Dad doesn’t take me home. That would have been predictable and simple. Nope. He throws a curveball, and he takes me to church. It’s not even the small quaint one where Suzanne’s funeral took place. It’s the huge one that was recently built in town.
This is the second time I’ve stepped inside a church since freshman year, and like when I had walked into Suzanne’s funeral, I’m shocked when I don’t go up in flames. I’m also a bit disappointed. Flames would be easier.
Mom, Dad and Isabelle attend church here. They used to go to church on the occasion that it didn’t impede with sleeping in, but after Dad hit Mom last month they became the type of regular attendees who get ticked off when someone else sits in their pew. As far as I’m concerned, they’re Sunday morning hypocrites.
We’re in a sad office the size of a walk-in closet. There’s all the religious crap one would expect for a pastor: crosses, stenciled Bible verses on the wall, apple-cinnamon wafting from a Glade plug-in because I guess that’s what heaven must smell like.
On the desk are pictures of a perfect family on the beach. Each little girl is dressed in starched periwinkle dresses and wears a bow in her hair. Mom included. I suppress a gag.
I’m in the exact limb-numbing position as when Dad dragged me in here twenty minutes ago: arms folded, my ankles crossed, and I stare at the brown industrial carpet. Occasionally, I check the clock on the desk. My stomach is queasy as I don’t know where I stand with my father. He’s angry, and I’m angry. He’s disappointed, and I’m devastated. It’s like we’re a slow chemical burn bent on destruction.
“Why?” Dad shifts in the identical fabric chair as the one I’m in. Oddly enough, there’s no anger in his tone, just exasperation.
“You know why,” I whisper in return. While I have the courage to answer, I don’t have the courage to look him in the eye.
“Is this about the University of Kentucky?” Dad asks, and there’s patronizing laughter in his tone. “Do you really think you could afford to pay for school on minimum wage?”
A sharp pain strikes my chest; he makes me sound like a naive fool. The worst part is? I guess I am.
“Scarlett,” Dad’s voice drops, “I’m not doing this to punish you, but to protect you.”
Because he lost his sister. I know this, and the guilt inside me screams that I should let this all go—my hurt, my pride, this growing anger—but I can’t. I’ve given up so much over the years, and I can’t abandon this dream.
“About these . . . sessions,” Dad says slowly, “think about what you say before you say it. Once words are out of your mouth, you can’t take them back. I want you to use this time for you to let go of your grudge with me, but remember to think about your family.”
Of course, this is all for show . . . for Mom.
The door opens, Dad goes quiet and I lift my head then lower it again. Why can’t I catch a break? Wearing jeans and a white collared shirt, the pastor from Suzanne’s funeral walks in. He smiles at me, but then he stretches out his hand to Dad. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Pastor Saul Hughes. Pastor Morris is in a meeting. As soon as he’s out, he’ll come straight here.”
Dad clasps his hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for the last-minute meeting. I know it’s after five, but I do appreciate you fitting us in.”
“We’re here for you and your family.” All said with the same smile that’s neither happy, nor condescending or intimidating. It’s there, plastered on his face, and I wonder if pastors take classes in seminary to look approachable without showing an ounce of real emotion. “In the meantime, why don’t you take a seat in the reception area, Mr. Copeland, while Scarlett and I talk? Betty put on some coffee, and she would love to make you a cup.”
I notice the dark disapproval that flashes over Dad’s face, but I’ve trained myself to spot it. Like how doctors understand the subtle signs of a heart attack.
“When I spoke with Edward a few weeks ago about possibly bringing Scarlett in for sessions, I told him I was comfortable with both of you speaking to Scarlett. And I thought I was to be involved in these sessions.”
Impressive. Dad was able to say all of that without becoming the spawn of Satan. Even more impressive, Dad’s being his normal demanding and controlling self yet the smile doesn’t falter as Pastor Hughes sits behind his desk. Most people back down immediately to my father.
“Edward and I believe it would be best if he continues to handle the counseling sessions for you, your wife and then for you and your wife. Now that Scarlett’s agreed to meet with us, we think she’d feel more comfortable speaking to someone different. We also believe she’d be more comfortable if she meets individually with me for a few sessions before the two of you start meeting together.” He meets my eyes then. “How’s that sound?”
