will be over faster.
“You need to be more independent. You understand me? There ’ s no room in this family for spoiled brats.” He raises his finger and stabs the air. “Grow up, Lily.”
He lifts the bottle and takes a swig, pulling his lips back in a grimace. I wonder for the millionth time why he drinks something that obviously tastes so bad.
For a second, between the whiskey burning his throat and burning his belly, Dad is Dad again. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes smooth out, his lips tremble. I can see him fighting to stay, fighting the war against Grandpa Henry ’ s voice. The person I love, my father, is trying to hold onto himself. But the Hank inside him, his father ’ s son, is too strong. Hatred. Venom fed from the bottles he clutches like life-preservers. I want to tell him he ’ s more than nothing, that there is life, love, hope in him, but the second passes and his eyes are flat again with no light. These moments of seeing my father are almost done.
He turns to go. “God, you ’ re pathetic.” His words are soft like his mouth, like his thinning brown hair. The softness is what makes it true. If he screamed it, if he got in my face and yelled, it would be easy to shut out his meaning.
Binka pounces to my shoulder and twitches her tail across my cheek. I ignore the headache coming on and remind myself she’s kept me here, kept the bees away. When I don’t see the not-Hank anymore, I think maybe she’s made him go too. I reach up and scratch her neck. “Binka the magic kitten,” I whisper.
She sticks her nose in my ear.
Eleven
I’m trying to remember where Margie keeps her aspirin when the doorbell rings. Everything inside me bubbles at once because I know who’s on the other side of that front door. It doesn’t matter if he’s Hank or a not-Hank. What matters is the three or four bees buzzing their peace song. I want to go, can’t go. I want to fight him, can’t fight. I want to find a thread, can’t focus. The chain on the door bounces and rattles when he knocks. My smart feet are ready to walk on over. They know a not-Hank wouldn’t knock, that he doesn’t need a key to get in, that whoever’s out there is someone different.
Binka’s already trotted over, is sitting in front of the door, peering up at the peephole like she knows that’s where you look to see who’s knocking. I half expect her to walk right up the door and twist the knob.
The bell ding-dongs again. “Delivery for Lilliana Berkenshire!” someone shouts through the door.
The bubble pops and I feel my whole body breathe. Not Hank. My legs shake underneath me when I stand and walk toward the door.
Binka’s got her head twisted around. She’s looking at me with her whiskers bunched up. You ’ re taking too long , her expression says. There are new people on the other side of that door to worship me and say I ’ m pretty. Hurry up, strange human.
I look through the peephole. It’s a Fed Ex delivery guy. I’ve been waiting and not waiting for Mom’s letter, trying not to think about it.
I open the door.
“Good afternoon,” he says. “I was beginning to think no one was home.” He gives me a big smile when Binka scales me and sits on my shoulder.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Oh, no worries.” He nods at Binka. “Cute kitten.”
“Thanks.” I’m looking at the flat orange and white cardboard in the guy’s hand. I’m watching it like it’s going to disappear if I don’t keep total focus.
“Are you Lilliana Berkenshire?” he asks after he takes a peek at his electronic clipboard.
I nod because I can’t take my eyes off the bright parcel, can’t get a word out. Mom’s last letter is in there. Mom’s letter to me.
I’m reaching for the clipboard and signing my name. The letters don’t look like letters, but he seems satisfied, pushes a few buttons and turns to go.
“Have a nice day,” he says.
I grunt something, close the door, lock up, latch the chain.
I
“You need to be more independent. You understand me? There ’ s no room in this family for spoiled brats.” He raises his finger and stabs the air. “Grow up, Lily.”
He lifts the bottle and takes a swig, pulling his lips back in a grimace. I wonder for the millionth time why he drinks something that obviously tastes so bad.
For a second, between the whiskey burning his throat and burning his belly, Dad is Dad again. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes smooth out, his lips tremble. I can see him fighting to stay, fighting the war against Grandpa Henry ’ s voice. The person I love, my father, is trying to hold onto himself. But the Hank inside him, his father ’ s son, is too strong. Hatred. Venom fed from the bottles he clutches like life-preservers. I want to tell him he ’ s more than nothing, that there is life, love, hope in him, but the second passes and his eyes are flat again with no light. These moments of seeing my father are almost done.
He turns to go. “God, you ’ re pathetic.” His words are soft like his mouth, like his thinning brown hair. The softness is what makes it true. If he screamed it, if he got in my face and yelled, it would be easy to shut out his meaning.
Binka pounces to my shoulder and twitches her tail across my cheek. I ignore the headache coming on and remind myself she’s kept me here, kept the bees away. When I don’t see the not-Hank anymore, I think maybe she’s made him go too. I reach up and scratch her neck. “Binka the magic kitten,” I whisper.
She sticks her nose in my ear.
Eleven
I’m trying to remember where Margie keeps her aspirin when the doorbell rings. Everything inside me bubbles at once because I know who’s on the other side of that front door. It doesn’t matter if he’s Hank or a not-Hank. What matters is the three or four bees buzzing their peace song. I want to go, can’t go. I want to fight him, can’t fight. I want to find a thread, can’t focus. The chain on the door bounces and rattles when he knocks. My smart feet are ready to walk on over. They know a not-Hank wouldn’t knock, that he doesn’t need a key to get in, that whoever’s out there is someone different.
Binka’s already trotted over, is sitting in front of the door, peering up at the peephole like she knows that’s where you look to see who’s knocking. I half expect her to walk right up the door and twist the knob.
The bell ding-dongs again. “Delivery for Lilliana Berkenshire!” someone shouts through the door.
The bubble pops and I feel my whole body breathe. Not Hank. My legs shake underneath me when I stand and walk toward the door.
Binka’s got her head twisted around. She’s looking at me with her whiskers bunched up. You ’ re taking too long , her expression says. There are new people on the other side of that door to worship me and say I ’ m pretty. Hurry up, strange human.
I look through the peephole. It’s a Fed Ex delivery guy. I’ve been waiting and not waiting for Mom’s letter, trying not to think about it.
I open the door.
“Good afternoon,” he says. “I was beginning to think no one was home.” He gives me a big smile when Binka scales me and sits on my shoulder.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Oh, no worries.” He nods at Binka. “Cute kitten.”
“Thanks.” I’m looking at the flat orange and white cardboard in the guy’s hand. I’m watching it like it’s going to disappear if I don’t keep total focus.
“Are you Lilliana Berkenshire?” he asks after he takes a peek at his electronic clipboard.
I nod because I can’t take my eyes off the bright parcel, can’t get a word out. Mom’s last letter is in there. Mom’s letter to me.
I’m reaching for the clipboard and signing my name. The letters don’t look like letters, but he seems satisfied, pushes a few buttons and turns to go.
“Have a nice day,” he says.
I grunt something, close the door, lock up, latch the chain.
I
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