I nuzzle into Mommy’s hand when she curls it around my face. She pretends she can’t see the extra wetness in my eyes when she replies, “I have to let him kiss me, bubba. If I don’t, I won’t see you anymore.”
“W-Why?” I ask, lost. I go to school like a big boy, but I still see Mommy every day. Ophelia is too little to go to school, so Mommy stays at home to take care of her. That’s how I know the bump on her head last week wasn’t because she fell into the door like Daddy told Roberto and me. He pushed her. Ophelia said, and although she’s only four, she doesn’t tell fibs like Daddy. “If you g-go, we will come with you. R-Roberto said.”
Roberto is my big brother. He’s nine and knows more than any of us. He promised last week if Mommy went to live in another house like Daddy always threatens, we could go with her. His friend, Hayden, did that with his Mommy last year. His parents got something called a dimorce. Now his Mommy doesn’t cry every day.
“You could g-get a dimorce, then you w-won’t have t-to cry.”
Since my room is next door to my parents’, I hear Mommy cry all the time. It makes my chest hurt, and sometimes, little droplets fall down my face. I hide them like Roberto taught me. It hurts too much when Daddy sees them.
My bottom lip pokes out when Mommy shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sweetie, it isn’t that easy.”
Just as she scoops me into her arms in preparation to take me back to the room I share with Roberto and Dimitri, the bedroom door rockets open, and Daddy enters the room like a bear with a sore head.
He must have had too much medicine. I also get a woozy head when Daddy doesn’t follow the doctor’s orders for my special medicine. It’s meant to make me feel better, but most of the time, I’m super sleepy.
I fight my throat to swallow my spit when Daddy’s eyes drop to the murky red mess on the floor. Mommy cleared away all the chunks of spaghetti, but there’s a big splatter right next to her feet.
I’m about to hold my hand in the air like I do at school, but before I can tell Daddy the mess is my fault, Mommy pretends she puked on the carpet. “I shouldn’t have eaten pasta. I forgot how horrendous it made my morning sickness with Ophelia. I tried to make it to the bathroom, but I was too slow. I’m sorry, Colum. You know what I am like when I’m pregnant.”
I don’t know what pregnant means, but it makes Daddy’s face blow up like a balloon. “You’re pregnant?”
Nodding, Mommy places me back onto my feet and whispers for me to go to my room before she gingerly paces toward my father. “Go on, CJ. I appreciate you checking on me, but it’s time for you to go back to bed. It’s late, and you have school tomorrow.”
As she gently pushes me past my father, the tears I held back earlier fall down my face. Daddy’s hands look like big, giant balls. That only ever happens when they’re about to kiss Mommy’s face.
A big boomwakes me from my sleep. It’s not the same bang that’s awoken me at least once a week since Mommy told Daddy she’s pregnant. It sounds like a bomb went off in the kitchen, and despite me promising Mommy not to rush into her room when I hear noises like this, I jump out of my bed and sprint into the hallway.
My speed is so fast, I skid into the kitchen as if I’m on an ice rink. Where we live is too hot for snow, but Mommy promised we’d make snow angels one day. We just need to wait until our new brother or sister is here. Since that’s only three months away, we’re getting closer every day.
My hands shoot up to protect my ears when another lot of booms blasts into our house. Our place is not very big, and someone at school said it was worse than the hood, but the paint-peeled walls and dirty floor don’t look as yucky when men wearing black balaclavas let off fireworks inside.
I can’t speak very well, but I know how to read, and the letters across their vests are super easy.
FBI.
My heart patters in my chest when I remember what Roberto said about the FBI last month. He said they were the good guys like the police. Dimitri didn’t agree with him. He said they’re worse than dog poo on his shoe. We laughed about that for almost five minutes. That was a new record for us. We don’t laugh very much.
I’m not sure what I think about the FBI yet, but it’s clear Daddy doesn’t like them. Instead of getting on the floor like they’re shouting at him to do, he pulls out the big black gun everyone knows is hidden in the couch but no one is game to touch. Roberto almost lost a toe when he was four. He pushed the wrong button on the gun, and it sliced off the top of his shoe.
I clamp my ears even tighter when the bangs and shouts get louder. The ringing hurts so much, and the pain it zaps through my head makes me want to fall to my knees and cry.
“S-Stop!” I shout. My ears hurt too much. They’re being too loud. If they don’t be quiet, they’ll wake up Ophelia. Then they’ll be in big trouble. Daddy doesn’t like when you wake Ophelia up. That’s his job anytime he’s home.
Wetness fills more than my eyes when I race into the living room to tell them to stop. Daddy wants them to stop as well, but instead of using his words like Mommy encourages me to do, he pulls Mommy in front of him to use her as a shield.
The men surrounding him immediately stop firing, but it’s too late. In a scary two booms of my heart, Mommy goes from standing in front of Daddy to lying face-first on the stained carpet. Red gunk oozes from her stomach into the carpet like my spaghetti vomit months ago, and her eyes close two seconds after that.
“Mommy!” I scream, my voice finally void of the stutter I’ve had since I could talk.
As I run to help my mommy, a bullet whizzes past my head. It hurts my ears even more than the shouted words, but the pain in my chest is worse than that. When I kneel next to Mommy, the red goop seeping into my pajama pants hides the wet patch soaking the front of them. I’m scared and angry at the same time, and it has me acting out.
With tears streaming down my face, I leap to my feet and charge for my father. I don’t want to protect him. I want to hurt him. He killed my mother, but instead of acting like he’s sorry, he’s staring at her like he finally found the money pot he’s been seeking the past six-plus years.
“Y-You killed her! Y-y-you hurt Mommy.” I bang my fists into the lower half of his chest four times before I’m sent flying backward.
I think it’s because Daddy swatted me away like a fly but learned otherwise when a man with a big shiny head promises, “It’s okay, CJ. You’re safe. We won’t let him hurt you anymore.”
ChapterTwenty