Awful.
Pastor Hughes said I agreed to meet with him. What a strange word—agreed. Does dragged out of the Save Mart and then driven here equal agreed? I don’t want to be here. I want my job, I want my dreams, but once again, being here is the path of least resistance. I know I’m expected to say something to appease him and my father, but I can’t.
The silence goes on for so long that it’s heavy, yet I’m unable to speak.
“Fine,” Dad says. “You can speak to Scarlett, and I give you permission to discuss everything with her.”
Permission is what I obviously need in order to do anything in my life. I’m not sure what “permission” Dad’s granting, but Pastor Hughes seems satisfied.
“We’re here because we’re having rebellion issues with Scarlett,” Dad continues. “She’s been lying to us. I just picked her up from the Save Mart, where it turns out she has been working there without our consent. And recently, she went to a funeral without our approval when we thought she was at home.”
My spine straightens. He knew about the funeral? In fact, how did he know about me working at the Save Mart?
“She also went to Glory Gardner’s for a tarot reading without our permission and was with a person we don’t approve of when she told us she was with her friend Camila. Of which, Scarlett, your mother and I are still debating whether or not to tell Camila’s parents that the two of you snuck out.”
I prop my elbow on the arm of the chair, and I lean my head into my hand. At least Dad hasn’t figured on that Camila’s mom is in on the act, but I’ve been caught and I guess I should be grateful that I’m here instead of home, where he could be losing his mind. I can practically hear Mom cooing, See, he’s changing.
There’s silence, and I peek up at Pastor Hughes to find him watching me. “How did you discover all these things, Mr. Copeland?”
“Scarlett admitted that she was at Glory’s, and I had a client tell me about Scarlett’s job. She was working while I thought she was at the library studying.”
Pastor Hughes switches his gaze to Dad. “And Suzanne’s funeral?”
I raise an eyebrow. Kudos to him for using Suzanne’s name. Dad readjusts in his seat yet doesn’t answer.
“Only the truth is going to heal your family,” Pastor Hughes pushes.
Dad rubs his neck then says, “I installed a tracking app on her cell.”
“You what?” I say.
“Mr. Copeland,” Pastor Hughes says, “will you please give me and Scarlett a few minutes alone?”
Dad mashes his lips together, and though I can tell it literally pains him, he stands to leave. He then places a hand on my shoulder. It’s a gentle hand, a loving hand, one as a child I came to expect and looked forward to anytime he left the room.
But this hand hit my mother last month.
It’s the fifth time this has happened, assuming he really didn’t slap her recently. The fifth time in twenty-five years, as my mother is quick to point out. I’m vaguely aware of some of the incidents when I was younger—I don’t remember the actual events as much as I remember the flashes of emotion. I’m fully aware of the one freshman year and then last month. Each of those has been seared in my brain like the crescendo of a horror movie.
“The app is on your cell so I can find you if you go missing,” he says.
I’m a strange combination of hot and cold, and I close my eyes. Should I hate him? Do I hate him? Should I want to hate him?
He hit my mom, he’s taking away my dreams, he tracks my every movement, but he’s sad. He’s broken. He loves me. He just wants to protect me.
Is this what love is?
Is love the way he decorated the living room with sparkly snowflakes when I had the stomach flu and couldn’t attend the fifth grade daddy-daughter dance? He dressed up in his tux while I stayed in my pajamas. I danced on his feet, and then when I didn’t feel good anymore, he watched Harry Potter movies with me.
A heaviness in my chest, and I wince because every part of me hurts.
Dad finally goes, the door clicks closed, and that leaves me and the pastor looking at each other. Besides Suzanne’s funeral, I’ve seen him before—at this church. I used to attend with my family every week. But that was before Dad hit Mom my freshman year. After that, God and I stopped talking. Maybe I’m the one who stopped as I’m not sure He was ever talking to me.
Pastor Hughes talks. He explains that I can call him by his first name, Saul, but I’ll pass on that. He explains that anything I divulge will be kept confidential, even from my parents. I pull a loose string off my shirt. He says other things that sound good, sound pretty. He asks questions I don’t answer, and then I roll my neck because I want this to be over. I want this entire season of my life to be over.
