JULY
TWENTY-FIRST
Chris takes the hit to the back of his head with as little defiance as a teenage boy can. Defending himself, talking back, usually doesn’t go over well. Not that anything goes over well when his father is like this, but shielding his body or mouthing off can easily lead his father to turn on one of the younger kids instead. It has been three days since the latest episode began, and if history repeats itself, this should be the last day. It hasn’t been this bad in a long time.
Months sometimes go by with nothing. A quiet house, a semblance of normalcy—albeit a cold, intimidating household—and then, as if out of nowhere, it starts. Sometimes a clear bad mood triggers it, sometimes his father’s manic elation over whatever art piece he is working on ends in an abrupt downward spiral. The unpredictability is the worst part. Not knowing when it’s coming, when the rage and need for control will start, is perhaps worse than when the fire finally ignites. The waiting, the fear that an explosion can happen at any time, that’s what is most terrifying.
Well, maybe not the most terrifying. But there is a certain ironic release of tension when his father finally lashes out, because at least then the anticipation is over and there is something clear to deal with. To endure.
All Chris has to do is get through the day. Unfortunately, it is only late morning, so he has a number of hours ahead of him. As long as he keeps his brothers and sister from witnessing whatever happens, he’ll consider today a victory. That’s one of the things that he occupies his mind with during these times, strategizing how to keep them from getting hurt and from seeing as little as possible. And he thinks about the future and how this present hell is not forever.
It’s just pain.
All he has to do is breathe through it.
Chris is going to get them all out. He and his brothers and sister are unfairly alone in this, so Chris will protect them until they all leave for college. No one would believe them about what goes on in this house because his father is so fucking idolized around here. The hugely successful artist who bravely soldiered on after his wife’s death and raised four children on his own? The man who is routinely hailed for his dedication to his volunteer work? Who makes large donations to his church? He couldn’t possibly be such a fucking crazy asshole.
A number of years ago when he was in middle school, Chris made an attempt to get help after one particularly awful night. The night that his father seated them all at the dining room table and demanded that Chris lay his hand flat on the table. His father spent the next hour alternately holding a heavy rubber mallet two feet above Chris’s hand and then pacing the room, laughing and talking about building strength of character, teaching them to feel no fear. He talked about the respect that he deserved after all of his success. Chris only heard pieces of it, never really made sense of the words, because the sound of fear that ran through his own head masked whatever crazy stuff his father was preaching. Chris tried hard not to flinch when his father pretended that he was going to slam the mallet down on his hand. He didn’t want to scare Estelle, Eric, and Sabin more than they already were. He wanted to be strong for them, and he tried to reason that his father often enjoyed delivering hours of terrifying threats that usually didn’t pan out. For him, instilling fear was sometimes enough.
Still, Chris’s determination to hold still faltered. He couldn’t help it. After one of the fake swings when his father landed the mallet two inches from his hand and Chris automatically pulled away, Estelle and Eric both screamed and ran from the table. They were caught on the second floor of the house, where their father spent twenty minutes tying the twins to the banister rungs where they had an eagle-eye view of the table. Chris can still see the wire being formed into intricate twists and knots, like samples of their father’s sculpture, but perversely showcased around their wrists and their necks. Leaving was not an option and shutting their eyes was not allowed. Sabin and Chris never broke eye contact while Sabin’s hands were bound behind him, securing him to his chair. Sabin’s expression was worse than the twins’ tears, Chris thought. The look of heartbreaking sympathy for how much more Chris endured cut the deepest. Sabin didn’t get half of what Chris did, mostly because Chris needed him to keep the twins away from harm, and it was usually easy enough to get his father to direct all of his attention to Chris. He was the oldest; he could take it better. Keeping their father away from Eric and Estelle was often doable. Chris just had to bait him by saying something along the lines of, “You’re going to work the little kids over? What? You can’t deal with me? I’m the one you want.” He couldn’t always protect Sabin, but he tried because Sabe was more fragile than he was.
So that night wore on.
