by Nikki Roman
Through a hole in the sweatshirt, I peer out of the window at the starless night sky. I squint my eyes like looking through a telescope and pretend I can see alien life on Mars. Pretend I’m among the undiscovered species and every one of them is an exact clone of myself. Weepy, hurt, and erratic. A large meteor crosses my view. Dad stands in the way of the window, looking out. “Daddy,” I call him over, “you’re blocking the window.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were asleep.”
“How could I sleep in such darkness?”
“I must remember that.” Dad goes into the bathroom and flicks the light on. “There that’s better. How’s my little girl?”
“Feeling smaller than ever,” I say.
“If you get tiny enough, your mother and I could carry you around in our pockets, you could come to work with us and we could feed you crumbs for lunch.”
I stare at him.
“It’s just an idea,” he says. “Your mom is sleeping and you should, too. In the morning you’ll feel better.”
“Are you going to watch me like you always do?”
His eyebrows shoot up, embarrassment and surprise crossing his face, he says, “I don’t have to, if it bothers you.”
“No, I like it. You make me feel safe. Goodnight, Daddy.”
He leans over Mom and I, kissing the top of my head and then hers. I close my eyes like his lips have touched an off button and drift into a deep sleep.
•••
When the sun appears like the smile of a bride, newly unveiled by her husband, I try to scare it away with the darkness remaining inside of me. But darkness is no match for light; it’s paper in a game of rock, paper, scissors and darkness is rock. Paper always beats rock.
Mom is steadfastly asleep; her face glowing, radiant from the baby inside her. Dad is awake and bumping around in the kitchen. I pull Spencer’s hoodie on and get up.
I creep into the kitchen with my bed hair and clothes wrinkled from sleep. Dad is sipping on hot chocolate and scrapping at a burnt piece of toast with a steak knife.
“Morning,” I say timidly.
“Mornin’, sunshine, how did you sleep?”
“As well as could be expected.”
“Sit with me, let’s talk,” Dad says. “I made you hot chocolate.” He pushes a steaming mug at me.
“Why is Mom still here?”
“Why not?” he says, raising his eyebrows over his cup as he sips.
“You know, why not. My bruises are why not, the scars of my body and mind are why not.”
“You were snuggled up to her all night; it seemed to be doing you good. Correct me if I’m wrong?”
“You’re wrong,” I say.
“Care to explain?”
“You shouldn’t make it easy for me to go back to her. The more I need her, the greater chance she has of hurting me.”
“Is that what you’re worried about?” Dad asks, relieved. “Your mother so much as even looks at you funny; she’s outta here, got it? She’s on probation. I’ve already warned her about that—even if you do something wrong, she isn’t allowed to yell at you. She’s only her to love you and, in turn, receive love.”
A no strings attached mommy. A no hitting, beating, yelling mommy. An unconditionally loving mommy. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I’ll make a believer out of you,” he says, kissing the top of my head. He dumps his hot chocolate in the sink.
I sip and stare at the side of the refrigerator fixed in thought.
Dad swoops in on me. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing and everything, all at once.”
“Why don’t you tell me something,” he says. “When did we get a video camera?”
“Video camera? Oh, it’s mine…I bought it at Goodwill.”
Nice save, Bailey.
“Oh, okay. Well, I put it in my dresser; you left it by the door. I didn’t want it to get stepped on. Anywho, I have to go to work now. Got to make money to keep you fed.”
That stings a little- to keep you fed.
“Wake your mother up soon, so she can go to work, too.”
“Okay, Daddy, I will,” I say.
He walks into the bedroom where Mom is passed out on the bed and whispers something in her ear, his lips curving into a bit of a smile as he does so. My grip tightens around the mug, my suddenly cold hands, taking in the warmth of the hot drink. Dad and Mom—getting along.
I look over my shoulder and see Dad caress her. I want to shriek at him for doing so. I want to say to my mother, “He’s my dad, my protector; his love is only for me. You can’t have any of it!”
