by Laura Brown
Fuck it all. I looked up at the sky. “Sorry, Dad. Maybe you needed to fuck it all for whatever demon plagued you. But I won’t. I like the person you raised to me to be.”
Well, I used to like him. The past month I’d been a shadow, missing Carli. I scrolled through my phone until I got to her text message thread.
No. I wasn’t ready. A month or two wasn’t long enough. I didn’t know when it would be long enough. She was poised to hurt herself more than her father had. Until I knew she wasn’t a threat to herself, I couldn’t risk any more of my heart. Dad, Juan, Elania, Beth . . . too many ghosts in my closet, even if I now had names for two of them.
I wouldn’t let Carli be another ghost.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Carli
THE AMBER BOTTLE sat on my nightstand, the same ten pills inside that I had recovered from my trash. For two months I’d kept them here. Not in case I needed them. Not as an easy way out of this hell of a life. As proof I didn’t need them. I was stronger than the pills, stronger than anything my father did to me.
Each day that passed with ten pills was another day I survived.
It wasn’t normal. But it was me. Hearing loss, brain injury, both hands made up Carli. If I wanted my future to be mine—and not what my father created—then I needed to continue forward. And somehow—somehow—I could do this. I could graduate and work. In my dark moments, I wasn’t so sure. When the pain grew intense and my brain lost track of a thought, it was hard to imagine struggling for the rest of my life.
Regardless of my own inner demons, I needed to try.
The pills were step one. Amazingly the pills were the easy part. Reed was the hard part. I missed him more than the high of OxyContin, more than the loopy feeling making me forget my brain wasn’t normal. I missed him more than I wanted to, more than I should.
This was as it should be. I proved time and again I wasn’t good for him. I wasn’t good for anyone. My plan was to live my life, teach, keep my few friends and sisters close by. That was all I needed. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I also needed to sever all ties from my parents. My sisters offered to collect the last of my belongings, but I refused. I wanted a few minutes alone in the house. Alone with my thoughts. Alone with the knowledge of what my youth had really been like. I could pack up what I wanted and leave my key behind, lest my parents thought I might darken their doorstep ever again.
I waited until my school was closed on a day my parents would be working. I gathered my luggage—and D’s—and loaded up my car. As much as I wanted to do this, the thought of going “home” wasn’t a pleasant one. In fact, the knot in my throat threatened to return my breakfast.
I pulled up to the house and sat in my car. In the exact spot I had parked the last time I was there. The house was the same, right down to the broken shutter. But it was forever tarnished in my memory.
It was the same, but different, just like me. I was the same Carli I’d always been, but my poor head had been abused more than it should. My father wasn’t winning though—I was.
My hair was back in a ponytail, showing off my right hearing aid to the world. I had deposited my sisters’ check and ordered new hearing aids. A more modern one for my right ear and one that could give my left ear a little power. Even if I just wore it for class, my audiologist felt it would help. My fingers were crossed it wouldn’t hinder my head.
Today I suffered with a dull throb. No doubt due to being back where I had been injured in the first place.
And my thoughts were running away from me. Hard not to when visions of my father’s fist rammed into my head with such force that I nearly felt the blows again.
I blew out a breath and stared at the house. The naked trees were still, the calm before the storm. I needed to get this done before the storm hit.
I took a deep breath and grabbed the first two bags from my trunk. If I did this correctly, it would take them months to realize I’d come and gone for the last time.
Inside the front door, I froze, not too far from the spot of attack. The house was dark and silent. Secrets were hidden behind the walls, dark secrets of parents who didn’t know how to love, of daughters too scared to get help. Of hidden bruises, mysterious back pains, headaches, and sudden hearing loss. The floral furniture didn’t fool me—this was a house of terror.
I made my way upstairs and opened the door to my bedroom. Left just the same as the last time I was here. My one small sanctuary in this house.
