Chapter 2-

Five Years Earlier

“Who did it?” Dad storms in to punish as soon as he hears the crash.

Alex (short for Alexandra), Casey and I sit there silently, wide eyed.

Casey and I were pretending we were Jedi knights and one of our “lightsabers”, broomsticks, knocked a lamp off the table. Guess that means the force is not strong with us. My heart is racing and I assume my sisters’ are too. Alex is almost always willing to take the fall for one of us to keep us safe, throwing herself at the mercy of my father’s mood. She comes out of the kitchen quietly and protectively walks close to Casey and I. The older I get, the more I'm growing sick of someone having to be punished. No one deserves to be screamed at, disciplined beyond necessity. If my sisters and I were a few terrible little shits I would understand how frustrating that would be but we aren’t. Not that any of us are perfect but he really is pretty lucky in the kid department. We are all huddled together and I back into the closest wall to distance myself. At that moment Mom walks in the room and I feel a little braver.

“It was an accident.” I confess, not admitting to much but giving his rage a direction to release.

His eyes ablaze, he looks smug, angry. It’s wild watching the switch flip. Someone does something he deems distasteful and he becomes the authority, looking down upon all of the pawns who don’t live up to his unattainable expectations.

“Well, clean it up! If you want to do stupid shit, go outside!”

Part of me thinks he’s stating the obvious, like I wasn’t already going to clean it up but he sees it as a command worth giving.

Mom looks over at Dad, “Trent, you don’t have to raise your voice.”

“I’m not!” is his usual response.

I vacillate between running out in the backyard to escape and cleaning the mess. I would love to swing on a swing as if it will fly me to another planet but I know better than to disobey a direct order. My arms are occupied lugging the awkward kitchen trash can to the room with the lamp. I see it coming in slow motion so I can only turn my cheek. He wallops the back of my skull to model the same force as the lamp hitting the floor.

I tell myself Dad thinks about why he does these things but I know it’s irrational rage. It has to be. No one would do that on purpose, right? My mom steps toward me a second too late. She pushes herself in front of me, scared for the damage to my head. I wince to keep myself from crying out and a couple tears spring into my eyes as they meet my mom’s. There’s a ringing between my ears and I stare blankly at the broken pieces as I carefully pick them up. I won’t give him the satisfaction of me getting more hurt as a result of my actions so I make sure not to cut myself. The sore spot on my head is plenty.

I can hear Mom and Dad talking in the other room, her asking him what happened, why he hit me and him denying doing anything unsavory.

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“She needs to learn to take care of her things,” he declares.

“She’s 8. Kids make mistakes,” Mom pleads.

“Mistakes have consequences. You know what? I don’t need this shit. You deal with it,” Dad throws up his hands and walks away.

Mom plucks one of the many ice packs from the freezer and brings it to the back of my head tenderly.

“Sweetie, I'm so sorry,” she apologizes for his actions frequently. I don’t blame her because she got the short end of the stick as far as husbands go. My dad is a treat, if you’re looking to reward yourself for something terrible.

I feel sad for my mom. She hasn’t worked my entire life so what’s she supposed to do if she wanted to leave him? Clearly she can’t and even though she would never tell me, I feel like she wishes she could, or rather we could. She would never leave me and my sisters behind. We are a packaged deal. For that, I’m grateful. I can imagine the prospect of being free and alone is enticing. The burden of not only a turd husband but the anxiety of protecting your three children from said turd would be heavy. One can only manage a nasty turd for a bit before they have to flush it away.

Later, Alex comes in to check on me. She’s fiercely protective of Casey and myself and I love her for it. Sometimes it maddens me because she’s taking on way more than she has to. She sits on my bed and runs her fingers through my bright shiny hair.

“You know we don’t deserve this right? We just have to be more careful,” she soothes in a low voice to avoid being heard.

“I don’t understand how he can be nice one minute and so mean the next,” I ponder, once again picturing the unseen switch he has.

“Well, I can’t really explain it but I don’t think it’s normal,” Alex does a decent job making me feel better. The fact that he doesn’t behave how someone should who is “normal” brings me a slight relief.

“I heard him yelling at mom last night when I was supposed to be asleep. I was listening through my door. He told her she coddles us and that she makes us question his authority.” I divulge, knowing I’m not the only one who listens in on their marital spats.

Alex shakes her head, “Yeah none of that surprises me. He thinks he should be the only one who dictates what we do.”

Down the hall, heavy footsteps ascend the stairs. We exchange a silent glance that both of us know means the conversation stops here. Luckily the master bedroom door closes and we can breathe, for now.

The next morning I wake up before Dad is at work and decide to make the trip downstairs for some breakfast. He’s usually more tame in the morning and I can always run back up here and wait if not.

“Good morning, Bridge,” Dad exclaims from behind the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup of black bitter coffee, Folgers probably.

“Morning,” I respond in a sleepy haze not matching his pep.

The night’s sleep must’ve erased his memory. It’s as if he didn’t hit me in the back of the head the night before. The sore spot on my skull tells me otherwise. I don’t get it. How could he have been so awful last night and now act as if nothing happened? He’s content, even smiling slightly. After I grab a pop-tart and decide to take it untoasted, I sit at the table taking a spot against the wall so I have eyes on him.

“Did you have a good night’s sleep?” He asks as if he truly hopes I did.

“Yeah I guess so.” I stare at him trying to search for any trace of remorse or a sign of the man he was yesterday.

“Aw I’m glad. Have a good day! I love you!” He comes over to kiss my head before he leaves, and I offer him the same head he just assaulted, hoping to avoid any reciprocation to his kiss. Kiss this, ass.

“Love you too, Dad,” I speak from my heart and not my mind.

I hear the door to the garage open and close and wait to hear the door to his dark teal Ford Taurus close before I exhale.

Now that he’s gone, I take my pop-tart upstairs and turn on the radio. I’m “Wannabe” by Spice Girls fills my bedroom and I lose myself in the music, my favorite escape. At the moment, I’m Ginger Spice- saucy, outgoing and commanding the room. I might not be able to change who my dad is, but I can pretend that my life is beautiful and carefree.