Dad strides from the bedroom, the heels of his boots rolling off the floor in an upbeat motion. “Have a good day, sweetie,” he says and waves at me from the door.
“You too,” I mumble.
I’ll have a good day if Spencer answers my phone calls, if Mom leaves Dad and me alone, and if maybe, just maybe, I can avoid all types of pain. Heart break pain, broken bones, and torn skin pain.
I check on Mom, make sure she is still sleeping, and then go to the phone, that sits on the dresser to call Spencer. His is one of the few numbers I have memorized, that and the one for the county prison. I dial, all the while keeping an eye on Mom.
There’s a click and the sound of breathing, but no voice. “Spencer?” I ask. “Please, Spencer let me explain myself… let me tell you what really happened. I know you think you understand, but you don’t. You don’t have a clue; you’re destroying our relationship over nothing.” I take in a deep breath. “Oh, God, Spencer I would never—”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Sarah?” I ask. “Please give the phone to Spencer. If he just hears me out he’ll see that this is all a mistake.”
“Spencer told me to tell you to just leave him alone. What did you do to him, Bailey? I haven’t seen him this way since Lydia. If he falls back into depression I’m going to tear you up.”
“He’s confused. Sarah, I didn’t do anything!”
“You’re going to regret this,” she says, drawing her voice into a menacing whisper. “What you did to my brother. You better never come ‘round here, ‘cause that just may be the last time—” B.B. yells at her to get off the phone.
The dial tone comes on. I drop the phone and watch it swing by its spiral cord, the sound of the tone scraping at my insides. You better never come ‘round here.
“Bailey, pick the phone up,” Mom says.
I pick it up and put the receiver face down. “Dad says you aren’t supposed to yell at me.”
“I didn’t even yell,” Mom says keeping her voice steady. “The tone is obnoxious.”
“Your tone is obnoxious,” I snap back.
“What did you just say?”
“You need to get up and get ready for work.”
In the dresser, I find a T-shirt that isn’t too-too big. I put it on in place of Spencer’s hoodie and drag my fingers through my hair. Well, if Spencer isn’t my boyfriend anymore then he probably wants his hoodie back.
I had better return it to him.
Mom has gotten up and has gone to folding blankets and fluffing pillows like a room service maid in a five-star hotel.
“Are you leaving soon?” I ask with narrowed eyes.
“Soon enough,” she says. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“Tonight?” I ask. “Why tonight?”
“So I can be with you. Is that a problem?” It’s her turn to narrow her eyes.
“You hated Dad since he killed Jack. Made it very obvious, over the years. Why should you want to be around here, in his home? In my home?”
“Your home, Bailey, is at the apartment with me. This is only temporary, until you’re comfortable again. And he’s still my husband, it’s not like we got a divorce.”
“What if I never feel comfortable again? And you already divorced him from your heart; don’t need a sheet of paper to prove that.”
Mom’s eye
s water like she is about to sneeze, she hugs a pillow and sits on the bed with her legs bent beneath her. “You’re just a kid you don’t understand,” she says.
“I understand perfectly well, you treated me and Dad like shit, but you need us now. Suddenly, you want Dad back in your life… maybe because of the baby, maybe because you’re lonely. I don’t care why; I just know I’m not going to let it happen. You can hurt me, Mom, but I won’t let you hurt Daddy. He’s too good a person.”
Mom shifts her position and clutches the pillow tighter. “You are so cruel,” she says. “You can be so innocent and sweet, but damn, Bailey, if you feel like someone is on your grounds, you turn vicious. You hurt me.”
Her lower lip juts out and she starts to cry. “I get that I’m a horrible person and I maimed you. But Bailey, horrible people need love, too.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, not sure if I really am sorry, or if I’m just apologizing to stop her water works.
“Don’t say you’re sorry; no, don’t say it just to make me stop crying. You said what you wanted and I can’t argue with you. Every single word was true.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!” I say in a rush.
