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He’s not the next one through, or the next. Young, old,reallyold,really young. I can’t believe the variety.
Then I see him.
And a memory comes back.
36
MELODY
MEMORY — SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
Dad left the front door open again.
I creep down the stairs and peer around the corner, trying to both listen for movement and be quick. The little heat we can afford is being swept out into the cold night air. In the other room, my parents are arguing. They’re in the kitchen, maybe, judging from the way their voices carry.
This isn’t the house I grew up in.
I shouldn’t be here at all.
But Mom asked if I would come home for the weekend to celebrate her birthday. I’ve been in college for six weeks. I turn eighteen in another two—not soon enough—and I couldn’t find it in me to say no to her. She paid for my train ticket home from the city, but she failed to mention that she had taken my father back.
And now here he is, in her new house, drunk and causing a scene.
I make it to the front door and close it, flipping the deadbolt lock.
“What’re you doing here?”
I whirl around.
Dad strides toward me. Or, more like stumbles. He’s gotten older and grayer in the past few years. His skin is weathered and wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot. He’s drunk or drinking more times than not.
“I came back for Mom’s birthday.”
“Oh, the high and mighty Melody is gracing us with her presence.” He sweeps his arm out and bows, teetering to the side. “The big-shot college girl. You’re trying to make something of your life?”
Hurt radiates through me.
“Stealing my money,” he continues. “You’re supposed to join the work force, darling. Support your family.”
He reaches out and pats my cheek. I do my best not to cringe away, even when his pats feel more like slaps. But my anger is climbing, and eventually, I shove his hand away.
“Enough,” I hiss. “It’s Mom’s birthday.”
“It’s herbirthday. I fucking know that.”
He reacts fast. And maybe it’s because I don’t expect it that I can’t get myself to move out of the way in time. But he grabs me by the hair and spins me around, slamming me face-first into the door.
Pain explodes from my cheekbone across my face.
“You’re worthless,” he says in my ear. “Nothing more than a parasite we’ve fed for too long.”
“Jack,” my mom cries. “What are you doing?”
She yanks on his arm, but he doesn’t get off me. And my breathing is stuttered, my muscles frozen. I couldn’t fight back if I wanted to. I just stay still and hope he stops.
He finally jerks free. “You’re a goddamn coddler,” he screams at my mother on the way past. “She’s grown.”
“She’s just here for the weekend—”
