice breaks. I don't want to care about her, but right now, she is all I have.
“She’s just taking a nap. Come here, Angel,” he says, pulling me to his lap and wiping my tears away with his swollen fingers. “I need you to do me a favor. Can you do that?”
“Okay.” I reply timidly, looking up from beneath my lashes.
“I need you to call Frank, Angel, and tell him to come get you.” He says, kissing me against the side of my head and standing. I walk over to the phone on the side table and pick it up, dialing our room number from memory. I glance at Sam while the phone rings and see him at the kitchen sink washing his hands. The water runs pink as it mixes with the blood on his hands. Frank answers, and I try not to think of the blood while I ask him to come get me. He hangs up, sa
ying he will be there in five minutes.
Chapter Eleven
Lucas
I don’t understand why this girl has this effect on me, but she does. I arrive home late this evening from our three-week sprint on the road, and after a hot shower, the only thing I want is my bed. As soon as I lay my head down, I hear her.
Charlee.
She’s weeping across the hall again. The sound of her dry, tearless cries rips me to shreds.
Climbing from the bed, I tap on her door and then let myself in.
“Charlee?”
She doesn’t answer, even though I know she’s awake. I think she is hoping I’ll just go away, but I’m not like the other people in her life. I can’t sit back and watch her hurt and not do something to help her.
“I know you’re awake, Char. I can hear you across the hall.”
“What do you want, Lucas?”
“What’s wrong, Charlee? Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying. Just go away and leave me alone.”
“No. No, I won’t just go away. Someone needs to be here. Someone needs to stay by your side and be there when you’re hurting, and since you feel like being a brat to everyone who tries to help you, I guess that means you’re stuck with me.”
“Why do you care, Lucas? Why?” she screams at me.
“What does that matter? Just know that I do, and I’m not going anywhere. Period. So get used to it, buttercup.”
I can physically see the fight leave her body. Her shoulders slump forward, and she releases a shaky breath before collapsing back on her bed. I don’t want to be intrusive, but I also meant what I said, and I refuse to leave her alone to deal with whatever is bothering her.
“Why doesn’t he want her? How can someone not love her?” I don’t have to ask who she is talking about. I already know, and it’s the same question I’ve been asking myself for a while now.
“I have no clue, but I will tell you this. Something is most definitely wrong with him, not her. She is perfect in every way.”
“You’re not just a little biased, are you?”
“Who, me? No. Not at all. Look at her. One look, that’s all it takes to know that he’s a dumbass. Anyone who would willingly not spend every second of his day with her is an idiot.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m serious, Charlee. Speaking of spending time together, let me take you guys somewhere tomorrow. A date. All three of us.”
“You want to go on a date with me and my infant daughter?”
“She is a part of your life now. Any man who wants to date you is going to have to accept that the two of you are a package deal. So yes, I want to take you both somewhere.”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. And I mean it, Charlee. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m right across the hall. Come get me. Talk to me. Please. Don’t do this to yourself anymore. You need to be in the best shape you can be for your daughter, and staying up half the night crying over scum isn’t the way to do that.”
“I will, Lucas. Thank you.”
Chapter Twelve
Charlee
At 9:55 the next morning, there is a knock on my door. I grab my cellphone off the dresser and glance in the mirror one more time before answering the door. I decide to go semi-casual, pairing my favorite skinny jeans with a loose white t-shirt. I finish the look, adding a black blazer and my black ankle boots. My hair falls down my back in soft curls that I masterfully placed with the straightener. I don't add much makeup, just a light, creamy gold eye shadow and some mascara. It all comes together beautifully, in my opinion. I am surprised to not see any dark circles hiding under my eyes today, especially after the restless sleep I got last night. At least this time, it is butterflies in my stomach that kept me awake. I’d take butterflies over my monster any day.
Lucas’s jaw grows slack when I open my bedroom door. I watch nervously as his eyes glance down the length of my body, not stopping anywhere particularly, until he reaches my face once again. And even then, he only speaks one word.
“Wow.”
One word. That's all it takes to make me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. I smile, a real smile that bursts from deep within me. I officially can't hold it in anymore. This isn't my first date, but this is already by far my favorite. He holds his hand out toward me, and I instinctively reach for it. The way his palm fits against my own feels natural. I pull the door shut behind me and follow him. Right this moment, I feel like I would willingly follow him anywhere.
