Emily
If it happens once, it is a tragedy and it will haunt you forever.
If it happens twice, you need therapy.
If it happens three times, you will wake sweating in the night and panting for breath.
And if it happens almost every day from when you’re a girl, all of those nasty things will still happen to you, but they will be dulled by the numbing sense that this is just routine. Day in, day out, a fist, bared teeth, hate pouring like lava from you brother’s eyes.
When Patrick first grabs me, I freeze up. Some beaten, downhearted part of my mind thinks: Well, here we go again. The sense that I somehow deserve this comes over me. The bakery falls into background noise. An old man stands up, screeching his chair, but it’s like the echo of an echo, far, far away. Mrs. M screams, snaps, wails; I barely hear her. One of the students starts muttering something, trying to be brave, face turning beetroot-red, but his voice comes to me like the squeaking of a mouse. But that can’t be right. I’m the mouse, aren’t I?
This numbness lasts for around ten seconds, during which time Patrick drags me over the counter and shoves me up against the wall. I flop like a fish in his grip, completely paralyzed. All the confidence I was just feeling, all the spirit, drains out of me. I am an empty vessel.
Then Patrick brings his fist back, aiming it at my face, and for the first time in my life I think: Why? Why should he be allowed to do this? Why do I have to be his punching bag? Why do I have to take all this shit? What did I ever do to deserve it?
Nothing, I realize. Not one thing. I never did anything to deserve this other than be related to him, and as far as I can work out, that isn’t a crime.
The vessel fills up; confidence and steel pour back inside of me. I grit my teeth. My expression gives Patrick pause. He tilts his head at me, as though curious at this new behavior. Usually I’m either passive or doing what any normal person does when being attacked: screaming, begging. Now, I’m doing neither, just staring at him.
“No,” I say. I don’t speak loudly, but my voice seems to carry a long way.
“No?” Patrick repeats, as though that word, coming from my mouth, is impossible to understand.
In his surprise he loosens his grip on the front of my shirt. I don’t think. Using every small muscle in my small arm, I shove his hand away and dance to the other side of the bakery, near the counter where Mrs. M stands. The old man—a red baseball cap on his bald head, hands leathery, wearing a faded blue suit—steps into the scene.
“You shouldn’t be doing that, young man,” he says.
“Don’t,” I whisper, standing near Mrs. M. She puts her hand on my shoulder.
Patrick’s about to address the old man when one of the students begins talking. A wiry-framed teen with a knot of yellow hair. “There’s man threatening a woman in…”
Patrick lurches across the room, grabs the cell, and hurls it against the wall. “Don’t get involved,” he growls, looming over the kid. “This is between me and my fucking sister. Who the fuck do you think you are?” He shoves the kid in the chest. Not particularly hard, but Patrick’s a huge vending machine of a person and his not particularly hard is, in fact, particularly hard. The kid stumbles, trips, and lands in his chair with a thump. Nobody else makes a move. Even the old man takes a step back.
Patrick turns his face to me, a face I have feared my entire life. Part of me wants to shrink from it, or meekly submit to it, allow myself to be beaten and hated. But then I remember Jude, the old man, my new family. I remember my newfound confidence. I remember the fire in my belly. I remember that I am no longer reliant upon this man. I am my own person now.
“Emily,” he says, voice low and mean. He walks across the bakery until he is standing mere inches from me. Mrs. M clings onto my arm and tries to lead me around the counter, but Patrick extends his trunk-like arm, blocking us. “You need to come with me.”
“She doesn’t have to go anywhere with you,” Mrs. M whispers, her voice brimming with fear.
Patrick wheels on her. “This is nothing to do with you, you stupid old cunt!”
A collective gasp rises into the air.
He just called Mrs. M something she does not deserve, in a million years, to be called. This man is not good. This man is evil. You owe him nothing.
He turns back to me.
“Barry is dead because of you, Emily,” he says slowly, trying badly to restrain his anger. His fists are clenched, his lips trembling, his eyes shot with blood, his cheeks bright red, sweat sliding down his forehead. “My goddamn friend is dead because of you. What, did you think you’d just dance away into the sunset with that Jude fuck? Is that it? You’re my sister, Emily. Did you really think I’d just let walk away after something like that?”
“Barry is dead because he was a bad man.” My voice is unusually solid; no panic enters it. “Barry is dead because he hurt children, sold drugs, beat people for no reason. Barry is dead because he’s the type of man to stick his hand up my skirt and think nothing of it. Barry is dead because of Barry, nothing more.”
“You shut your mouth!”
