little shit. You have no idea how lucky you are.”
She’s shaking from her anger and her eyes are bulging.
I glance from her to the shards on the floor and then back at
her with my mouth hanging open. She’s never been this upset
before. She’s usually subdued. But as quickly as the wildfire came,
it’s gone and the flames and rage in her eyes dissipates. She runs
her hands down her hair, combing it back into place before she
walks out of the room and leaves me to clean up the mess.
I get a broom from the closet and sweep it up, watching the
broken pieces fall into the garbage can as I empty out the dust
pan. I notice some travel itinerary to Paris and also Puerto Rico in
the garbage and wonder if that’s where my dad went. These places
seem more like a vacation, though, than a business trip.
As I put the broom away, I get lost in that night, the
uncontrollable anger in my father’s eyes, and the feeling of not
knowing surfaces in my chest. What is going to happen to me?
How do I make myself fit back into life when I thought I’d fallen
into death? And will I even ever have a life to fit back into again?
My mom can pretend all she wants that this is going to go
perfectly—that they’ll pay off Caleb and he’ll keep his mouth
shut—but I have my doubts and I won’t be the least bit surprised if
he takes the money and still presses charges.
I continue to analyze my plans as I go down to the room in
the basement and sit in the quiet. I take my phone out of my
pocket and stare at the screen with my finger hovering over the
TALK button. I want to call Callie so fucking bad. Because it feels
like she could help me, let me know some of the answers, give me
a reason to revive again.
“Hey, man.” Tyler stumbles into the room and slams the door
shut with his elbow. He’s got a brown paper bag in his hand and
he tips his head back and takes a swig from whatever is inside and
then wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt and directs the bag
at me.
I shake my head and put my phone away, taking Tyler’s
interruption as a sign not to call Callie. “No thanks, man.”
He shrugs and takes another gulp before flopping down in
the leather sofa across from mine. He looks more like he’s in his
late thirties than his twenties and his clothes are ragged and worn.
He’s missing one of his teeth, which he says is from a fight, but I
wonder if he’s a crack addict or something by all the sores on his
face. His brown hair is cropped and it’s thinning out and he reeks
of smoke and booze.
“How long are you staying here?” He kicks his feet up on the
table and there’s a hole in the bottom of his shoe.
“I have no idea.” I pick up the remote from the coffee table
and aim it at the television screen. “I guess it depends on what
happens with this Caleb thing.”
He removes the paper bag from the bottle of vodka and puts
the tip of the bottle up to his mouth. “Yeah, what was that about?”
He knocks a shot back and then slams the bottle down on the
table. There’s a red ring around his mouth from pressing the bottle
against it and I wonder if it hurt or if he even felt it.
I turn on the TV and begin flipping through the channels. I
don’t want to talk to him when he’s so trashed that he won’t
remember a word. Even though it’s probably wrong, I still have
bitter feelings toward him for bailing on me when I was a kid so he
could turn into this. “It’s called life.”
He laughs incredulously. “Life’s called beating the shit out of
someone?”
“It was our life for a while,” I say and he fidgets
uncomfortably. I crack my knuckles and my neck, resisting the urge
to ram my fist into the table in front of me. “I didn’t beat the shit out of him. I broke his nose, knocked out a few teeth, and bruised
the shit out of his face. That’s it.”
“Yeah, but what did Caleb Miller do to you?” he presses. “The
last time I was here,
She’s shaking from her anger and her eyes are bulging.
I glance from her to the shards on the floor and then back at
her with my mouth hanging open. She’s never been this upset
before. She’s usually subdued. But as quickly as the wildfire came,
it’s gone and the flames and rage in her eyes dissipates. She runs
her hands down her hair, combing it back into place before she
walks out of the room and leaves me to clean up the mess.
I get a broom from the closet and sweep it up, watching the
broken pieces fall into the garbage can as I empty out the dust
pan. I notice some travel itinerary to Paris and also Puerto Rico in
the garbage and wonder if that’s where my dad went. These places
seem more like a vacation, though, than a business trip.
As I put the broom away, I get lost in that night, the
uncontrollable anger in my father’s eyes, and the feeling of not
knowing surfaces in my chest. What is going to happen to me?
How do I make myself fit back into life when I thought I’d fallen
into death? And will I even ever have a life to fit back into again?
My mom can pretend all she wants that this is going to go
perfectly—that they’ll pay off Caleb and he’ll keep his mouth
shut—but I have my doubts and I won’t be the least bit surprised if
he takes the money and still presses charges.
I continue to analyze my plans as I go down to the room in
the basement and sit in the quiet. I take my phone out of my
pocket and stare at the screen with my finger hovering over the
TALK button. I want to call Callie so fucking bad. Because it feels
like she could help me, let me know some of the answers, give me
a reason to revive again.
“Hey, man.” Tyler stumbles into the room and slams the door
shut with his elbow. He’s got a brown paper bag in his hand and
he tips his head back and takes a swig from whatever is inside and
then wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt and directs the bag
at me.
I shake my head and put my phone away, taking Tyler’s
interruption as a sign not to call Callie. “No thanks, man.”
He shrugs and takes another gulp before flopping down in
the leather sofa across from mine. He looks more like he’s in his
late thirties than his twenties and his clothes are ragged and worn.
He’s missing one of his teeth, which he says is from a fight, but I
wonder if he’s a crack addict or something by all the sores on his
face. His brown hair is cropped and it’s thinning out and he reeks
of smoke and booze.
“How long are you staying here?” He kicks his feet up on the
table and there’s a hole in the bottom of his shoe.
“I have no idea.” I pick up the remote from the coffee table
and aim it at the television screen. “I guess it depends on what
happens with this Caleb thing.”
He removes the paper bag from the bottle of vodka and puts
the tip of the bottle up to his mouth. “Yeah, what was that about?”
He knocks a shot back and then slams the bottle down on the
table. There’s a red ring around his mouth from pressing the bottle
against it and I wonder if it hurt or if he even felt it.
I turn on the TV and begin flipping through the channels. I
don’t want to talk to him when he’s so trashed that he won’t
remember a word. Even though it’s probably wrong, I still have
bitter feelings toward him for bailing on me when I was a kid so he
could turn into this. “It’s called life.”
He laughs incredulously. “Life’s called beating the shit out of
someone?”
“It was our life for a while,” I say and he fidgets
uncomfortably. I crack my knuckles and my neck, resisting the urge
to ram my fist into the table in front of me. “I didn’t beat the shit out of him. I broke his nose, knocked out a few teeth, and bruised
the shit out of his face. That’s it.”
“Yeah, but what did Caleb Miller do to you?” he presses. “The
last time I was here,
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