Then there’s silence, and somewhat embarrassed, I look up. Lost in my own thoughts I have no idea how long it’s been since he last spoke. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked how your friends would describe you.”
“Can we please cut to the chase—to what you really want to know? Or can I leave?”
Pastor Hughes stares directly at me. I stare directly back. He mirrors my position, relaxed in his seat and hands folded in his lap. Who knows? Maybe I’m mirroring him, though I can’t remember moving.
“I want you to know that I’m aware of some of your parents’ issues,” he says, “and they’ve given me permission to talk to you about certain things.”
Sure, he is, and sure, they have.
“I’m not here as an advocate for them. I’m here as an advocate for you. What you say to me will remain confidential,” he repeats.
I snort. I don’t mean to, but it happens regardless.
“What?” he asks.
I shrug a response.
“Tell me?” he pushes in a kind voice.
“If Dad wants to know what I tell you then he’ll find out.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s who he is.”
“That’s not going to happen. I’m not here for your father. I’m here for you.”
Goody. My bad luck never runs out, does it?
“How would you describe your parents’ relationship?”
Complicated. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Good.”
“Is the relationship your father and mother share the type you want when you’re older?”
Something dangerous coils inside me. “I don’t know.”
“What would you list as the good qualities of their marriage?”
I scrub my hands over my face as I start to sweat. Is the thermostat set to two hundred degrees? “They love each other.”
“What does that love look like?”
My face screws up. “Blue with polka dots. What type of question is that?”
“What would you list as the bad qualities of their relationship?”
All of it. Some people aren’t meant to be together, and maybe they’d be better apart. “Next question.”
“Is there abuse in your home?” he asks.
I flinch at how easily he says the words. Maybe he didn’t receive the memo, but we don’t talk about this. “I’m sorry. I think I misunderstood. Can you repeat that?”
“Is there abuse in your home? Physical? Emotional? Verbal?”
My mouth dries out, and it becomes harder to breathe. I glance around again, my eyes jumping from wall to wall, and I feel suddenly trapped.
“Anything you say in here remains between us,” he reminds me. “I’m here to help.”
And that is my undoing. “Why would anyone expect to come in here and be helped?”
Pastor Hughes doesn’t react like I want him to. I’ll admit, I wanted him to flinch but he’s unmoved. “Why would you say that?”
Is he capable of not asking a question? “If,” I emphasize the word. “If someone was being abused, you wouldn’t help them.”
“That’s not true.”
I laugh. It’s not the cute type. It’s the manic type, and I begin to wonder if I have gone insane. Like the Hatter has decided he officially has had a little too much tea. “So, if a woman was being abused by her husband, and the daughter happened to tell you, what would you do?”
“Talk her into calling the police.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I would encourage the daughter to do it first. She needs to be empowered in making decisions for her life, but if she won’t do it, I would. As a mandatory reporter, I’d have to.”
He makes it sound so easy. “Fine. She calls the police and the police show, what do you think would happen?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you think would happen?”
This guy is a conversational moron. “The woman would tell the police that her daughter was wrong and that the bruises on her face were due to an accident. The woman would say her daughter either misunderstood or was being overly dramatic or that she was some bitter teenager getting back at her parents. Or maybe the call wouldn’t be taken seriously because the husband is golfing buddies with the chief of police.”
“Did this happen to you?”
No, but it’s what Mom said she would do if I called the police after Dad hit her last month. “There’s no help for someone like this girl.”
“What if making that call led people in authority positions to become aware that there might be a situation and that forces all the adults, even the mom and dad, to seriously search for and accept help?”
“Will calling the police fix the situation?” I demand.
“Calling will help.”
“I didn’t ask for help. I asked if calling will fix the situation. What’s the point of calling the police or coming here if nothing will change?”
“What if it can be changed?”
“What if it can’t? What if this is a waste of time?”
“It’s not a waste of time. Help is available, and if there is ever abuse, the police should be called.”
“Why, so they won’t believe the daughter?”
“You call because I will believe the daughter.”
Hope. It’s there like the breaking of dawn, but that thin sliver of hope isn’t strong enough to break through this incredible coldness. So cold, I shiver. He says he’d believe me, but I don’t believe him.
