by Alex Hayes
Is he worried about Dean arriving while he’s away?
Idris groans. “Your birthday’s coming up and—”
“That’s days away, and if you miss it… that’s okay—”
“It’s not okay.” He grabs my hand, weaving his fingers between mine. “You’re turning eighteen, Cadi. That’s a big day. I’ll be here. I promise.”
But something else lurks, reflecting off his crystal onto mine. Like he’s worried about leaving me. Like, maybe, he doesn’t completely trust me.
12
Dean
I’m out of the house before dawn and curled up in the backseat of my car waiting for the bookstore’s café to open. Part of me regrets not waking Ty and dragging him with me, but right now, I need time alone, to think. Because I have no clue what to do.
I cannot spend another second in the same house with my jerk of a father, but I can’t leave Ty to the mercy of that abusive monster, either. The kid’s not built for football. He’s creative and way too sensitive to criticism. Dad will break him in every imaginable way.
The second the store opens, I hurry inside and scoop up a copy of Brandon Williams’ book to study at the café table. I choose the same spot Shri and I shared on the last day of school, hoping for some good karma.
A venti Americano holds me over for the next two hours as I read through the introductory chapters, then jump to Chapter Five, Physical Abuse. A section devoted to Dad.
By the time I’m done reading, blame rests entirely at my father’s feet. Lunchtime arrives, but my stomach is a churning mess of locked up emotions screaming to get out.
For the distraction as much as anything, I text Shri to arrange our departure time to New York tomorrow morning.
Which house is yours? I ask.
End of the road.
I don’t recall a house at the road end but know I’ll find it. ok. See you then.
Great. Thx, she replies.
I text Ty next, and sigh with relief when he answers. He says he’s okay, has eaten and is holed up in his room, working on a new song. I promise to check in and let him know when I’ll be home.
The afternoon slips by while I take the Subaru in for an oil change, then head to a self-service car wash. As I ruthlessly vacuum the floors and under the seats, I realize my fixation with my car’s cleanliness may have more to do with control than with pride or hygiene. Maybe Ty’s obsessive room cleaning is the same. We’re trying to maintain order in some part of our lives while we watch the rest fall apart.
At three, I text Ty and get no answer. After fifteen minutes of silence, I head home.
Dad’s truck is gone, so I park my car in its place—my space—as if that will somehow keep him from coming back. I kill the engine.
Pepper’s continuous barking from over the backyard fence makes me stiffen. Why would Ty leave him outside making such a ruckus?
The answer is, he wouldn’t.
I jog to the front door, trying to convince myself nothing’s wrong. Ty’s wearing his earbuds, that’s all. Or he’s in the shower.
“Ty?” I shout as I burst through the door.
No answer.
“Mom? Ty?”
Still nothing. The parents must have taken him out to an early dinner is all, but I hurry to his bedroom door, anyway, heartbeat racing.
Closed.
I knock. “Ty?”
A faint sob.
Shit! I thrust open the door and face total devastation.
Broken pieces of wood and wire lay scattered across the floor. The shattered remains of Ty’s guitar.
Stifling a gasp, I turn toward the bed. Ty lies curled in a ball, his face hidden in the pillow, crying.
“Ty?” I bend over him, rub his shoulders and gently peel his fingers from a death grip on the bedding.
He twists in my arms and buries his face into my chest.
“What happened?” I whisper, trying to keep some semblance of calm in my voice. “Did he hit you?”
When he doesn’t answer, I push Ty far enough away to see his face. Blotches of red mar his features, but no swelling or bruising.
I swallow. “Tell me if he touched you.”
“He pu-pu-pushed me.” Ty’s slender frame trembles as I pull him close. “And b-b-broke my guitar.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, wrapping a tourniquet around the fury building in my chest, and take a deep breath. “Don’t worry about your guitar, okay? We’ll get you a new one. But I need to know if Dad hurt you in any other way. Where did he push you?”
