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Where’s Della?
Dad is distracted by replying to emails on his phone, but that won’t last forever. Eventually, he’ll realize Della isn’t here. His mood will plummet within seconds and then the entire condo will feel his wrath. The staff, me, and especially Della.
Darting my gaze to the opening that leads into the living room, I search for any sign of my sister peeking around the corner.
Nothing.
The savory scents coming from whatever our chef is preparing no longer has me salivating, but instead has me wanting to gag.
I could excuse myself and hunt her down. But he’d see right through that. I’ve tried before and it never works. No, the best option when it comes to Dad and Della is to distract him.
Come on, Della. Stop messing around.
The sound of a phone being set down on the mahogany table has me jerking my stare from the living room to my father. His narrowed eyes are fixated on the empty seat across from me. I note the clench of his jaw and slow change of color on his skin. From healthy tan to red, and soon to furious purple.
Distract. Distract. Distract.
“So, this new—”
“Della,” Dad calls out, cutting off my sad attempt to make conversation. “Don’t keep us waiting.”
Silence.
Of course there’s silence. There’s always silence.
You don’t just call out to Della and expect her to come running. It doesn’t work that way. He knows this, but does it anyway. Always setting her up for failure.
“She, uh, was feeling under the weather earlier,” I say, fear for my sister making my voice raspy. “Maybe she fell asleep. I should go check on her.”
When I begin to push my chair out to stand, Dad slams a hand down on the surface so hard, it makes me cry out in surprise. Slowly, he rises from his seat, the familiar purple fury painting his skin with every passing second.
Oh, God.
“Sit tight,” he instructs. “I’ll fetch the child.”
The child.
I hate him for this.
He stalks out of the dining room, his footsteps thunderous. I’m frozen, unsure what to do. I could rush in there and intervene, but last time I did that, I only made it worse. Tears prickle my eyes. I pray like hell she doesn’t give him any trouble that would cause her pain.
A crash makes my heart jump into my throat. I curl my fingers around the knife beside my plate, wondering if I could actually use it if forced.
Can I do it? Can I take him down?
He storms back into the dining room.
Della, all dolled up and dressed for a party, squirms as she tries to free herself from Dad’s iron grip around her tiny bicep. Her green eyes, filled with tears and confusion, slam to mine.
The pleading in them kills me.
Save me, Landry.
If only it were that easy.
Dad drags her chair out, tosses her onto the seat of it, and then shoves it back. His body vibrates with venomous rage. I attempt to catch my little sister’s gaze, but her chin drops to her chest to hide. Golden-blonde hair curtains her face, strands finding their way into the wetness on her cheeks and sticking there.
“Tell your sister why you kept her waiting,” Dad grinds out, his voice booming and angry. “Now.”
No answer.
“She can’t hear you,” I whisper. “You know that.”
Ignoring me, he repeats himself. Same result. No answer. Finally, he brings his fist down onto the table so hard, the water from her glass sloshes out. This gets her attention.
With her hands she signs: What?
I close my eyes briefly hoping he doesn’t see her answer as disrespectful. Rather than using ASL, her only method of communication, Dad speaks to her as if he’s forgotten the fact he has a deaf child. His voice grows louder and louder as he rants about her tardiness.
Peeking my eyes back open, I watch Della as she attempts to read Dad’s lips. She’s precocious and busy, so learning how to sit still long enough to read someone’s lips has been something she’s failed to master, much to Dad’s disgust.
“So Tokyo was a success,” I say, interrupting him from his tirade that’s seconds from turning nuclear. “What’s next on your agenda?”
A beat of silence fills the room aside from Della’s soft sniffling. Dad visibly relaxes, peels his glare from my sister, and regards me, a smile forming. When I was a child and Mom was still alive, I thought him to be majestic like a king. Dad had all the answers and brought me lots of gifts. He hasn’t always been…a monster. At one time, he was good.
But Mom’s pregnancy with Della was complicated. Her body was depleted, she lost an incredible amount of weight, and was dying by the time she gave birth to Della. The doctors had hoped she’d recover once the baby was out, but after a few weeks, she died of a sudden heart attack. The strain of carrying Della had deteriorated her organs, specifically her heart. One day she was here, and the next she was gone.
