Clara

The Night Before . . .

My feet stop on the sidewalk. For a brief second, I thought it was my father sitting on the steps of my front porch. I try to pull back my heart that’s threatening to burst through my chest, but it’s hard when you think the ghost of your worst nightmare has come back to haunt you.

“What are you doing here?” I ask my brother.

Vaughn stands, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. You usually stop by on Mondays. You didn’t.”

“I’m flattered you missed me,” I tease.

He’s obviously not in a good mood. Moody teenager is an understatement when he grinds his teeth. “Why didn’t you come over?”

I hold the keys in one hand and my school bag in the other as I start forward again. “I had a date.” Trying to sidestep the subject as I walk around him, I add, “I swear you grow a foot every time I see you.” He’s a full step taller than me now.

“A date with that guy? Cruise?”

“Yes.” I don’t bother mentioning that we’ve been dating for a while now as I insert the house key into the lock and open the front door. Seems like it’s not the right time judging by his surliness, and I like the privacy. That’s something I’ve never been afforded before. Not that I want to keep Cruise a secret. Quite the opposite. I feel the flutters in my stomach when I think of him. I’ll share him soon enough, but for now, he’s all mine.

He follows me inside. “I’m not sure about him.”

I click on the living room light as I head for the coffee table to set my stuff down. “Why? What’s there not to be sure about?”

“It’s just odd. You dating. And why was he dressed like that at the restaurant?”

“I don’t remember what he wore that night.” Black sweater. Black jeans. Charcoal jacket that hinted at midnight. My dark knight. “Like what?” I walk into the kitchen.

“I don’t know,” he says, sitting down at the small kitchen table. “Like an uppity Baynard prepster.” While filling the kettle, I laugh nervously, feeling weird admitting Cruise is alum of the school. “I saw his car. What does he do that he can afford a car that costs over one hundred grand?”

“What?” The stove clicks until the gas burner catches.

“Yeah, I looked up the make and model. It starts around one hundred and thirty-two K. I have a feeling his isn’t the base model.”

Cruise and I haven’t gone out a lot, both of us preferring to hang around here or his place, but the few times I’ve ridden in it I noticed the luxurious details of the console and buttery-leather seats. “Yeah, probably not the base model.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Answer my question. What does he do, Clarissa?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, Clara.” The way he says my name makes me look up.

“What’s your problem?”

Standing up, he comes over until he’s a foot in front of me, shadowing me from the light. I want to blame being a teenager on his irritable disposition, but deep down, it feels like more. “No problem as long as that guy stops hanging around you.”

“What are you talking about?” I step to the side but he mimics me. Then to the other, trapping me.

“You know what I’m talking about. He’s getting too close for comfort.”

“Whose comfort?” Looking up at him, I don’t see my ally. I see my enemy. My voice trembles and my hands shake as I watch the transformation in him—my brother turning into my father. Trying to hold on to any power I can, I don’t want him to see how he intimidates me. “Yours or mine?”

The back of his hand lands squarely across my face sending me to the hard linoleum. Tears sting my eyes as I cover my heated cheek, as he grunts, “Mine.”

I wasn’t wrong when I saw my father on the front steps tonight. He just goes by a different name now—Vaughn.

“Your comfort?” I ask through watery words, my strength evaporated.

I can see the struggle in his eyes—a mixture of shock that he hit me and . . . pride. “My comfort and my property.”

Property? His property? No. No. No. No. Scrambling to my feet, I will not show weakness. I refuse to fall under his demands. This time I will fight. For my life if necessary. But he’s my brother.

How is this possible? How am I here again?

I back to the corner of the kitchen, with a million conflicting questions firing in my mind, until the knife drawer is behind me. “What are you doing? What are you saying?”

His pinpoint pupils are targeting me. “Finishing what has to be done, Clarissa.” The phrase my father used echoing in my head. “This has to be done, Clarissa.”

“No, Vaughn.” I’m cornered, so I plead, “You’re better than him. Something’s made you angry. You’re hurt, but you, we, are better than him. We can change our fate.”

“No, we can’t. He made us who we are.”

“Look at me. You’re not him.” Is he on drugs? His chest is thick with a fury that needs releasing. Please don’t let it be released on me. “You’re just tired. I can see the dark circles under your eyes. Go home, Vaughn. Get some rest. We’ll talk soon. I’ll come to the house tomorrow, and we can talk.”

And in the blink of an eye, I see my brother again. “You’ll come over?”

“Yes, but I want you to go straight home. Okay?”

The little boy I once hid under my bed to avoid my father from beating him for not eating everything on his plate returns, remorse sewn into the lines of his forehead as if he suddenly remembers who I am. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say, but it’s not.

It’s so not okay.