He springs forward.
I drag Mrs. M behind the counter just in time for Patrick’s fists to smash into the wall beside which we were standing. The red-cap old man stands halfway between the door and us, rocking back and forth. His eyes are hard, as though they’re the eyes of who he was as a younger man. I can see him imagining what he would do were he strong and young, but as it is he just stands there, unsure. The students are rooted to their seats, seemingly unable to move for fear. The other old man just stares down at the checkers game, as if he can pretend none of this is happening.
I stand in front of Mrs. M, guiding her behind me with my hand.
“Barry made his own grave with the mob,” I say, my voice the same, solid tone. “Barry chose to make enemies. Barry chose to be a bad man. Barry chose to act the way he did. How is that my fault? Why does everything have to be my fault?” I take a step forward, gripping the edge of the counter. For a moment, Patrick is stunned by my words. He looks at me as though I have just sprouted wings; for him, me speaking to him in this way is exactly the same. “And, what’s more, big brother, you’ll be next if you don’t get out of town. Do you really think you can make moves on the mob and get away with it? I see you now for what you really are. A scared little boy.”
Spit slides down my chin, my black eyes pulse in pain and rage, and for a mad second I consider flinging myself over the counter and raining fists down on him. I fight the urge. I may be stronger—inside—but I’m not about to go toe to toe with this bear of a man.
“I’m your brother.” He states this as though it is the solution to every disagreement we could possibly have and, until very recently, I would’ve shared that notion. He is my brother. Surely I have to do what he says? But Jude, Mickey, Moira…they’ve made me see the truth, and the truth is that I never have to do what this man says again.
“I have a new family now,” I say. “And it’s not you.”
Patrick actually looks upset for a moment. He brings his hands to his face and rubs his eyes, as though fighting tears, and then makes a snort sound as though fighting back sobs. Then he shakes his head rapidly. An atmosphere of before-violence falls over the bakery. The old man looks up from his checkers games; the red-cap old man makes for the door. The students lean back as far as they can in their chairs. Mrs. M creeps into the backroom, finally succumbing to the desire to save herself rather than protect me. Which I can’t blame her for.
It’s as though this is a stage and the other actors have exited, leaving only me and Patrick.
His face hardens. “I guess I should’ve expected as much from a fucking mob whore, shouldn’t I? I think you’re forgetting who the fuck you are, Emily, and who the fuck I am. Who was it who protected you at the orphanage? Who kept a roof over our heads? Who dealt with the apartments? Who stopped boys from trying to rape you?” He rants on, getting more nonsensical with each word. “You know all those boys at school wanted to gang rape you. You saw how the other girls dressed, slutty skirts, tits on display. Who made you dress right so they didn’t rape you, too?”
“You’re deluded,” I growl, voice as low and mean as his was. He’s trying to twist me, using logic that worked on me when I was younger and more naïve. The worst part is, there’s a deeply imbedded part of my mind that believes him. I would succumb to that part of my mind usually, but now I fight it, beat it back. “I know the truth now, Patrick. I’ve changed.”
“The truth?” he roars, throwing himself across the bakery and standing over me, the only thing between us the counter which suddenly seems thin and small and useless.
“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to stay where I am. “The truth is that you’ve always made the world seem worse than it is. You’ve always made other people seem scarier than they are. And why? Let me tell you why, big brother. It’s because you wanted me to think that, no matter how bad things were with you, they’d be worse without you. Well, I know now that that’s crap. Do you hear me? Crap. You are worse than the outside world; you are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Uncertainty flickers across his face, but then he remembers. Remembers who I used to be and who he used to be. Remembers that I’m supposed to be a quiet, meek woman. Remembers that he’s supposed to be in charge.
“I am not,” he says slowly, as though explaining something simple to a slow child, “going to have my sister disgracing the last of my bloodline.”
I almost laugh. He’s really grasping now. “Bloodline?” I spit. “Since when did you care about bloodline?”
“You’re my fucking property!” he screams, pounding his fists on the counter. It cracks, and then snaps completely, falling away and leaving an open space between us.
“That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?” I sneer, scared but standing my ground. “You want to own me. You want to feel like the big man. But guess what, Patrick? I know some men a hell of a lot bigger than you.”
“Whore,” he mutters. “Slut. Bitch. Whore.”
“Throw your words at me!” I cry. “I don’t care anymore! You. Do. Not. Own. Me.”
“You’re a disgrace,” he says, spreading his arms. “And I won’t let you get away with it anymore.”
He steps forward, murder in his eyes.