Page 3 of Finding Noah

But her cheeks were wet, and her eyes were shiny, and she still looked sad.

So, deep inside, I felt sad too.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered, putting one of her hands on my cheek. “I bet you're hungry, huh?”

I looked into her teary eyes, then at her mouth, and I saw a cut on her lip. It looked red and angry and a little bloody.

Mommy took her hand away from my cheek to touch the cut. “Oh, don't worry about that,” she said, talking really fast. “I slipped and fell earlier while you were playing outside. I'm okay, I promise. Are you hungry? Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

I nodded, but I wasn't hungry at all actually. I had been before, before I saw that cut on her lip, but now …

There was a gross feeling in my belly. Like I wanted to throw up, but I didn't feel like I had to throw up. I felt …

Scared.

Mommy was hurt a lot. Mommy fell a lot.

But I was starting to think Mommy also lied, and lying was bad. So, why did she lie to me?

“All right,” Mommy said, sitting up and climbing off the bed. “Come on, Noah. Let's go find us something to eat.”

***

“Seth, Seth, please,” Mommy said, grabbing Daddy's arm as he took my hand and started to pull me toward the door. “Leave him here, please. Please!”

“He's my son.” Daddy sounded angry. He usually did. “He goes where I tell him to go.”

“No! Oh God, don't take him from me, Seth. Do whatever you want to me, okay? Come on. You want to go upstairs? My parents won't be—”

“Shut up!” Daddy yelled, shaking his arm and pushing Mommy away.

She fell to the floor and her back hit something. The coffee table maybe. I tried to look over my shoulder to see, but Daddy yanked me away. I tripped over my feet, bumping into his side.

“Let's go!” Daddy demanded, dragging me along.

I wanted to cry, to scream, to tell him to stop … but I couldn't. Why couldn't I do anything? I was frozen, like a statue, and all I could do was exactly what he told me to.

“Seth!” Mommy cried. “Please! Please! Oh God, don't hurt him!”

Daddy didn't answer her this time. He just kept walking, kept dragging me along with him, until we were out the door. He pulled me down the steps, and I tripped again, but he didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't say anything.

“Daddy, where are we going?” I finally asked when we got to his big pickup truck.

“Get in,” he grumbled, throwing the door open.

I looked up at his face and saw the anger in his eyes. Why was he mad? Was he mad at me? But I hadn't done anything. I did exactly what he wanted me to do. I walked out the door. I’d left Mommy.

I don’t want to leave Mommy.

My bottom lip started to tremble as I began to say, “But—”

“Get in the fucking truck, Noah!”

His booming voice cracked against my ears, and it felt no different than if he had slapped me. Daddy hit me sometimes. Not as much as he hit Mommy though. But for some reason, yelling hurt more. It made me feel small. Stupid and embarrassed.

I hung my head and did as he’d said. I got into the fucking truck.

Daddy slammed the door shut behind me, and I buckled myself in while trying to stop my lip from quivering. I didn't want to cry, not in front of him, but it was hard not to. I didn't want to leave Mommy. I didn't want to go wherever he was going to take me. Daddy never took me to the good places. He didn't take me to the library or the park, not like Mommy or Grandma did. He took me to dirty places, scary ones, where people looked at me like I wasn't supposed to be there.