The threat of the mallet continued until Chris finally yelled, “Just do it!” knowing what this would earn him, but also knowing that his shout would end this episode. It would be the grand finale. It was the type of climax their father fed off, and delivering it would at least make the torture stop. “Do it!” Chris screamed again.
And his father did, pounding the mallet onto Chris’s hand, then tossing it aside and retreating to his expansive studio on the opposite side of the house. The pain was shocking, but as soon as his father was gone, Chris got up from the table. It took a while to find something to cut the wire and free the others, and he assured them repeatedly that he was okay. Yes, his knuckle was probably broken, but he would be fine. Sabin wrapped up his hand tightly with a bandage and homemade splint and got him two bags of ice to try to cut through the pain and swelling.
The next Sunday, Chris took Estelle to church as he always did. They got there early so Chris could talk to the priest. He showed the man his hand, tried to explain. It backfired. At that day’s sermon, the priest lectured the congregation on lying and sinning in general, and made a point to say that lying—especially about one’s father—was most certainly a sin. Chris understood what the priest was saying: After everything their father had done to support the church financially, this was how his children were repaying him? With lies because they were ungrateful troublemakers? Chris realized that nobody was going to save them. There were rarely physical marks to show, anyway, this broken hand being one of the exceptions. In this small town, there were few ways, if any, to combat their father’s public image.
After the church episode, Chris and Sabin talked it over and agreed: they shouldn’t try for help. Besides, even if help came, it would mean they would be split up. Who would take four children? And older children at that? No one. That’s who.
And they refused to be separated. That would be worse than this life. Together they could stand, divided they would fall.
Now that Chris is well past middle school, and fully grown, he has more self-control than he did during that episode with the mallet years ago. That self-control is what allows him to absorb his father’s blow without comment when a second hard hit lands on the side of his head. It’s not as blinding as the first. The repeated direct physical hits are unusual. And scary. Chris recovers quickly and continues moving the concrete and stone blocks from one side of the studio to the other. The underside of his hands is red and raw, and his legs and back hurt, but he is going to be fine. The lashes on the back of his legs sting something awful, but that’s what happens when you stumble, crack the corner of a stone block that could have been used as part of a multimedia art piece, and then get lashed with a piece of plastic cord. Who knew plastic could hurt so fucking much? It’s like that rubber mallet. It was just rubber, right? But his middle knuckle still shows the effects.
Chris drank a ton of water and ate well last night and this morning because he knew he would need to stay hydrated and need as much energy as he could find. He is seventeen years old, going into his senior year of high school, and he is strong, he reasons to himself. Mentally and physically. He can let this crazy bastard do what he needs to because there is no other choice. So when his father announced after breakfast that “it’s time to get to work,” Chris felt as prepared as he could be.
Rote, exhaustive, pointless tasks are his father’s preferred method of torture. Long hours prove a capacity for physical endurance, or so he says. The lashes and getting knocked around are not typical, though. This could be a very bad day, Chris knows, but he finds comfort in his belief that the others will not be touched. His father’s attention will be only on him today; he can feel that.
So far it’s been three hours, hardly a record. Eventually, this will end.
When the heavy blocks have been moved to his father’s incomprehensible degree of satisfaction, Chris is instructed to put his back flat against the wall and kneel with his arms out. Most important, he is to watch while his father continues to design the nine-foot-tall metal sculpture that occupies the center of the room. He is to watch while the artist lights the blowtorch and while he passes far too close to his eldest son. The heat from the flame can be felt with too much clarity, and Chris repeatedly tells himself that his father would not actually burn him. It’s the game that the artist likes, the taunting and the terrorizing. The utter exhaustion he causes. The breaking.
But I will not break, Chris screams in his head.
It’s been a while since Chris has had to prove his stamina like this, and he curses himself for having slacked off on working out. He is already worn out from the past few days, and his legs are shaking as a searing ache runs through his quads. Eventually his father has him stand up fully and raise his arms out to the side. The smell in the room is noxious, chemicals and burning metal. It’s adding to his queasiness. His arms are past the point of hurting. They tremble, but Chris will not let them drop, especially not while his father still holds that blowtorch. There are risks worth taking and risks not worth taking.