The events come out in as many broken pieces as the guitar strewn across the floor. I reassemble them into a story that starts with Ty practicing his guitar with his earbuds in, and not hearing Dad yelling at him to stop making noise. It ended with our father bursting into Ty’s bedroom, shoving him into the wall and smashing his guitar across the floor, then stamping on it.
Once Ty has calmed down, I snap photos of the mangled guitar, for what it’s worth. Once I’ve confirmed neither Mom nor Dad are on the property, I let Pepper inside and tell Ty to pack a bag, because we’re leaving.
Ty throws a sports duffel on his bed and turns to me. “We have to take Pepper.”
Part of me wants to argue, but Ty’s right. Pepper’s no less prone to abuse than either of us. I throw clothes, toiletries and my most valuable belongings into a bag, including the graduation gift for Shri.
This whole situation reminds me too much of the past, of how powerless I was at Ty’s age. I grip the zipper tab and swipe it across the bag. History can’t be repeated. I won’t let it.
Ty drops his duffel by the front door. He kneels and hugs Pepper tight, then scoots away to fetch his food, leash and favorite toys. I add to the pile our catcher’s mitts, bat and baseballs.
We load the trunk, bundle into the car and drive away.
I pull into a gas station and call Shri, not sure what else to do. Her phone goes to voicemail. I hang up and send her a text, then sit and wait.
A half hour later, my phone dings.
Shri. Hey, what’s up?
Family crisis. Kind of an emergency. Can we come over? I respond.
Who’s we? she asks.
I purse my lips, liking the idea of descending on her less and less. Ty and me. And Pepper.
Wow. Sounds bad. Sure. Come over. But give me 20. Just finished yoga. Gotta shower.
K. cu. I drop my head against the seat back and let out a heavy sigh. What am I going to tell Shri when I see her?
Ty’s head pokes between the front seats. “We going to Shri’s house?”
I look over my shoulder and push on a smile. “Yeah.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re heading up Shri’s street. As we pass the two rundown farmhouses, I remember wondering which one she lived in.
I’m glad the answer is neither.
The road climbs, twisting and turning up a steep hill, until it crests and dips back among the trees, ending abruptly at the entrance to a driveway with a three-car garage adjoining a single-story structure that seems small by comparison.
A roofed entryway edging the garage ends at a double front door with tall side panels of frosted glass.
I ring the doorbell and the three of us wait.
The left side door opens.
A girl in a tight blue T-shirt and silver-gray sweat pants answers. My gaze flashes across her flat exposed midriff where a short silver post pierces her belly button, then speeds upward, past a narrow waist and moderate chest, to take in the girl’s short Euro hairstyle, tawny skin and lips.
When my eyes meet hers, I gasp.
Her lips twist into an amused smile. “Took you a while, didn’t it?” says Shri’s ever-sarcastic voice.
I shake off my total shock. “You weren’t kidding about losing the black. What the hell did you do to your hair?”
She glances from me to Ty, eyes taking in our fresh cuts. “Same as you two, I guess.” She pulls the door wider. “Come in.”
I hesitate. “We can leave Pepper
outside, if you’d rather.”
Shri shakes her head of now-very-short hair. “Come one, come all.”
She closes the door and guides us down the hall to a wood staircase leading to a sunken living room walled on three sides by glass. An open-plan kitchen and dining area fill the space that must sit below the three-car garage, because the house appears to be built into the hillside.
Ty takes in the space, his mouth stuck open. “Wow, your house is awesome.”
Shri grins. “Glad you like it.” She looks from one to the other of us. “Have you had dinner?”
“No.” I realize I haven’t eaten all day. Haven’t felt like food. Until now.
“Well, I was going to cook. You’re welcome to join me.”
Awkwardness creeps into my cheeks. “Is your dad around?”
“Nope,” she answers, “he’s on shift. Won’t be home till tomorrow afternoon. We said our goodbyes already.”
“What does your dad do?” Ty asks.
Having an uninhibited almost-eleven-year-old brother has its advantages.