I opened my closet and pulled out my clothes, rolling them to pack as much into the bags as possible. Next came the drawers. I didn’t stop to think; I took everything. Once my bags were full, I dragged them down to my car and took two more bags with me. This time I didn’t pause. I went up to my room and rummaged through more drawers.
I gave each item a split-second decision, yes or no, either in the bag or back on the shelf. A half hour and two trips to the car later, I took in the sparse bedroom. Two twin beds, Matti’s and mine, reminded me of the good sister moments we had shared in this room. The posters on the wall were remnants of old crushes.
I pulled the last item off the shelf, a snow globe I was given one Christmas. Inside the glass dome, a house similar to ours was coated in white flakes. I turned the snow globe upside down, then right side up. Snow fell in smooth, slow increments to cover the house. Each of my sisters had gotten the same gift that year. They were horrified. I was enthralled. Proof of our different childhoods.
As I was about to put the globe back on the shelf, with the snow still falling over the house-of-horror replica, a door slammed below. My heart leapt and I dropped the snow globe, glass shattering at my feet. Hands shaking, I rummaged into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone, thumbed in 9-1-1, and paused. Did I dare speak?
No. I swallowed, but the lump lodged in my throat didn’t budge. I flipped to messaging and set up a text to my sisters.
Me: At house, cleaning out belongings. Dad just got home.
I clicked Send, muted my phone, and shoved it back in my pocket. My pulse raced; I didn’t know what to do. To hide was my first instinct, but Dad already knew I was here. To protect was my second, but I wasn’t sure how. On instinct, I locked the door.
Not my brightest move, but I knew I was dead meat anyways.
Why did I insist on doing this? Just when I was getting better, learning how to manage my disadvantages. Now I was a sitting duck with a bull’s-eye on my chest. Or rather, my head.
My feet were rooted to the spot, too scared to move. Matti’s face echoed in my mind. How many times had I seen her plastered to the door, face full of terror, waiting, waiting for something horrible to happen?
Or something horrible to finish happening?
Too many times. Why didn’t I ask questions? Why didn’t I get answers? How could I have let Matti freak out so many times and do nothing?
Because I had a good childhood.
I looked around the room, at the broken snow globe on the floor. Shards of glass were dispersed, the house angled into the now-soggy carpet with fake snow speckled around. No. I had a fake childhood—a better one than my sisters, but still a sucky-assed one, all thanks to the asshole downstairs.
The man had been allowed to win at everything in this house. His streak was over.
I glanced at the remaining box on the floor, the contents inside no longer worth the effort to save. I took a deep breath and opened my door, leaving the missing items, final box, and broken snow globe behind.
My heartbeat drummed in my ear, threatening to grow into a nasty headache, but I kept moving. Down the steps, one, two, three. Sounds of the television filtered up the stairs. Down more steps, four, five, six. I stopped counting and concentrated on one thing.
If he hit me again, it would probably kill me.
At the bottom of the steps, my father sat in his chair, giving me his back like he had for the past twenty-two years. “What do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.
“Just getting my stuff
. I’m leaving now.”
“You put the stuff back and get out of here.” His eyes remained glued to the television.
“I’m getting out of here; don’t you worry.”
Bad timing, because a commercial had started. “I said, put the stuff back.” My father’s stone-cold face turned to me. Heavy bags weighed down his eyes, wrinkling at the corner, in need of a chisel to crease any farther.
“I’m leaving.” I said a silent prayer and turned to leave the house for the last time. The only way out was to give the man my back. I wasn’t about to back out like a coward.
“Put the damn stuff back, Carli,” my father spoke loud enough for my left ear to ring.
Or maybe my tinnitus discerned the words’ origin. Either way, I was scared. He’d always scared me. But I was sick and tired of being scared of this man. I turned to face him one last time.
“Ah, so you aren’t pretending to be deaf today?”