“Does your father abuse your mother?” he asks.
I welcome the cold now, stare at the floor, and pretend I’m some place other than here.
“Has your father recently threatened you or your mother or your sister? Does he have a weapon? Has he done anything to make you think he’s going to hurt you or your mother?”
My throat burns and my knee bounces.
“If your father threatens you or your family, if he hurts you or anyone else, you need to call the police. It’s not okay for someone to hurt you or someone you love.”
Yet it happens anyway. “What’s the point of all this? Why do I have to be here? I don’t hit people, and no one hits me. And I never said my father hits my mother.”
Silence again as he studies me, and I feel like a sweater that’s unraveling.
“How would it make you feel if your father hit your mother?”
“I never said he hits my mother,” I say again.
“It’s a hypothetical question.”
I’m hypothetically considering screaming at the top of my lungs because that’s the most insane question I’ve been asked. “I’d imagine it would feel great. How do you think it would feel?”
“How are you feeling now?”
“Fantastic. Like sprinkles on top of a sundae.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. I’m angry.”
“And how is that working out for you? The anger?”
I tighten my grip on the armrests because it’s either that or flipping his desk. Deep breaths. Very deep breaths. Push down the anger. Push it down and drown. I can’t be angry. I can never be angry. I can never be my father. “I change my mind. I’m not angry.”
“You’re not?”
“Nope. You can go to school and ask anyone. I’m known as the Ice Princess. I don’t have emotions.”
“So you’re not angry now?”
“I’m annoyed, not angry. You’re asking me stupid questions, and I have a right to be annoyed.”
“Is that the only reason you’re angry?”
“No, I mean yes, I mean . . . I’m not angry.” I’m so confused.
“If your father had hit your mother, do you think you’d be angry?”
“How else would I feel?”
“Is angry how you want to feel?”
“Want? There is nothing about this life I want. I don’t want to be monitored every second. I don’t want to go to college here in town. I don’t want to be groomed to take over my father’s business. And I sure as heck don’t want to—” I choke on the next words . . . watch my father hit my mother.
My chest is rising and falling fast, too fast. Because I didn’t mean to say any of that, because I didn’t mean to say anything, I stand and go for the door.
When I place my fingers on the handle, Pastor Hughes says, “Living in anger is like being a ghost in your own life. If you’re willing, I’d like to help you let go of the anger. I’d like to help you be more than a ghost.”
“I . . . I am . . . I am not angry!” I stutter, and a flash of nauseating heat hits me hard.
Pastor Hughes stares at me with a calmness I resent.
“I’m not,” I repeat in a voice so quiet I’m not sure if he heard it.
“When you’re ready to talk again, I’m here,” he says.
I can’t take any more so I leave. My father shoves off his chair to his feet. “I thought you would be in there longer.”
I say nothing as I walk down the hallway. There’s this red-hot rage underneath my skin. Molten lava that’s desperately trying to erupt.
“Scarlett, wait. I need to go to my session before we head home.”
“Go to your session,” I bite out. “I’m not stopping you.”
His footsteps quicken as he tries to keep up with me. “Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“How?”
“I’ll walk.”
“This is ridiculous. We live miles from town.”
I spin on my toes and meet him eye to eye. He wants to do therapy, let’s do therapy. Right here in the hallway for all to see. “Then it’ll be a long walk, won’t it? But that’s my choice. Like having a job should be my choice. Like having a bank account should be my choice. Like having a counseling session with a pastor should be my choice. Like not living with a man who treats my mother the way he does should be my choice. My. Choice.”
Anger flashes in Dad’s eyes, but I’m saved once again by Pastor Hughes. “Mr. Copeland, Pastor Morris is ready to see you.”
I should become mute. I should become meek. I should lean around Dad and say words that would make Pastor Hughes think that he somehow misheard what I said, misreading another possible act of rebellion. I should do this because the hell Dad’s promising by his glare when we go home will be awful, but I’m sick and tired of being controlled.
With my arms stretched, I bow to mock my father, the king. The world belongs to him, and we’re pieces to be discarded at will. I straighten, and the Ice Princess officially leaves the building.