“He’s a doctor,” Shri replies.
I glance around the house. Jeez, no wonder he can afford a place like this.
“Can I get you guys a drink? Lemonade?” she offers.
We both nod and Shri heads to the kitchen.
“Let me help.” I follow, with Ty and Pepper tagging along. “Thanks for having us over. We owe you one.”
“Big time,” Ty adds with gusto.
She smiles over her shoulder and opens a stainless steel refrigerator, from which she pulls a tall jug and sets it on a granite counter.
“So what kind of emergency?” she says, facing a cabinet as she pulls out glasses.
I lean into the counter. “We’ve left home. And we’re not going back.” At least, not until Dad is out of there. For good.
Ty nods emphatically. It’s hard to tell what he’s feeling, other than being in total agreement.
Shri turns back to us. “Code red, then.” She pours out lemonade and returns the jug to the fridge.
Handing a glass to Ty, she says, “Would you like the grand tour? The place is a bit over the top, but Dad’s job is kinda high stress, so an oasis to come home to is important for him.”
Ty grins. “I’m game.” That’s the first smile I’ve seen on him all day.
I sip my lemonade. The tangy sweetness wets the dryness at the back of my throat and sends cool relief to my knotted belly. “What kind of doctor is he?”
“Emergency room. He’s also Director of Emergency Services for three hospitals. An eighty-hour workweek is normal for him.”
I study her face, wondering if she feels neglected. “Sounds like a hell of a job. Must be tough spending so much time at home alone.”
She’s never mentioned her mom, but standing in Shri’s home makes the absence of a mother obvious. The place is perfect in a cool masculine way, completely lacking in feminine touches.
“You get used to it.” Her casual half smile tells me she’s happy, almost. “As you know, I’m a loner.” She guides us through the lower level to a gym with a heated yoga room attached.
Ty looks around, eyes curious. “Your dad does yoga?”
Shri nods. “He studied the health benefits of yoga as part of his doctoral thesis. He’s practiced for years.”
The upstairs grabs my interest, mainly Shri’s room, which is actually two. Her sparse bedroom, with a small window, connects to a bright study space. This room contains a wall of books, desk and couch. Sundry items from Hindu statues to molecular models lay scattered about, creating a relaxed and colorful living area.
Ty swings in a circle. “How come your bedroom’s so dark?”
“Because we sleep better in complete darkness, and everything else I do gets done in here.”
She shows us to a guest room with two single beds, then glances at me. “You’re welcome to stay the night.”
“Are you sure?” I try to hide my relief at her offer but fail miserably. “Thank you.”
Shri shakes her head. “That’s what friends are for, right?” She winks at Ty. “Does Pepper need to be fed? I don’t know much about dogs, but judging by those solemn eyes, I’m thinking yes.”
“Way past dinner time,” Ty admits.
We head downstairs, and while Ty feeds Pepper, I collect our bags from the car and take them to our room.
Shri’s busy cutting vegetables when I return to the kitchen. I offer to help, and she directs me to a rice cooker, then into the most amazingly organized pantry I’ve ever seen for rice and saffron.
Ty stops beside Shri at the stove as she pan fries spices in oil. “What are you making?”
“An Indian dish called malai kafta. It’s flavorful and just a little sweet.” Her lips curl into a half smile. “I hope you like it.”
“Well, it sure smells good,” he effuses, making me chuckle.
She teaches us how to operate the rice cooker, then shows us how to make the pan-fried dumplings that are part of the dish. Before long, Ty is laughing, his hands covered with a sticky mix of flour and potato.
We sit down at an intimate table overlooking an expanse of emerald hills warmed by the last pink threads of evening light.
“This food is amazing,” I say between bites.
Ty nods as he shoves a forkful of bright yellow rice into his mouth.
Nine o’clock has come and gone by the time we’ve eaten, and my brother’s eyelids are slowly sinking.
“Time for bed,” I announce.
Ty agrees without protest, and once he’s settled, I head back to the kitchen to help Shri clean up.
