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How long would Natalie want to wait?
I know back in high school she dated a few guys, but I didn’t hear about any of them being serious.
Had she ever had sex?
The question leaves me curious, and my mind begins to wander.
But then I hear the girl at the counter giggle as the guy kisses her lightly on the lips in front of everyone in the diner. I wonder if this is what will someday happen between Natalie and me. Displaying our feelings for each other in public and not caring who is around to witness.
I hope this couple is a glimpse into my future.
After getting up from my seat, I leave a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and head out to my car, no longer able to procrastinate my to-do list. I start the engine and drive in the direction of the one place in the world I wish I didn’t have to go.
I park in the driveway and stare at the house where my mom, brother, and I had resided for nearly a decade. It never felt like a home to me. More like a place to hide. A place where my father could never find us. But now that he has, it feels more like a trap. A place to go only if you want to be found.
I use my key to unlock the front door and walk in, unsure about what I will face.
“Hello?” I call out, praying no one answers me. Thankfully, no one does.
As I stand alone in the middle of the kitchen, there is an unnerving silence. I survey the damage, noting the place looks exactly the way we left it just a couple of nights ago when all hell broke loose.
A kitchen chair is in pieces, and broken dishes are all over the floor. The fridge door is still open, and food is scattered about. A punctured orange juice bottle lies lifeless on the floor in a pool of its contents.
As I make my way into the living room, I notice even more damage. Sofa pillows look like scraps of cloth, and framed family photos sit broken on the floor. Window curtain rods hang detached from the walls, and there are speckles of dried blood on the carpet, probably from when I smashed my father’s nose.
I sit on the chair closest to me and take everything in. My anger steadily builds. Why was this man a part of our lives? Why couldn’t he leave us alone? We want nothing to do with him, yet he continues to torture us with his presence.
I hang my head in my hands, feeling frustrated with everything.
Leaving my mom and Nick while he’s still out there, clearly off his rocker, makes me feel so guilty. Nick is just in high school and shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. He should be out having fun with his friends and enjoying his junior year. My mom is one of the top-selling real estate agents in the state and should be able to enjoy her success instead of having to constantly check over her shoulder.
Why couldn’t they catch a break?
I never understood how my mom ended up with someone like my father. And when I asked her that very question a few years ago, she told me he hadn’t always been this way. He used to be sweet and gentle, but then something just snapped in him. The day he lost his job, he lost himself, only to find himself in a bottle of alcohol. And let’s be honest, it wasn’t something we ever talked about, but he found himself in syringes too.
I don’t remember him before the rage that destroyed him. As hard as I try, I can’t remember.
I never told my mom this, but a little part of me worries I will turn out to be like him. These thoughts haunt me during nights of insomnia when all I can do is stare at the ceiling and wait for the fear to pass.
However, it’s the bigger part of me that convinces me otherwise. And that’s only thanks to my mom. She raised Nick and me to always put others before ourselves, that kindness would get us far in life, and most importantly, to put family over everything. So, thanks to her, I know there is no chance of becoming like my father.
Standing up, I go back into the kitchen, trying to decide how to conquer this mess. The broom is standing in the same corner it always does, so I grab it and start to sweep up the broken dishes and food as a feeling of déjà vu washes over me.
I find it funny that this is how I’m spending my weekend at two different homes: sweeping up broken dishes and cleaning up other people’s messes.
This thought brings me back to Natalie.
Is she home yet? Has she seen the note I left for her? Is her dad ok?
I’ll call her as soon as I finish with everything here.
About an hour later, I am done with the kitchen and move on to the living room where I spend twenty minutes trying to get the dried blood out of the carpet. After no success, I move the area rug over to cover it.
No one will even know.
I reattach the curtain rods back to the wall, vacuum up the shattered glass from the broken picture frames, and toss the pillows, which are beyond repair, into the trash. Finally, the place is starting to look livable again.
I’m moving the coffee table to the side to ensure no more broken glass is hiding anywhere when my phone falls out of my pocket and lands partly under the couch. I reach down to grab it, but my hand clutches at something much bigger instead. It feels like a thick book, so I pull out the unknown object.
