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“Those hospitals. They should’ve watched you better. Come. Let’s go eat. I cooked for you, so I want you to enjoy it.”
She stands and yanks on my arm until I get up. “Hush. You need to eat, and we need to spend time together as a family. You’ve been gone too long. Then you can help with the dishes after dinner.”
A fist pounds against the door. “What the hell is taking so long?” that man says from the other side. He rattles the lock. “I’m starving. Get her out here so I can fucking eat.”
My hands shake and I drop my phone. Mom picks it up and gives it to me. “Come on, cookie. You know how he gets. You need to behave if you don’t want him getting that way with you.”
She rubs my shoulders and smiles. “I guess. What are mothers for besides taking care of their babies? You know I’m always here to take care of you, so you get five minutes. But no longer.”
She leaves and I lock the door. I grab Bamsy and try to calm myself with the feeling of his fur. I can’t have a meltdown in front of that man. How did I do this before? I was ignorant, that’s how. I obsessed about orgasms and porn, distracting myself. I did what they asked, accepted when I was hit for bad behavior, comforted Mom. Now I know how good life is when others smile at me instead of snarl. Speak kindly. Listen when I don’t want to be touched.
I curl into a ball on the bed. I wish that man would go away. We were fine before he came. Mom went out to pick up men and left me at home to enjoy my days in peace. I even sneaked out sometimes and Mom never knew. Now she rarely leaves, and he’s only gone for work.
Please, if I can ask for anything, I just want him to go away.
A soft knock on the door. “Okay, cookie. Five minutes are up. Come eat with us.”
I can do this. I’ve done it for two years. I have no choice.
I have no choice.
I leave my phone on the nightstand and peel myself from the bed. He’s less likely to yell when I don’t have a way to talk back. I join them in the stuffy dining room under a ceiling light that flickers. The curtains are drawn, like they often are, to keep out ‘nosy’ neighbors. The entire house is like a dungeon.
“Finally,” he mumbles under his breath as I sit down. Two empty beer bottles rest on the table near his plate.
“Here you go, baby.” Mom hands me a serving of casserole with a side of broccoli. My stomach growls. My body is weak and I need my strength, even if eating makes me sick. I need to eat. Choke it down. Keep my fighting stamina.
I stab a piece of broccoli.
“Grace first, baby.”
Right. I drop the fork and take her hand. The other hand I’m supposed to take is his. When I don’t, he reaches across the small, round table and yanks my arm so my chest jerks forward and clatters into my food. He wraps his fingers around mine and tightens his grip so much I worry my bones will crack. His hands are thick and calloused. The dry, cracked skin sends a sickening jolt up my spine. I bite back the urge to scream because that won’t end well for me.
“Cunt,” he grumbles.
Mom says grace, thanking the Lord for our food and for bringing me home safe. Then we eat in silence, except for Mom humming quietly to herself. The man stares at me the entire time. I keep my head down and avoid looking back, though I glimpse his long-sleeved shirt—dark blue with a graphic of a woman in a bikini spread suggestively on the hood of a muscle car.
He and Mom talk about problems with the neighbors, so I fade into the background. He sits taller than Mom, shoulders jutting into space, dominating it. Mom hangs on his every word, waiting for those moments when he might offer a smirk or graze her hand. I rarely see them hug or kiss, but when they do, Mom melts like she’s listening to the perfect EDM song. A tiny crumb that keeps her coming back for more.
I stare at her a moment. Did Mom change while I was gone? She looks so…tiny. Withered. Like she spent her youth outside letting the sun steal her skin’s collagen. Her eyes are crazed and when she glances at me, her gaze is unfocused. She’s a frail, lost stranger.
But this is Mom. She’s always looked this way. But now she’s different.
They’re both abusing you, Paige.
I frown at Brody’s nagging voice in my head. No, Brody. He abuses me. He hits me and hurts me and is an all-around horrible human being. Abuse is intentional. Mom is just lonely. Sad. She needs comfort. And rehab, but she’s always refused to go. Maybe she doesn’t like to acknowledge that I can think for myself and that I’m an adult, but she does what she believes is best. She’s not the greatest mom, but she’s not the worst.
And she’s my mom.
When I’m halfway through my food and ready to retreat to my room, he leans back in his chair and burps. “You gonna tell us where you went?”
I raise my palms to show I don’t have my phone.