I tightened one hand into a snug ball. “I’m not pretending. I’ve never pretended about my hearing loss. It’s as real as you standing in front of me right now.”
“You are. You always were. Anything to get out of listening, to get out of work. Manipulative little bitch is what you are.”
To think I actually bought him a Father of the Year mug once upon a time. What a laugh. “My audiologist seems to think my hearing loss is real. My brain injury is real too. Want to take responsibility?”
“Stupid bitch. Put the stuff back, and get the hell out.”
“I’m taking my stuff.” A red haze worked into my vision as we continued to stare each other down.
“Anything under this roof is mine. Including you ungrateful little brats. Put the stuff back.”
Someone should hit this man like he hit his so-called “ungrateful little brats.” My fists itched to do just that. But my fists wouldn’t be enough; I wasn’t strong enough.
Without moving, I took in the room. Dad’s snack tray was just out of reach. A single bowl of nuts graced the top of the worn wood. One step forward would change everything. One step would allow me to grab the tray. One step would put me into direct danger. I took the step, right under my Dad’s nose. “No.”
Something crossed his face, and it wasn’t remotely warm. The veins bulged in his neck, and I knew from experience what came next. Only this time, I was prepared. As my father’s arm pulled back, I reached for the snack tray. With a flick of my wrist, I snapped it closed and swung it toward his head.
Nuts spilled onto the floor, scattered as if they, too, ran from this horrible man. Everything moved as if in slow motion: the nuts, Dad’s fist, and the tray. The wood burned in my hands, something eerily familiar about the motion.
We collided in the middle, his fist with the snack tray. A loud crack of a sound stopped the slow motion, and everything sped up to Dad’s fist breaking through the wood to stare me in the face. Splintered shards poked out on all sides, but I held my ground.
Dad took a step back and pulled his arm with him. The tray split in two at the motion, the weight jerking my right hand at an awkward angle. I let go, and one mangled half of now-shredded wood thudded to the floor, speckled with blood from my father.
I’d seen a tray just like it speckled with blood before. My blood. In fact, every few months or so the tray would need to be replaced. I thought it was used too often, but I never realized how it was used.
The ever-present tray was responsible for my hearing loss, for my brain injury. A long-buried memory worked its way out of the darkness. Me, age four, at the table, drawing a happy family of six. My father said my name, but I needed to finish coloring in his pants first. Me, still coloring, tongue stuck out, when he whacked the side of my head with the snack tray, sending me flying out of my chair, my head crashing to the ground. Then the tray, and his fists, coming down on me over and over again finished the job.
The beating had gone on for so long, with me huddled into myself for protection. I must have blacked out at some point. How had I survived that? How had any of us survived?
Dad ripped the remaining tray half from my left hand and whacked into me, splintered wood scraping my palm. I pulled myself back to the present. He now had both parts of the tray and wore a sinister smile, complete with no warmth or humor.
“Let me explain what happens next,” he said in a voice so controlled it made my skin crawl. I wanted the upper hand back and was desperately afraid it was too late. “You are going to put your crap back in your room and get the hell out of my house. I never want to see your ugly face here again.”
Words meant to cause pain, to bring on tears. They didn’t. Couldn’t. How could they? I was staring at the ugliest man I’d ever seen, a heart full of tar. And I felt nothing.
“I’m leaving, with my belongings. And I’m never coming back.” I backed away from him, but he made no move to come after me. He stood, tray ends poised for an attack. And leered until I slammed the door between us.
Outside the fresh air calmed the heat in my face, the rush of everything in my blood. I had no idea if he would come after me. I banked on not. The man was nothing except lazy. Therefore I sat down on the steps and pulled out my phone.
My text messages were ready to burst. I scrolled through my sisters’ responses and knew the police were on their way. I rubbed my left hand down my jeans, from midthigh to knee, trying to work out the sting.
I repeated the palm-smoothing motion. The faint sounds of sirens occurred in the distance, then cut short. A few minutes later, a police cruiser pulled up to the house.