“Calm down,” she says. “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at myself.”
Slowly, I return to getting ready. I tie Dad’s shirt to the side with an elastic and shove my bare feet into my boots. I wrap the laces around the tops and tie them off with a couple of knots. Mom’s eyes follow me; she chews on the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to tell me that I should shower, wear socks, and comb my hair properly.
“Where are you going?” she asks, the side of her teeth releasing their pinch on her cheek. “You can have your car back, if you like.”
“Don’t need it,” I say. “I’m taking the bike to see Spencer.”
It looks as if she has managed to suck all the blood from her face at the spot she has been chewing on; she is pale with worry. “You can’t, that’s too dangerous,” she tries.
“Don’t care,” I say, stepping out of the room.
At the front door, I find the bike key under the mat. Angel, who had been sleeping with Dad all night, leaps from the couch and stands like a little soldier at my heels. I let him rump around the soft grass on the side of the apartment and relieve himself in the pebbles where the bike and Mom’s car is parked.
“Come on, boy!” I say, snapping my fingers. He swaggers into the house and paws into the couch again. Mom is part way out the door with a cup of unsweetened tea in her hand. “Could you bring me something back from your apartment tonight?”
“Of course, what do you want?”
“My empty pill bottles- all of them.”
I miss the pyramid, the routine of straightening and turning each bottle until the label showed my name in tiny black font. Sometimes, if I tired of reading my name, I would rearrange the pyramid so that the bottles displayed the warning label and side effects.
“Okay, I can do that,” Mom says.
I give her a quick kiss on the cheek- a reward for not arguing with me- and travel over to Harley. I guide my leg over and start her up. Mom looks on, unhappily. Letting off the break, I back out of the driveway. I start down the road, Spencer’s hoodie tied at my waist flailing behind me like a small cape.
My body leans with Harley like I am fused to her, zipping in and out of traffic. My hands are stiff on the handle bars; my mind heavily preoccupied. I can’t seem to relax. The sun is at its ten o’clock peak in the sky, beating down, hot as ever, as I near Spencer’s house. I’m gross and sweaty by the time I park in his driveway behind his truck.
Untying Spencer’s hoodie, hot from me sitting on it, I ball it up in my arms and plod up to the porch. As I knock on the door, my attention is drawn to the blinds of the living room window, which have parted and closed upon my arrival. I ring the doorbell, not lifting my finger from it. Someone fumbles with the lock and then the door is swung open.
Spencer stands in the doorway with red, swollen eyes. I fling my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest. His body tenses, every muscle pulling taut at my embrace. His hands claw into my upper arms and snap me from him. “I thought Sarah warned you not to come here,” he says.
“I wanted to give you your hoodie back,” I say handing it to him. Then the words—everything I think I must say to save us—come rumbling up my throat and out of my mouth. “Cairen made me. His sister said she would kill me. I had to join.”
“You didn’t even tell me,” Spencer says. “You joined a gang and kept it secret from me.”
“I couldn’t. I would have put you in danger.”
“You already did,” he says. “You’re his bitch now, right? You’re Cairen’s bitch and he’s your pimp. I don’t want trash like that for a girlfriend. How many times did he rape you already? Or were you willing?”
“Rrr-ape?” I stutter in shock.
“Aren’t you his slut, now?”
“I’m not anything to him, Spencer. He hasn’t touched me since Indigo. You know I wouldn’t let something like that happen if I could help it.”
“That’s the problem; I don’t think you can help it.”
“Spencer,” I say shaking my head. “I would never do anything to jeopardize our relationship, I love you!”
“Naw,” he says. “You don’t love me, and I don’t love you.”
“Stop,” I say.
“No,” he says, “I liked you because you were like an injured bird, a stray animal. I’m always suckered into helping hurt creatures, fixing broken wings. The thing about my relationship with injured animals is, after I nurture them back to health we go our separate ways. I let them loose… Bailey, I’m letting you loose.”
