“Did I call you names? Verbally abuse you?”
My eyebrows twitch. He didn’t do that either. It’s hard to explain what this man did to me. Out loud it sounds like nothing, the kind of thing that would earn an eye roll and a mouthed “attention seeker” above my head.
“Did I walk out on you and your mum a few times?” My dad sighs. “Yes, I did, but I preferred not to be there and to let things settle down, rather than be there and have your mum spiral. That’s what it all comes down to, doesn’t it . . .”
Keegan looks past me to ask my dad, “What?”
“He was jealous of my relationship with his mum. Thought I was taking her away from him.”
“You did,” I say numbly. “Every time you came back.”
I sound petty. I sound pathetic.
“I wasn’t a good dad to you, I’m the first to admit that, but it wasn’t all bad. It certainly wasn’t what you’re trying to make out. We had fun. We used to play catch in the garden, do you remember that? We used Grandad’s old cricket ball.”
I shudder. Areas of my body throb with the memory of that ball, and my heart quickens at the fear of him throwing that thing up in the air and then catching it, over and over until he finally asked if I wanted to play outside. It wasn’t an option to say no. He wanted to play whenever he got bored, and the game was simple, catch the ball or be hurt trying. It was aggression hidden in the form of sport, with him telling me it was for my benefit, to improve my reflexes, get me better at PE, build up my stamina.
It wasn’t abuse; it was “good parenting.”
“See,” my dad says. “Look, your mum’s gone now, son, it’s just me and you.” He grins. “And the lovely Keegan too.”
I can’t do this.
It’s too much.
“Get out,” I say.
My finger shakes as I point at the door.
“Freddie . . .” Keegan murmurs.
“Get the hell out!” I lurch towards the table, and my thighs knock the edge, rattling the plates and cutlery, but it’s not enough. I lash out with my hand, knocking an empty wine glass to the floor. Keegan muffles her surprised gasp with her hand as it shatters and skids across the tiles with enough momentum to hit the skirting board.
My dad shakes his head. “You can do so much better than my son.”
“Out!”
Tears burn my eyes, but he retreats, waving a dismissive hand over his head as he goes. I don’t move, I just wait for the slam of the door, and when it comes, I drop down to a crouch, supporting my weight with one hand braced on the floor.
“Why did you contact him?”
Keegan’s steps skittishly across the tiles, and I grab the leg of the table to steady myself while black spots dance in my vision. I turn to her to apologise, but she hurries past me and runs upstairs.
“Keegan?”
The room tilts as I get to my feet, and I go after her only to find the bathroom door locked. “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t answer.
“I know you were trying to do a nice thing.”
This time she answers, but it’s in the form of taps turning on to fill the bath and drown me out. I draw my knees up to my chest as I rest my back against the door, but sitting there, being ignored like this, it’s too reminiscent of my childhood.
This is how my mum acted every time he left, like I didn’t exist. She’d go into the bathroom, and I’d wonder what she might doin that bath. I’d think about her razor on the side, or the nail scissors in the cabinet. Once, I ran to Ryker and Liam’s house when they were visiting their grandparents and begged their mum to help. She came back with me, spoke to my mum through the door, and when she came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her, she acted like I was only after attention. Like I was clingy and hysterical, because that’s how my father made her see me. And it would take weeks for her to open her heart and accept me again, only for him to return and for the cycle to repeat.
I can’t stay here.
I need to get out.
