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Especially with a demanding princess like my baby sister. She keeps me on my toes, wanting new hairstyles every now and then. And I can’t say no to a pouty Naomi.
Naomi is four years old, and she has never spoken a word to us. I would have thought she was mute, if I hadn’t caught her speaking quietly to her dolls one day. It was a one-time thing, though, and it never happened again. But it was enough to let me know that my sister can speak. She just chooses not to.
So, every day, I try to get her to speak. Whether it’s striking up random conversations, or bribing her with marshmallows. For some reason, Naomi thinks she can’t speak in front of me or our mother.
“I’ll do two pigtails today, okay?”
She nods silently, and I continue with my task. Naomi opens her storybook over her lap and after scanning over the pictures and words, she turns the page. “Do you want me to read you the story?”
She lets out a quiet exhale, which only I know is a happy sigh in her language. She goes back to the first page, and I start with the story, while continuing to style her hair.
I don’t have to look at the pages. I have the story memorized by heart, since I’ve been reading it to her since she was a year old. The Princess and the Pea. It’s her favorite story, along with The Little Mermaid.
They were her bedtime stories, as she cried through the night, and the only thing that ever soothed her was me reading to her. Our mother once said that Naomi must have found my voice calming. I like that idea.
I like knowing that I can soothe her — when our mother won’t.
Not because she can’t.
It’s because she won’t bother trying.
My gaze moves to her sleeping form, a few feet away from us. She’s facing the other side, where the twin mattress is pushed up against the wall. Mothers are supposed to be nurturing, the source of love and affection for their children. Hadley Avery is none of those.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, make her stop!”
I bounce my baby sister in my arms, trying to get her to stop crying. She’s been in tears and screaming at the top of her lungs for hours now, and nothing will make her stop. I changed her diaper, offered her milk, tried to put her to sleep — but she just won’t stop crying.
“She might be in pain,” I whisper, absolutely terrified at just the thought of Naomi hurting and the fact that I can’t help her. I’m her older brother; I’m supposed to fulfill her needs. I always have—
But right now…
I don’t know what to do.
“No!” Our mother growls, stalking across the room of our very small living space. She rummages through our clothes, but I’m barely paying attention to her. “She’s just a fucking brat!”
I have Naomi in the crook of my arm, holding her firmly to my chest. Her tiny face is scrunched up, her lips pursed in a forceful cry. “She’s only seven months old,” I say, defensively.
Our mother huffs impatiently, and then walks back to the mattress. She lifts it up, makes an outraged sound in the back of her throat before dropping the mattress down again. She’s done this three times already, and I have an awful feeling that I know what she’s looking for.
Her fists are clenched, and I can see the visible furious lines of her rigid body.
My fingers brush against Naomi’s cheek, and I swipe away her tears. She looks up at me, her dark eyes blinking tearfully. She hiccups back a sob, and I swear it breaks my heart seeing her like this.
“What are you looking for?”
“The money I kept under the mattress.”
Time to rip off the band aid. “I needed it to buy her milk.”
“That was my last stash,” my mother hisses, her eyes dark and wild. Crazed. “I needed that money, you complete fool!”
Naomi needs it more, but I choose not to say those words out loud.
I know when to keep silent.
Aggression rolls off her in waves, as she runs her fingers through the hair. I’m afraid she’s going to yank it out. “I should have gotten rid of her when I had the chance,” she mutters under her breath, and it feels like I’ve been punched in the gut. “Now, it’s just another useless mouth to feed.”
What?
