The front door opens before I have the chance to place my hand on the doorknob. My stomach jumps to my throat as I expect Dad to tower over me, but it’s not my father, it’s my mother. Her eyes are wide, her face pale and drawn. She grabs hold of my hand and drags me into the house, closing the door behind her with great care to not make noise.
“Go to your room,” she whispers. “And stay there. Don’t come out until I tell you.”
My heart beats at every pressure point. I’m five years old again being ushered away to a promised safety that doesn’t exist. Somehow, when Mom looks this scared, I’m always five.
The back door opens and shuts with a slam. “Scarlett!”
I stop breathing and Mom gives me a look that screams danger. She pushes me toward the stairs. “Run.”
I do. Up the stairs, but it doesn’t feel fast enough. It’s like I’m caught in slow motion, running through wet sand. Dad’s footsteps pound against the hardwood of the foyer. “Scarlett, come here!”
“You don’t want to do this,” Mom says in her soothing tone. “Let her go upstairs while you have a chance to calm down.”
“She walked out on me!” he shouts at Mom. “I took her to counseling and she left!”
“They told us she might act out once we brought her to counseling. That we would be drudging up emotions in her that she hasn’t faced. They told us that we need to be patient. This isn’t Scarlett. This is the result of her counseling session.”
“She wasn’t there when I left!” his voice booms. “That was her choice! Scarlett! Get down here now!”
A shiver runs through me so forcefully that I slip on the stairs. I fall, my knee slamming into the corner of the step and my head hits the railing. Pain spikes through me, but I ignore the throbbing. I have to keep going.
“Get out of my way!” he yells, and there’s a crash. Glass shattering. With my hand on the railing, I drag myself to my feet and look down. In chunks and pieces throughout the foyer are the remnants of Mom’s favorite vase. The one her mother gave her. The sole heirloom from her past.
With her arms outstretched, my mother stands at the bottom of the stairs, a wall between me and him. Dad looms over Mom, and while she stands strong, I cower for her.
Panic races through me. Self-preservation screams at me to lock myself in my room, but love begs me to save my mom. I do neither, instead I’m frozen, except for my lips. They move, and sound tumbles out. “Mom.”
Both Mom and Dad’s gazes snap up to mine. Dad’s chest moves rapidly, breathing hard with his anger, and Mom somehow appears so calm that I blink because it can’t be real. While keeping her eyes locked on me, Mom reaches out and slowly places a hand on Dad’s chest. My heart stutters as I expect him to push her away, but he doesn’t. He only closes his eyes.
“Go to your room, Scarlett,” Mom says. I swallow as I feel like I should stay. Terrified if I leave, Dad will release all his anger and hit her again, but then red-hot nausea causes me to break into a sweat. What if staying makes things worse?
“Do what I ask,” Mom says in a soft voice, “and take Isabelle with you.”
My eyes shoot straight to the second-floor landing and there is my sister. Her entire face void of color, her little fingers squeezing her doll tight to her chest. Mom protects me. I protect Isabelle. Those are our jobs. I scurry to my feet, grab my sister, swing her up to my hip and race to my room.
Isabelle clings to me as she presses her doll and fingers into my neck. In my room, I close my door, lock it and pretend that will keep the monsters away. I climb onto my bed, and Isabelle doesn’t let go. She only tries to burrow further into me, as if she could find a way to climb inside my chest and hide. I hold on to her and she holds on to me and we lay perfectly still.
Shouting.
My father irate, my mother begging for him to be calm. He blames me, he blames Mom, he blames Isabelle, he blames Pastor Hughes. Everyone but himself. And my mom, I wish she would shut up and hide. I wish she wouldn’t confront him. I wish I had kept my mouth shut. I wish for an entirely different life.
It goes on and on. Their voices bouncing in volume as they move from room to room.
It feels like weeks pass, days pass, when in reality it’s hours. A circle of loud voices that never ceases.
“Have you considered that Scarlett’s rebellious behavior is because of our college decision? Maybe if we give her a little bit of freedom . . . ?” Mom’s plea is clearer than any of the other things they’ve said. They’re moving up the stairs. I pray she makes it safely.
“It’s not about where she goes to college,” Dad snaps. “This is about Scarlett lying to us.”
“But the speech therapy degree means so much to her.”
“She’s trying to divide and control us. She’s mad you’ve forgiven me. We have to stand firm together if we’re going to save our family. We can’t give in to her. We have to stand strong.”
“But maybe if you allowed the job she’d see that as an act of faith from you—”
“Whose side are you on?” Dad roars outside my door. Isabelle and I jump and cling tighter to each other. “It should be my side! My side, not hers!”
“Please don’t yell at me,” Mom begs, and I choke as Mom begins to cry. “Just please stop yelling. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t.”
My heart rate raises. I let go of my sister and clutch the blanket. I feel as if I’m being thrown out into the vast vacuum of space, spiraling out of control. My lungs squeeze, and I gasp for breath. I caused this. If he hurts her, it’s my fault.
Pain in my chest, my muscles ache, and I can’t suck in enough air. Sweat beads along my skin, and as Mom continues to cry and Dad continues to shout, no air goes into my lungs. I can’t breathe, and I’m going to die.
Isabelle’s little body shakes into mine, her tears streaming through the material of my shirt. Mom cries louder, I see stars as I fight to breathe and then . . .
“I’m sorry.” Dad sounds so tired. So contrite. Like a different man. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to yell. I never thought Scarlett would actually leave. I never thought she would outright disobey like she has. When she left, I thought she was going to wait in the car for me and then when I couldn’t find her after my session . . . it scared me.”
I freeze and so does my sister. It’s like we’re on the edge of a blade and the wrong move could cause us to be sliced.
“Don’t cry—” Dad’s voice breaks as if he’s on the verge of tears. “Please don’t cry. I love you. So much. Please forgive me. Please, just forgive me.”
He continues like that as Mom continues to weep. Eventually she tells him that she forgives him and that she loves him and it goes silent, except for the eventual click of their bedroom door being closed.
Second verse same as the first.
Isabelle and I stay silent on my bed, holding one another. An hour goes by. Then another. I stop keeping count. Eventually she drifts off, and I become brave enough to bundle her up in a blanket and carry her to her room.
When I place her on her bed, she becomes barely coherent enough to lift her arms as I change her into pajamas and to whisper she loves me as I leave.
In the hallway, I pause outside my door, straining to hear anything from my parents’ bedroom, but beyond my father’s muffled snore, there’s nothing. How can they do that? Go from one hundred to zero in minutes? From warpath to sleep as if that’s natural? I’ll be lucky if I sleep the rest of the week.
I enter my bedroom, close the door, lean back against it and wonder if I should turn on the lights and read until sunrise, but a tap on my window causes my forehead to furrow.