Chris is not sure how long he spends in the studio with his father, but his vision is blurred as he is led out of the room, so he knows it has been a long time. That first hit to the head was probably harder than he realized. He is taken out of the house and across the property. He is given instructions and then kicked in the direction of the ocean. It is when his father kicks him that Chris hears a small sound that is cut short. Before his father has a chance to make sense of the noise, to understand what it is or where it came from, Chris distracts him. He turns boldly to his father and finds the courage to mouth off. “What the hell is the point of this?” He earns a third hit to the head and double the task ahead of him. He has also spared the others. Getting caught hiding in a tree could be very bad for his siblings.
Before he returns to his madness in the studio, Chris’s father reminds him that he will be watching periodically. There will be no rest and no varying from the routine.
Chris walks ahead, relieved to be on his own for the rest of the afternoon, despite what he still has to do. He looks up into the tree and manages a smile. “It’s all right.” Chris knows it’s not all right that he is almost seeing double, but that will pass.
“Chris?” Sabin is crouched on a large branch against the trunk of the tree, and he has a firm hold on Eric and Estelle, both of whom look ungodly confused and terrified. The twins are not that little anymore—they are in middle school now—but they are not used to this. Chris and Sabin have protected them too much, so when they do see the truth, they freak.
“It’s okay, Sabin. He’s gone. I’m going down to the beach for a while. Why don’t you take Eric and Estelle to the movies? And dinner. Just grab your bikes and get out of here. Come back later tonight.”
“I’m not just going to leave—”
“Sabin, don’t! It’s not that bad this time. I promise you.”
Sabin pauses. “You sure? I don’t have a good feeling.”
“It’s almost over. Go on. I don’t want you guys around, or I’ll just worry. Please take them out of here. For me, okay?” He turns for the beach before his brother can protest.
“Chris!”
“What, Sabe?”
“Take this.” Sabin tosses down a red baseball hat. “For the sun.”
“Thanks, bro. Now go!”
“And here!”
Sabin drops two bananas into Chris’s outstretched hands. “Sorry. I didn’t think to grab anything else.”
“It’s all right, buddy. Thank you.”
Chris hesitates before putting on the hat. His father sent him out here in cargo shorts, no shoes or shirt. He’ll notice the hat for sure if he checks on Chris, but whether he’ll care or not is unknown. There are no guarantees, no rules. Chris decides it’s worth the risk because the sun is glaring today.
Chris scarfs down the bananas and then takes the two metal buckets from their spot on the boulder and begins. He starts at one end of the rocky shore, trudging through the heavy sand of low tide and into the salty water. The sting from the lashes on his legs is infuriating. This is a shitty enough day, and it would be slightly more manageable without the added pain. He berates himself for cracking that concrete block. He is strong enough not to have stumbled. Chris fills both buckets and walks to the other side of the shore where his father’s property ends, and dumps them out. He reloads and repeats the walk. This might not be so bad. Despite the circumstances, Chris loves the ocean. The smell, the sound, the view. It’s sensory overload, and it might help divert his mind, let him dream and fantasize about the good things that might come in the future. After this, everything will be exceptionally wonderful.
The first hour is tolerable. The salt water eventually feels soothing on his legs, and it’s probably good for cleaning his wounds. Plus, it’s helping to keep him cool on this hot July day. The water, despite providing the problematic weight in his already tired hands, is also his ally. He and the ocean are partners in this hideous day. It is not the water’s fault that Chris is suffering.
The second hour is tougher because his body is already so worn out. The past three days have been filled with grueling tasks, belittling comments, and threats about what will happen to the others should Chris fail at what is expected of him. As easy as it would be to let his mind take him somewhere else, into an imaginary world where this is not happening to him, he refuses to go that route. Escaping, blocking this out, will make him insane, he’s sure of that. Reality is crucial, he believes. Prayer will get him no relief. Begging the sky for a miracle won’t work. Chris is able to handle what his father throws at him, and he will just continue as he always has, shielding the other kids. The truth is that the gaps between his father’s episodes have gotten greater and greater over the years. It’s not as though every day in the house is filled with gruesome beatings. Save for a handful of physical incidents over the years, it’s all just a mind-fuck, and Chris will not let that drown him. He’s done everything that he can think of to take care of his brothers and sister, and he’s done a damn good job, too. Chris can’t exactly replace their mother, but he cooks, helps them all with homework, and does the laundry when his father lapses. He even walks Estelle to that church she insists on attending.