The nightmare of that night that I had tucked away in some hidden place hoping to never think of it again resurfaces. Vaughn was ten. I was raped while he hid under the bed. When it was over, I lay there still like I was told as he pulled Vaughn out from under the bed and dragged him into his room. I heard my brother’s screams but my body refused to move. Couldn’t move. It hurt too much.

The trauma to my mind was more powerful than what was done to my body.

The next day I saw the bruising and welts as I covered Vaughn with lotion. I wasn’t allowed to treat him with a healing cream, so the lotion my father had given me for Christmas was all I had. The scent—jasmine—makes me vomit to this day.

Did my father get what he wanted—a disciple to his church of pain? Can I save Vaughn from repeating the lessons he learned? Or is it a matter of genetics? Like father. Like son. I’ll say anything I need to save myself. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I don’t touch him, but I guide him to the door, and strangely, so different to how he entered not ten minutes before, he willingly follows. “I’m sorry I hit you. Things got out of hand.”

Memories come back like a flash. Vaughn’s mentor showing only one weakness—remorse. And that was only twice.

“I didn’t mean to do that, Clarissa.” He uses both of his hands to push my sweat-soaked hair away from my face, and then he reaches to untie my hands from the rail of the bed frame. “I’m sorry. Things got out of hand.”

I don’t move. Not my eyes though they remain open. Not my mouth though it remains closed. Silent. Not my body because I know the pain that follows if I do.

. . . the door closes and I lock both bolts. Staring into my house, my haven, the place that used to feel safe, I slide down the door and land on the hardwood floors.

Then I cry.

Two minutes.

That’s all I give myself. That’s the only allotted time for pity.

Habit.

Damn it.

I can cry if I want to. No one is here to stop me. No one, but my terror, as if the monster will return to punish me.

My father won’t, but it seems Vaughn might. How did this happen? Why now? Why today?

After a sad attempt to try to pull myself together, I grab my phone to call my mom. After six rings my call goes to voicemail. “Mom, call me. Something’s wrong. Love you.”

Getting up, I’m tempted to call Cruise. He said I could. Anytime. For any reason. But I don’t want to worry him. I also don’t want him to be exposed to the real hell my life is beyond these walls.

He’ll return for me if I call. I know he will, but I’ll feel terrible for taking him away from what he left to do. I’m curious to what that is, but I don’t know if I have a right to ask. I haven’t known him very long, but I know that Cruise doesn’t lie. He’ll tell me, but I want him to tell me when he’s ready.

Exhaling a long breath, I swallow hard. My hands are shaking as I go to the kitchen for ice and then my bedroom. I should lie down, but the place I’ve felt the safest has been violated. Maybe I should leave. But go where? The campus library? The bookstore?

My head is pounding. It’s been a long day and after facing what I just did with Vaughn, I need to try to think clearly. I’m not sure if it’s drugs or post-traumatic stress syndrome he’s suffering from, but I have to put an end to it before it’s too late. I refuse to lose my brother to some fucked-up gene passed from father to son.

Dropping to my knees, I say a quick prayer. This time it’s not for the cursing that came too easily, but for my brother.

* * *

Pushing away from the counter, I pace circles around the large island of my mom’s kitchen. “We can’t ignore his behavior. Where is he? What is he doing?” When I stop, I cross my arms over my chest, but keep checking the front door to make sure he doesn’t catch us talking about him. “Mom?”

She sets the spatula down, leaving the cookies on the sheet, and sighs in annoyance. “I hear you, Clara, but I’m thinking. I don’t have all the answers. If I did, I would have handled it already.”

“What do you mean already? I thought his behavior was him acting out, him being a teenager.”

Turning her back to me, she continues removing the cookies and placing them on a plate. “You’ve only seen him in short periods, over dinner a couple times in a month. I live with him. I see it. I see how he’s changing. Agitated since that man sto—”

“What man?” I rush to the counter and yank the spatula out of her hand. “What man, Mom?”

The action startles her and she turns to me. “Clara, calm down.”

“No,” I say, raising my voice. “I won’t calm down. Vaughn hit me.”

“What?”

“We can’t treat him like a baby. Something is going on with him and we need to sort this out.” Then I ask the question I haven’t wanted to face all afternoon. “Has he hurt you or Toby?”

As if she hears my littlest brother crying, she lends an ear toward the doorway to the rest of the house. “Not Toby.”

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. “You?”

“It was just a little pushing. Nothing I can’t handle.”

I rub my hands along my eyebrows, closing my eyes. Vaughn isn’t home, but when I look back at her, I still whisper, “It’s a cycle of abuse. Something he’s learned through example. We have to break it, Mom.”

Nodding, she says, “I know, but I thought I could deal with it and put it to rest.” Touching my cheek, she rubs gently. Her forehead is riddled with unforgiving lines that years of fear and worry have carved into her skin. “I’m sorry you were hurt. I should have told you.”

“Warned me, you mean.”

“Warn—”

The front door opens and we share an all-knowing glance before Vaughn sees us. “Hey,” he says, skeptically.