I can't explain it. Nothing makes sense to me. My stomach is flipping over itself, and I have to keep reminding myself to breathe, but I don't feel nervous. My palms are not sweaty. I don't feel like puking up my lunch. It’s more like I don't ever want this moment to end. It has been so long since I’ve felt anything other than misery that it takes a moment for me to recognize what I’m feeling. The warmth spreads through me. I grab the diaper bag, and he grabs Everly in her seat as I pull the door shut behind me and follow him.
He leads me to his car, which is parked in the front of our building, and after opening my door, he gently touches the small of my back as I climb in. He places Everly in the back seat, and I notice that the stroller that I had left on the porch must be in the trunk. Moments later, he is opening his own door, and I am once again reminding myself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Repeat.
In.
Out.
He never takes his eyes off the road, but I feel his attention on me the entire drive. I try asking where we’re going about fifteen minutes into the drive, but he doesn't tell me. Instead, he replies cryptically, “My second favorite place in the world.”
“Your second favorite? Where is your favorite?” I ask him.
“Anywhere you are.”
Breathe, Charlee.
Breathe.
I don't know what to say to that, so I don't reply. I want to brush it off as simple flirting, but a part of me wonders if he’s feeling the same strange things that I am. I know it sounds strange or make-believe, and let's face it—no part of my life has ever been a fairytale. A horror story, maybe, but no fairytale. I don't think those even really exist, and don't get me started on happily ever afters. What a freaking joke. At one point in my life, when I was on the plane headed home from West Virginia, I thought I was getting my happily ever after, and then I woke up from the fantasy my ten-year-old mind conjured. There was no knight in shining armor, no fairy godmother with a magical wand. Just people. Regular, ordinary people with all their flaws.
Even after I got back from my wondrous vacation—yes, that is sarcasm—with my mother, my life wasn't great. During the time my brother and I were missing, my dad chose to turn to alcohol for comfort. When he wasn't looking for us or working, he was burying his pain in the bottom of a beer can. He had always been a weekend drinker, sipping on a cold beer or two after work, usually while sitting under the shade tree smoking a Boston butt, but that quickly transformed into a twelve-pack, and then a case a day. He no longer just drank on the weekends. Instead, he opened one the moment he rolled from the couch and didn't stop until he landed back on it late in the evening.
I expected to come home to the daddy I left behind. Instead, I entered a filthy house, piled high with empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays. It didn't take long for me to realize the life I had before was gone. It was kind of fitting, really. I couldn't really go back to the girl I was before anyway. I had seen too much, experienced too many demons. I would never be as innocent as I had been that day in 1993 when she first took us. Even though I wasn't the same, some things would never change.
My brother clings to me when I walk through the door, his tiny arms latching onto me as he soaks my shirt with his snotty tears. I grip him back as tightly as I can, promising to never let him go again. He crawls in my bed that night and every other night that week. I don’t mind, don’t even
really question it, but I wonder. Does he just miss me? Does he need to be close to me? After months of being alone, at least emotionally, it’s hard to completely open up again. I try. For him, I would always try. And then one evening, my dad has more than a case of beer, and I understand.
It was late, after two in the morning when he comes in the room, shouting obscenities. The light flips on abruptly, and I’m instantly awake. Aaron curls into a tight ball, trying and failing to make himself as small as possible. I don’t understand what’s going on, but living with Mom has taught me to be prepared for anything.
“Get your sorry fucking asses up! You think you can just waste fucking food in this house and leave your goddamn messes for me to clean up?” Spit flies from his mouth, along with the putrid stench of alcohol. I sit there, clutching the blanket to my chest. Usually, when Frank got drunk, it helped if you ignored him. He would eventually go away.
“Make me tell you again. Get your fucking ass up NOW!” Aaron starts to crawl from the bed. I can feel him shaking. Tears fall from his eyes freely.
“Fucking baby. You want me to give you something to cry about? Dry that shit up.” His words only make Aaron cry harder. He’s hiccupping now, and I’m starting to realize that ignoring him isn’t going to work. I push the blanket down to crawl out of the bed at the same time I see him swing the belt. I lean forward, covering Aaron. The cowhide belt slashes across my back. My skin is on fire, burning where the leather slaps against my skin. My breath catches in my throat as I choke on the pain. He pulls his arm back and lets the thick belt fly again, piercing my skin just below the first mark. A sob breaks free, but I don’t move. Aaron’s entire body shakes below mine. His cries are all I can hear. I focus on him as my dad continues to swing the belt back and forth until he tires himself out.
“Now, get your stupid asses in there and clean up this goddamn house.”
I wait for him to leave the room before I move. My entire body hurts. The oversized t-shirt I’m wearing to bed rubs painfully against my red skin.