“Let’s go outside,” she says, when the chores are done.
I follow her through a French door onto a wide patio with a lap pool and in-ground hot tub.
She leaves the lights off except for those in the pool, which glow blue, then leads me to a pair of padded lounge chairs.
Lying back, I gaze up at the night sky. Each speck of light is a sun surrounded by planets and moons just like ours.
I am the center of my own universe, and yet, my life and all my troubles are microscopic in the scheme of everything out there. So I let them drift away. For a short span, I imagine them thinning out like evening mist and disappearing into the silent darkness.
“I can see why your dad loves this place,” I murmur.
Shri sighs. “He chose this plot because there’s almost no light pollution. And it’s peaceful. Out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Sure seems it, yet you’re not so far from civilization.”
She laughs softly. “Or its complications.”
“Yeah. Right now, I wouldn’t mind living in the middle of nowhere.”
Her head shifts in my direction. “You wanna talk about it?”
God, no! And yet, yes. “I wish I knew where to start.”
“I could tell you a little about my family, and when you find a segue, you can pick up and talk about yours.”
I stare at her through the darkness, feeling overwhelmed. “Yeah, okay.”
“My dad was born in the US,” she begins. “He worked hard to become a doctor, dedicating all of his time and focus to his profession. He got a job, made money, got a better job, made more money. And then one day, his mom came to visit and asked him when he planned to get married.”
I watch her silhouette through the darkness, lips moving as her soft words flow.
“Dad didn’t have a clue about finding a wife or even dating, so he let his family find him a suitable lady. And they did. Or thought they did.” Shri pauses a moment, as if organizing her thoughts. “Dad met her in Sri Lanka. He liked her, so he proposed. They married and he brought her to the US, and within a year, she was pregnant with me.”
I breathe in the warm summer air and the faint smell of flowers, and imagine Baby Shri. The thought pulls up the edges of my lips.
“So I was born,” she continues, “and my parents and their families were happy. Dad worked hard at his care
er, and Mom stayed home and looked after me. The years passed, and my mom grew lonely, and less and less happy. She told Dad she wanted to go back home, to Sri Lanka, to see her family. He couldn’t take time off, so he arranged for her to go alone.”
Shri looks at me through the pale glow from the pool lights. “He didn’t let her take me. Because he knew. Somehow, he knew she wasn’t coming back. Not for me. Not for anyone.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?” I ask gently.
“She didn’t communicate with Dad. Not once. Didn’t even tell him she’d made it there safely.” Her next breath shakes a little. “I was six.”
I can’t help swallowing. “Who took care of you?”
She tilts her head way back. “My dad’s mom and his two sisters. Between them, they filled in for my mom.”
“But never replaced her,” I finish, so Shri doesn’t have to.
She sighs. “I was fortunate to have them.”
Fortunate. I find my segue. “Our gran did the same for Ty and me.” I blow out a deep breath. “My dad’s a total loser, but Mom worked hard, tried to make up, and put up. Life was like walking a minefield around him. You never knew when or how you’d trigger the next explosion.”
Shri’s shoulders tense. “Was he violent?”
I hadn’t planned to go there, but her question knocks me off balance. “Mom kept him from touching us… until I turned twelve. Guess I became an extension of his ego, somehow. He pushed me to get into The Sport, into becoming a football player, a jock.” A cold shudder runs between my shoulder blades. “The better I got, the more he pushed me around. Said he was toughening me up.”
“How did your mom handle it?” Shri’s voice is soft, undemanding.
“She’d put herself between us, but he still got in the shots, knew how to hurt without leaving marks. I took it for three years, until I grew big enough—and yeah, tough enough—to plow him over. It shocked him, and Mom eventually got up the guts to kick him out.”
I flex my fingers, recalling that brief triumph when Dad first left. “Problem was, Mom needed a man about the place. On her own, she got depressed, destabilized and started drinking. A glass of wine turned into a bottle, then she moved on to stronger stuff.”