My father left the house, and I’m in my room. Mom hasn’t visited. Isabelle hasn’t either. I’ve sat on my bed, knees drawn to my chest, and I look out the window, searching for some sign of life at Jesse’s, but there’s none. The place is dark, shut tight, and his truck is missing from the driveway.
It’s late. So late. Hours have passed since I’ve been home. What’s happened to Jesse? Will my choices cost him his land and me my freedom? What have I done?
Headlights down our dark road and I will those lights to turn into Jesse’s drive, but they don’t. They instead turn into my driveway. Nausea ravages my stomach. My father’s home.
I strain to listen in the silence. From my bedroom, I can’t hear the kitchen door open, but I do hear his footsteps in the foyer then pounding on the stairs. My heart picks up speed and my chest becomes tight. My mother. He’s going to go after her, he’s going to yell at her, he’s going to hurt her.
The doorknob turns and there’s a crash as my door flies open and bangs against the wall. My father shoots in, he flicks the light on and I’m temporarily blinded.
“How long have you been lying to me?”
I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know if I should answer.
“How long have you been lying to me!” he yells, and I flinch.
Dad turns to my dresser, opens the drawers and he goes through them. Ransacking through folded clothes. I’m so shocked I’m up and out of my bed. “What are you doing?”
“This is my house.” He goes for another drawer and then another. “Everything in here belongs to me, not you. I’m the one who works. I buy everything. It all belongs to me, and if I want to go through it, I can go through it. If I want to burn it, I can.”
“Bryant,” Mom says in soft voice from the safety of my doorway. In a long, white nightgown, she clings to the doorframe as if she needs the support.
Dad doesn’t respond to her, he probably doesn’t even hear her. He’s in my room, but in his head he’s in a different universe. A hostile universe. A place where madness reigns. He crosses the room, rummages through my bedside table, tossing out my pens and notebooks.
I scramble out of the way as he grabs my mattress and flips the bed. The mattress lands on me as I try to get away. I push it off and tears prick my eyes as he tosses the box spring and it hits the floor with a boom.
Exposed is my closed shoebox full of cash, my laptop from Glory and the boxes of necklaces that I priced. He leans down, flicks off the top of my shoebox and I slap a hand over my mouth in an effort to stay quiet.
Dad straightens, a stack of cash in his hands, and he shakes it at me. “Are you selling drugs with Jesse Lachlin?”
My eyes widen and my heart stops beating. “No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I stumble forward to make him believe. “I work for Glory Gardner. You can ask her. I track her purchases on the laptop. Look at it and you can see. I price her jewelry. I do clerical work for her and she pays me. That’s it.”
“Are you doing drugs with him?”
“No.”
“So you’re sleeping with him then? My daughter’s a whore?”
The air rushes out of my body.
“The police told me how they found you. Naked in his truck at the top of the hill. Do you know how humiliated I am? Do you know how upset I was? How sick with worry? Do you know what it was like to wonder if you were hurt or dead? If you needed me and I wasn’t there? That I couldn’t protect you? I called everyone. Your friends, your mother’s friends, people I work with, and I told them that my daughter was missing and instead she’s having sex?”
“We weren’t having sex!” I yell.
Dad turns an unnatural shade of red, and he’s a steamroller as he rushes at me. I stumble, fear weakening my knees, and my back smacks the wall.
“Don’t you lie!” Spit flies from his mouth. “They found you with your shirt off!”
“Bryant,” Mom says a little louder. “Please, stop.”
“Admit what you did!” Dad yells. “Admit what everyone in this town is going to think by tomorrow morning! Admit that you’re a whore!”
“I am not a whore!” I shout.
“You’ve made me an embarrassment! You’re costing me my reputation so you could throw your life away with that trailer trash? You could have at least had the self-respect to sleep with someone reputable.”
Anger sweeps through me. I push off the wall and shout in his face, “I’ll take Jesse over anyone! Anyone else would have bowed down to you, but Jesse is helping me leave!”
“What did you say?” Dad’s voice goes deadpan and a warning chill runs through me.
“Bryant.” Mom touches Dad’s arm, and Dad turns on her.
“I told you years ago to never let her play with that boy.”
“They were only children,” Mom whispers.
“This is what happens when you don’t listen!” he shouts.
He raises his hand, she covers her face and he hits her. The smack of flesh against flesh is a knife through my windpipe. Mom’s head flops back, her body transforms to that of a rag doll, and she falls to the floor. Mom’s a lifeless lump, and I shout her name. She jerks, a quick glance up, and raises her arms as Dad lifts his hand again.
I scream, but I don’t hear the sound, I don’t hear anything but a high-pitched buzzing. I grab at my father, attempting to hold on to his arm, but he shoves me off.
He strikes her again, and she squeezes into a ball. He lifts his arm, and I run in between them, but he grabs me. His fingers dig into my skin, I screech with the blinding pain and he throws me. I hit the wall; my muscles spasm with the impact and I crumple to the floor.
Mom sobs, a gut-wrenching sound that cuts me deep, and I look up to see him strike her again and again. Blood gushes from her nose, her mouth. Dad kicks her and a strange sound leaves Mom’s mouth, a croaking wheeze as if she can’t get in enough air.
“You’re killing her,” I yell, and Dad staggers back.
He looks at me, he looks at Mom, then becomes frozen. A demented statue.
Mom’s crying, her entire body shaking. She tries to push up, but her arm gives as if there is no bone. She hits the floor, wincing as if breathing causes her agony. Blood stains her face, her hair, her clothing, my floor.
“Leave!” I scream at my father.
He slowly turns his head toward me as if he doesn’t comprehend my words.
“Leave!” I yell again, and he does. A slow, stiff walk that’s not fast enough for me.
I crawl, wrap my body around her and start to sob as if I’m a child. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”
“Mommy?” Isabelle says from the doorway. She’s in PJs and an American Girl doll dangles from her hand. She shakes from head to toe. We’re broken, so broken, and no one in this family will ever be fixed again.