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Prologue
Imove the food around on my plate, the shepherd’s pie long gone cold. Mom’s no more interested in her dinner than I am, with both of us more focused on the untouched plate sitting at the head of the table. I get why she cooks for him every night, but more often than not, he’s a no-show. It’s been three months since he last ate at this table with us, and with each day that passes, Mom grows more anxious, and can barely look me in the eye.
While Mom’s anxiety reaches new levels, I feel nothing but anger toward him. I don’t understand why she lets him get away with it. My father works for the government, though I don’t know what it is he does exactly, as I’m repeatedly told it’s none of my business. He rarely, if ever—especially in front of me—talks about his work when he’s home. But, on occasion, I’ve heard him whispering to Mom in their bedroom, which to me, only proves how important and secretive his job is.
“Eat your dinner, sweetheart,” Mom urges.
“When’s Dad coming home?”
I ask this every day, getting only her usual response of “soon.” But tonight, she sighs, and drops her fork onto her plate. “I don’t know.”
“Have you spoken to him lately?”
For the first time in my life, I’m witnessing my mom worry, and that in itself worries the hell out of me.
“Not in the last two weeks,” she admits, finally meeting my gaze.
Two weeks? That’s unheard of!
“Is he coming home? Are you two having problems I’m not aware of?”
“No,” she snaps. “There’s no problem. Your dad always comes home to us, and this time is no exception.”
I’d believe her if her voice didn’t tremble.
“If you’re not going to finish your dinner, you can clear the table and start on the dishes. I’m done.”
I rarely argue with my mother, being that I know when to push the boundaries with her and when not to. The atmosphere tonight is telling me not to demand answers I know she won’t give me. Maybe even answers she doesn’t have.
Pushing up out of my chair, it scrapes against the tiled floor, breaking the silence.
Her gaze darts past me, the wheels in her mind spinning out of control, but I keep my mouth shut and grab our dishes. Taking them over to the sink, I scrape the leftovers into the trash when someone bangs on the back door.
Mom jumps up from her seat and runs into the kitchen. Dragging a stool from the island, she climbs up and reaches for something on top of the cupboard.
Staring at her, confused as to what she’s doing, another round of banging pulls my attention away from her, and I go to open the door.
“Don’t you dare.”
Stopping, I turn around to find her spinning the chamber of a gun and cocking it, a look of determination on her face. First, what the fuck? And second, how does my mother, a woman who teaches art and history at the local school, know how to handle a gun? A gun, I add, I didn’t know was in the house.
“Go to your room, and don’t come down unless you hear me tell you to.”
No longer is she the worried wife or secretive mother. She’s someone I’ve never met before.
“Are you crazy? There’s no way I’m leaving you. Jesus, you’re holding a fucking gun!”
“Do as you’re told,” she hisses. “And curse at me one more time, you’ll regret it.”
Trust Mom to scold me for my language when she’s the one acting likeThe Terminator.
Heading out of the kitchen, I hover in the hallway, out of sight. There’s no way I’m leaving her to fend for herself.
“Who is it?” she calls out, sounding like a chirpy, 1950s housewife, walking slowly toward the door.
Another round of knocking echoes through the house, but this time, its rapping sounds unique, like a code. A code my mom apparently understands, because she slams the gun down on the counter and rushes to open the door.
Dad falls through it, and lands on the tiled floor in a heap. Even from here, I can see he’s been badly beaten.