“Stop!” I scream at him. “Don’t say that. It isn’t true. That’s horse shit, you love me!”
He buries his nose in the hoodie and sniffs for my scent. “This smells like cheap cologne-” he holds it away from him by the tips of his fingers- “it doesn’t even smell like you.”
“That’s Holden you’re smelling,” I say, without thinking.
“Oh, Holden? Wow, Bailey, you were slutting around all night, weren’t you?”
I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. I’m too furious and shaking to communicate my rage.
“We’re done. Just get the hell out of here and leave me alone,” he says, starting to close the door, but I jam my fingers in it. He leaves only enough room for my fingers not to be smashed.
“Spencer,” I say.
My heart is bursting at the seams and flooding my chest with sobs.
“Move your fingers. I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.
“Please.”
My face is against the door now to hear him better.
“Bailey, I’m serious.”
The door bursts open, and I fall backward into the rose bush he and I planted. The thorns grab onto my hair and skin like mutant claws. Spencer tosses his hoodie at me and it falls over my heaving chest.
He shuts the door and locks it. The blinds swing again, agitated by Sarah looking out of them. I rip myself from the bush and tear down the porch, leaving his hoodie at the door.
Getting on Harley, I look back at the hoodie on the ground and regret abandoning it. What else will I have to remind myself of Spencer? I could still find his smell on the inside, even if Holden’s cologne has soiled the outside. Storming back up the steps to the porch, I snatch it up.
With Tarzan inside of me, swinging on all of my insides and slamming into them like trees, I ride home. My tears never leave the corners of my eyes; they dry as fast as I can produce them, the wind stinging every part of me.
Chapter 29
I rotate the bottles a quarter inch clockwise. Place the second layer on top of the first, creating a staircase. I slide the whole staircase of bottles forward until the top bottle meets up with the brightest star outside my window. I lean against the windowsill, cheek against the cool marble, squinting at the star. That
is my heaven, right here in the boundaries of this window frame; accessible by my staircase of prescription bottles.
Dad and Mom are in the kitchen, talking in voices that are low and, as they assume, free of anyone hearing. I told them I was going to bed hours ago. Mom kissed my head and Dad tucked me in. I kept my eyes open, staring at the bare ceiling for forever. When I got up to look for comfort, my heart weighed me down; it sagged to the floor and it felt like I was carrying a granite pillar a thousand miles. I stopped at the window.
“Our daughter is crazy,” Dad says.
I am.
“Well, it’s our fault,” Mom says.
It is.
“She’s terrified of the dark—how many sixteen year olds do you know need a lit room to fall asleep?” Dad says.
One.
“How many sixteen year olds watched their daddy kill a man?”
“God,” Dad says in a hoarse crying voice. “What did we do to our child? How could we have let her get this bad?”
How? Dad, Mom?
“Trouble follows her,” Mom says, “and it doesn’t leave. I’ll just be happy if she makes it to her eighteenth birthday.”
“Why does she collect pill bottles?” Dad asks. “What’s wrong with her? What did you do to her when she was little, besides beat her?”
“I loved her, damnit! Something you could never do because you weren’t there. I wiped away her tears. And you don’t know how many times that little girl asked for her daddy, and I had to deny her you. Don’t try to pin her on me, again. You’ve done it since the day she was born. You messed her up just as much as I did—maybe more.
“She collects pill bottles because she doesn’t have anything else. And what once was inside of them brought her more comfort than the two of us combined could ever give. She was dying before you came, still is. And she doesn’t need my beatings to do that.”
I swipe the bottles off the sill and they clatter to the ground. Angel wakes up and hops off the bed, barking and snarling at me like I’m a stranger. “Shut up!” I try to shush him.
Dad and Mom fall silent in the kitchen. Chairs scrape against the wood floor and both of them come running into the room.