Managing my tone, I keep it even. “Hey.”

The door is slammed shut. “What are you doing here?” Dumping his backpack on the floor by the door, he walks to the recliner and flops down, then flips the footrest up.

“I said I’d come by, so here I am.”

He clicks on the TV with the remote in his hand, not acknowledging me. It’s how my father treated us.

Rage surges inside me and I grab the remote, throwing it to the far end of the couch.

The chair comes flying up and his hand rises into the air. “What the fuck?”

My body recoils, my back arching down, and my head tucking under my arms. The expected blow doesn’t come, but my mom’s voice does. “Sit. Down. Vaughn.”

I take a shaky breath and dare to look up just as he sits down in the leather chair. Peeking over at my mom, she exhales a long, slow breath, and looks at me. “We aren’t going to be that family anymore. We’re in this together. We all suffered at the hands of abuse of that despicable man.” Turning her attention to Vaughn, she points her finger at him. “If you ever raise a hand to any of us or anyone else, I will handle you myself. Do you understand?”

The threat isn’t veiled. She’s not a weak person. My father threatened to kill her constantly. She stayed alive and probably kept us alive too.

He says, “I’m sorry,” but the remorse I heard and saw last night isn’t present today.

My mother sits on the couch closest to him, taking his hand in hers. “I love you, Vaughn. You can tell me anything and I will do whatever you need me to do to help. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles and tugs his hand out of hers.

Her sad sigh follows and she looks to me where I’ve taken cover behind the other side of the couch, standing behind it. “A man has come by twice to tell us your father is in debt to him.”

“But he’s dead,” I say.

“He said the debt is still owed. He either wants his money back or what he paid for to be delivered.”

I’m almost hesitant to ask in fear of what the answer might be, but we have to resolve this matter. “What did he pay for?”

“He didn’t say, but he paid three hundred thousand dollars for whatever it is.”

Gasping, my eyes bulge. “That’s insane!”

Vaughn kicks the footstool down abruptly and stands. Tracking him to the window, he stops, and I can see it then. The weight of the world is pressing down on him. He’s too young to bear such a burden.

My mom replies, “Yes. His insurance policy was only worth two hundred fifty thousand dollars, which, as you know, we sunk into the houses. So even if we sold them, we won’t have enough.”

I didn’t realize my body had gone slack and the arm of the couch was holding me up. Not until I realized I needed to sit down. Fumbling my way around, I drop my head into my hand.

Vaughn says, “We don’t have much time left to figure this out.”

My mom adds, “I don’t know what to do.”

In that moment the change in Vaughn becomes apparent. He’s stepping into the “man of the house” role of our family, and horrifyingly, he’s misunderstood that role to include violence. How do we undo that? “How much time is left?”

Vaughn looks straight into my eyes. It’s sad to see, but his innocence is gone. A cold, hard replacement is firmly intact. “Not more than a week or so. He didn’t give a date, but he said by mid-month.”

“What does that mean?” Panic rises inside. “What will happen?”

When my mom is about to respond, Vaughn holds his hand up and cuts in before she can speak, “I don’t know, but I’ll do the best I can.”

My mom and I speak in unison, “What?”

He nods, taking in the backyard with some foolish pride that this family is his to protect all on his own. Giving us a look that’s too familiar from eyes that match his, he says, “I’ll take care of it.”

I stand in protest. “You will not. I’m not willing to let you ‘take care’ of anything. You’re a kid—”

“And you’re a fucking woman,” he roars, hitting the blinds, which then come toppling down.

Then we hear the cries from the back bedroom. Toby. But we all stare in a standoff, my mom and me against Vaughn. Although my heart is racing, I keep my voice low and ask, “Are you on drugs?”

His glare is daggers straight to my heart. I’ve seen that stare too many times in my twenty years. “Don’t question me, Clarissa.” He releases a harsh breath, and then adds, “The baby is crying.”

My mom stands from the couch and hurries past me and down the hall.

Protective.

Love.

Care.

Friendship.

Even motherly.

I’ve felt all those things for my brother, but now I have to add hate to the list. Right now. Right here. I hate him.

Hurrying to the coatrack, I snag my purse and sweater, and open the door. To my back, he says, “Watch yourself, Clarissa.”

I whip around. “Don’t threaten me, Vaughn.”

“It’s not a threat. Keep yourself in check.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

He turns his back to me, the aggression leaving his body as if he was possessed and now he’s free. How do we undo this? “Just go, Clara.”

I do. I go because horror has returned in the form of cutting words and physical violence. I go because tears are filling my eyes and I don’t want to cry in front of him. He’ll take that weakness and feed off it to build his strength. But most of all, I can’t see Toby. I’m in no place to put on a fake smile to keep him from being scared. He reads me too well.

Today another place of safe haven has been tainted. I feel sick with fear.

Again.