It’s during the third hour of this increasingly strenuous task that his resolve starts to crack. There is no part of his body or mind that does not hurt to all hell. It’s just water; it’s just water. How can carrying water be so bad? It can’t. Just breathe into it. Breathe into it and keep going. But every step becomes more burdensome, the act of pulling his feet from the sand more and more grueling. Every muscle in his arms feels like it’s going to tear each time he lifts up a new bucket of water. But if he stops, it will be worse.
He should have killed his father. He still could. He could kill him in his sleep with one of the hunting rifles in the house. Or he could poison his food. Maybe he’ll do that. For a moment Chris fantasizes about actually doing this, but despite all the reasons it would be justified, he knows that he isn’t capable and that it’s not right. And that having a dead father is a sure way to guarantee separating the kids.
He holds tightly to the vague plan in his head, which is merely that there is a future outside of this house. He will get his siblings to that future no matter what.
As his arms fatigue even more, the buckets drop down in his arms. He must make a conscious effort to keep his arms bent so that he doesn’t keep battering his thighs with the weight. Chris keeps a steady pace, though, because if his father should choose to look out from the upper windows of their sprawling house and see imperfection, one of the kids will pay the price later. As he mulls over the idiocy in perfecting such a meaningless task, he trips and spills half a bucket of water. Panic grips him, but he continues on.
Sweat drips from his upper body. Chris can feel the sunburn on his shoulders and back. It’s going to make sleeping tonight terrible, but he should be exhausted enough that nothing will keep him awake. Still he feels near to fainting. If he doesn’t take a quick break, he’s not going to make it. His father is going to ring a bell from the deck to signal when he can stop, but that won’t be for hours, he’s sure of that. Chris turns to the trees and looks to the upper deck of the house by his father’s studio. If he’s checking on Chris, he will probably be looking from there. He leans his head to the side to look past one large branch of a tree, and seeing no one, he drops the buckets and leans over, placing his hands on his knees while he dry-heaves. Damn it. He needs water badly. Man, what he’d give for just a little water. Chris turns and wades into the ocean up to his mid-calves. As tempting as it is to gulp down ocean water, he’s not that dumb. He shakes his head. No, he’ll just make himself sicker.
Maybe he has no future after all. Maybe none of them do. Maybe the four of them are already broken beyond repair. Can they really have any sort of life after this? Probably not.
Chris looks out where the ocean meets the sky. He could swim to another shore, run off, and never come back. He contemplates the idea of immediate freedom. Maybe he really should swim out there and never come back. Give himself over to the dark water of the Atlantic. But he would never leave his siblings. Never.
Suddenly, Chris realizes that he is making eye contact with someone. She stands on a floating dock in the cove and looks back at him.
She is beautiful. He can’t even see her clearly because of the distance, but he can feel her beauty. He guesses that she is around his age. She probably has a wonderful, normal life, the way every teenager should. Exhaustion, sadness, and despair overtake him.
The girl gives him a small wave, and he waves back. He knows that he shouldn’t do this because his father might flip, but he can’t help himself. He is drawn to her. Wait, does he know her? No, that’s not it. Yet there is a familiarity about her presence.
She cups her hands to her mouth and yells across the water. “Hi.”
“Hi, back!” Chris replies.
“Are you … okay?”
Chris drops his hands onto his hips and looks away. Shit, she’s been watching him. He must look crazy. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“What are you doing? With the buckets. Are you in training for something?”
Chris can’t help but laugh. It wasn’t a bad thought. Maybe he could pretend he is conditioning himself for a triathlon or something. Instead he is training for survival. “Sort of.”