I wiped my palms on my thighs again and walked over as two uniformed officers approached me.
“You okay, miss?”
Yes? No? What kind of a question was that? “I think so.”
“Whose blood is that?” the other officer said, looking at my left thigh.
I followed his gaze and saw streaks of blood on the worn path I had made. I turned my left hand over and picked a piece of fake wood out of my scraped, raw, and bleeding palm. “Mine.”
In the end, neither of us pressed charges. Since Dad couldn’t claim any of the belongings, I got to take them with me, so at least the trip wasn’t rendered null and void. Not able to accept his defeat, Dad had the police escort me off the premises. I never thought I’d leave my childhood home for the last time with two police officers at my back. The last daughter leaving home. Unwanted daughter number four, the biggest disgrace. The most damaged.
The one who fought back.
As I drove away, I couldn’t help but think of Reed. Of how he’d be proud of me. Of how I was proud of myself. He had faith in me when I had none. He gave me support even when I couldn’t fully accept it. He gave me . . . everything.
Before I met Reed, I wasn’t sure I had a heart. Now that heart struggled against her barred confines. I wasn’t raised with love, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t know love. Brain injury and all, I could learn. It took a deaf guy to teach me what love meant.
My heart struggled further, and I took the barbed wire down. I didn’t need to hide behind my awful childhood. I didn’t need to hide my hearing loss or my brain injury. Not when a wonderful man like Reed loved me. As is.
Not when I loved him back. All his flaws, all his strengths. And it was high time I told him. The ship may have sailed; I had no idea if things between us could ever be as they were. He deserved my words, even if it didn’t change our outcome.
Chapter Forty
Reed
CARLI: I WANT to see you. Can I stop by?
I stared at my phone in my hands, at the text. A thread sprung to life after lying dormant on my cell for two months. I took a deep breath. Carli was alive.
Me: Sure.
I had no idea what she wanted. For all I knew she wanted to call me on deserting her like her sister had. Or maybe . . . No. No maybe. No more thoughts until I saw what she had to say.
Carli: Good. I’m parked outside. Almost chickened out. Sorry, my nerves are a bit frazzled. It’s been
a long day.
My eyebrows drew together as I headed for my front door.
Me: What happened?
I didn’t know why I let myself get sucked back in. But Carli in trouble always called to the caveman in me. Didn’t matter that we were no longer an item. I still needed to protect her.
What an ass I’d been. I refused to protect her from herself, yet I was ready to get up in arms over some mysterious text. Matti was right to let me have it.
Carli: I went to my parents’ house to get the rest of my stuff. Only Dad came home early, and we had a little talk that involved his fist and a snack tray.
I stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Jesus. Then I had no restraint. I raced outside and down the stairs to where Carli still sat in her car.
We looked at each other for some time. I couldn’t tear away from her face. There was nothing troublesome in her eyes. Bruises all but a memory. She was more beautiful in the flesh than any image ping-ponging around in my head. My resolve to keep distance between us evaporated. It took everything I had not to scoop her into my arms and hold her close.
Instead I opened her door. Those brown eyes of hers, so clear, no trace of medication, seemed to read my face. “I’m fine,” she signed, only I barely saw the sign. I zeroed in on the white gauze wrapped around her hand.
I squatted before her. “What happened?” Not allowing her to answer, I took her hand into mine. Foolish to touch her, to tease myself with the feel of her skin. I couldn’t help myself. No blood bled through, no indication of what it covered.
She let me hold her wrapped hand and signed with her other. “S-N-A-C-K T-R-A-Y. Dad’s worse.”
I let go of her hand. “You fought back?”
Carli nodded.
“Good.” I backed up, and she got out of the car, following me into the kitchen. Only she didn’t stop there; she kept going straight to my room. I was sure I missed something. When I joined her, she sat on my bed, the notebook in her lap, writing away.