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Standing in the doorway of the bedroom, Haven surveyed the damage from the fight as Carmine grumbled, opening his desk drawer and grabbing a bottle of liquor. He grimaced as he took a drink and kicked the desk drawer closed before plopping down in the chair and staring at the floor in the darkened room.
Unable to take the tension, Haven busied herself by picking up things that had been knocked over. She plugged in the alarm clock and tried to set it, but she gave up with the numbers still flashing twelve. Grabbing the picture frame from the floor, she winced as a small shard of broken glass stabbed her thumb. Blood oozed from the cut as she set it down on the desk.
“Christ, you’re bleeding.”
Carmine tried to grab her hand, but she pulled away. “You broke the picture frame.”
He groaned. “So? Just stop cleaning. None of that shit is important!”
“It is important.” She fought back tears. “It’s your mama.”
She continued picking up the rest of the stuff, having no idea what else to do. Frustrated, Carmine snatched the bottle of liquor from the desk and flung it at the wall. It shattered, glass and alcohol spraying everywhere. Haven flinched, closing her eyes as her tears slipped through, flashes of memory striking her as hard as fists. Michael’s anger, the shattered glass, and the revolting stench of spilled liquor.
“You’re worthless,” he had screamed, spitting the words at her. “You can’t do anything right, girl! You’re the worst thing I ever did!”
She reopened her eyes, watching the annoyance fade from Carmine’s face. “I shouldn’t be yelling at you. None of this is your fault.”
“It is,” she said quietly. “I’m tearing your family apart.”
Carmine knelt beside her, grabbing a notebook and tossing it on his desk. “This family was torn apart when my mom was killed, so unless you wanna take credit for that, you can drop that bullshit.”
* * *
Haven lay in bed with Carmine later, brushing her fingers along his swollen knuckles as guilt ran rampant through her. No matter what he said, she believed she had caused it.
She didn’t sleep much, the peace she had found over the weeks tainted as Carmine slipped in and out of consciousness, thrashing around with nightmares.
In the morning, she headed downstairs in a daze and pulled things out for Easter dinner. The Mercedes wasn’t parked in its spot in the driveway. She wondered if there was even a point in cooking with Dr. DeMarco gone.
The morning flew by, morphing into afternoon, before eventually shifting into early evening. The boys made their way downstairs, tension lingering in the house, but she was too exhausted to deal with what it meant. She stood in front of the stove, going through the motions like she’d been taught to do, while Carmine sat on the counter, staring at her. Dominic bounded into the room, grabbing one of the deviled eggs she’d made. “You feeling all right today, Haven?”
“She’s on autopilot,” Carmine said, answering for her. “Happy Easter to us all.”
She said nothing, a faint sound outside drawing her attention. Glancing out the window, she stared at Dr. DeMarco’s car as it came to a stop. Carmine leaped down from the counter and wrapped his arms around her protectively, when the front door opened and Dr. DeMarco headed their way. He paused a foot from them, his voice strained. “Let me see your hand, Carmine.”
“Excuse me?”
“You put too much stress on your fourth and fifth fingers when you hit me. I’ll be surprised if you didn’t fracture them.”
“Fuck you.”
Dominic sighed exasperatedly. “Just let him look at your hand and get it over with, bro.”
Carmine stayed still for a moment before pulling his hand from Haven’s hip. Dr. DeMarco’s expression remained blank as he eyed his son’s hand, and Carmine winced a few times as he pressed on his knuckles. “You’ll be fine.”
“Like I said . . .” Carmine pulled his hand away. “Fuck you.”
* * *
Haven carried the food to the table once it was done and planned to go to her room, but Carmine stopped her, pulling out a chair and motioning for her to sit. The tension mounted through dinner. No one wanted to be there, none of them wanting to deal with it, but it couldn’t be avoided anymore. The wheels had been set into motion.
A fork clanged as Dominic cracked first. “We have to clear the air. We need to have a sit-down.”
Dr. DeMarco scoffed. “You know nothing about sit-downs.”
“You’re right, but we’re going to have our own version,” Dominic said. “No one leaves the table until we get some answers.”
“There are some questions I can’t answer,” Dr. DeMarco said.