The girl calls out over the lapping water, insisting that he needs a T-shirt because he has a horrible sunburn. She pushes him to at least go get a shirt. Her yelling could be echoing up to the house, Chris realizes, and he glances back to make sure that his father isn’t coming. She refuses to take no for an answer, and when she starts to untie her rowboat from the dock so that she can come to him, Chris immediately yells, “No! Don’t do that!” If she comes to the shore and he is seen talking with her … God, he doesn’t know what would happen. He checks behind him again. Still safe. He feels awful yelling at her like this. She is kind. She knows something is wrong, he can tell, but he doesn’t want her worrying about him. “Just … No. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Chris and the girl stand silently until he suddenly feels that they understand each other. He can’t explain his situation to her, and now she all at once seems to accept that. Chris struggles to fight back tears while they maintain eye contact. Perhaps it’s because he needs something, needs someone, but he is convinced that she is the reason he is not dropping to his knees and surrendering. This girl, he is sure, is his salvation, and he can practically hear the strength that she is sending him, the exact unspoken words that she hurls over the water. I’m here. I’m right here.
Part of him wishes she would leave. Stop looking at him. No good can come of this, he knows. But Chris can’t bring himself to ignore her, or be rude, or do more to push her away than he already has. When he tells her that he has to keep going, he can see her thinking, pondering what his actions mean. She knows he is in trouble, Chris can tell.
“I have to keep going,” he says desperately.
“I’m going to stay with you,” she tells him.
These are the kindest words Chris has ever heard, and it’s all he can do to answer her. “Thank you.”
He refills the buckets of water, walking them from one side of the shore to the other, emptying and refilling them. He treks endlessly through the mud, his feet often digging into shell shards. He recognizes that physically, he is near collapse. Mentally, too. She is the reason he can continue. He pauses once, noticing something in one of his buckets. A sea urchin. He is reminded how much life is out there in the ocean, in the rest of the world, all of it waiting for him. Maybe even she could be waiting for him. Who knows? But only if he can just do this. He takes the little green creature out gently and walks a few feet deeper into the water, letting it float to the bottom. With the current, maybe it will find its way to her.
Chris looks to her as he walks, nodding a bit. She is now in her bathing suit, having tied her red shirt to a life vest. Wait, what is she doing? Chris is moved beyond words when he understands.
“The tide is coming in,” she calls.
He watches as the current carries the life vest to shore. When it is close enough, he stops walking and puts down the buckets. Because his fingers tremble so horribly, it seems to take forever to undo the knots. She made sure they were tight enough so that the water bottle, in particular, would reach him. The red T-shirt that she has sent him feels like heaven when he puts it on, the cold fabric cooling off his shoulders and protecting him from further sun exposure. He glances at the house, and then he downs the bottle of water, raising it when he’s done.
He looks down at the shirt as it drips water over him. Matthews College. He doesn’t know where this school is, but it’s immediately clear to him that he will go there. All of them will go there. There will be college, and family, and joy. It’s a goal; it’s a future. It’s a goddamn plan. He smiles for a moment. Maybe he will even get the girl.
He will not fucking break. His father will not ruin him. Any of them.
Her voice sails to him once more. “I’m not leaving you.”
The sounds penetrates to his core. He feels partnership and love, and he realizes that he must be delirious because what he thinks so vividly is, She is the past and the present and the future. She is through, and over, and under. He knows this is inexplicable nonsense, but he lets her presence comfort him. So few things are comforting. She sits on the dock, unmoving, for the next hour and a half.
She is his rock and the reason that he is able keep moving until he finally hears the bell ring from the house. Tapping into his last reservoir of strength, Chris throws the buckets as hard as he can against a group of boulders near the shore. He did it. This bullshit, abusive task is done, and he made it. He paces back and forth for a minute, enjoying the brief high from completion. His arms are lighter now because he doesn’t have to carry the weight of the ocean, and he turns to the girl, the incredible girl who has held him up for hours, and he raises both hands into the air, his palms held high, fingers spread.
She raises hers, too, and they reach out as though they are touching palm to palm. Her fingers fold as if they are falling between his, and Chris makes the same motion. She has become part of him, this girl, and he lowers his hands to rest over his heart. He will keep her there always.