I don’t notice that Dad’s home until he comes down from his room grumbling about “where the fuck have you been hiding.”
I’m in the kitchen, and I didn’t close my bedroom door because I assumed he was off getting plastered for the night. I can’t let him see that I’m worried, or he’ll head right for it. But he doesn’t go downstairs. He comes into the kitchen and stands right behind me. I’m making some stir-fry-in-a-bag thing.
“Smells good. What are you gonna eat?” He laughs. He thinks he’s hilarious. Especially when he’s buzzed. Of course, when he’s buzzed he likes to play the “Fuck With Tyler” game.
I don’t engage. I just finish the stir-fry and pull out two plates. He takes one and chucks it into the wall like a Frisbee. It shatters.
“I only need one plate.” He says this like he’s kindly declining a refill at a restaurant.
I pour the entire contents of my dinner onto his plate and set the pan in the sink. I turn on the water and let it run over the hot pan, steaming up the window facing the backyard.
I can feel him watching me. I turn to get him a fork, figuring he’s trying to show me how I’m his bitch and all that. “You’re welcome,” I say, setting the fork next to the delicious-smelling food that I paid for.
I’ve barely turned back to shut off the water when I feel my head being slammed toward the counter. But it’s not the counter, it’s the stove. I can feel the heat still rising off the burner. If I hadn’t instinctively stopped my head from making contact, I’d be scraping my face off the still-hot burner. He pushes harder, and from my awkward angle, I can feel myself losing the battle.
He wants me to beg. I know it. He knows I know it. And he knows I won’t do it. He’s laughing and kicking at the back of my knee, trying to get me to lose balance.
I push back just as he hits my knee at the right angle to drop me. My ear meets the burner and it hurts like hell. He tries to hold my head so the burning sensation can really take its toll, but my adrenaline flares and I elbow him in the windpipe. He lets go. If he weren’t coughing so damn hard, he’d be kicking the shit out of me. He holds his throat and glares.
I leave the water running and grab Captain and run to my room, locking it behind me just as I hear him plow into the door.
“You fucking asshole! I’ll fucking kill you! You hear me? I’ll fucking kill you! I’ll kill you!” His screams become sobs and I can tell he’s now lying on the floor right outside my door. “Why’d you do it, Sarah? I miss you so much. Why’d she do it? I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Tyler. I shouldn’t be allowed to be a parent. Not without Sarah. I miss her, Tyler. It hurts so much. Sarah.” He repeats her name over and over until I’m forced to blast the stereo just so I’m not tempted to try to help him. I can’t. Not after what he just did. Not even when he’s like this.
I punch and kick my bed until I feel my little toe snap.
? ? ?
I limp into Dr. Dave’s office the next morning.
“What’s with the gimp routine?” he asks as I take my usual seat. I just hope he doesn’t notice the beginnings of a scab on my ear. Good thing I still haven’t gotten the haircut I so desperately need.
“I think I broke my toe.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“Kicking the shit out of my bed.”
“For any particular reason, or you just didn’t sleep well?” He grins.
“I was looking at the pictures of my mom again,” I lie.
“We need to find you a healthier outlet.”
“I think I’m projecting feelings for Jordyn because she’s the only person who’s nice to me. Besides you, of course.” I hope he takes the bait. I have to change the subject.
“Well, wait a minute. Would it be so bad if your feelings for Jordyn were real?”
“No, it wouldn’t. You see? That’s the problem.”
“I don’t see a problem. It’s only a problem if you act on it in typical Tyler fashion.” He lowers his glasses to give me a mock-judgmental glare.
“But if my feelings for her are real, what if I screw it up? She’s the only friend I have. I . . . need her.”
“And that scares you?”
“Of course it scares me. What if— I mean, I don’t want to need anyone, you know? They’ll just end up leaving like Mom di—” The realization hits me like I stepped into a steaming hot shower to find it freezing cold. It takes my breath away.
“She’s not going to leave you, Tyler,” he says gently, nudging a box of tissues toward me on the coffee table even though I’m not crying.
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right. I don’t. And you don’t. But is it worth not living just in case she does? You plan on living your whole life like that? Never trusting anyone? Never loving anyone because they might leave you, or they might die? What about your dog? Are you going to toss him aside because you’ll likely outlive him?”
“It’s not the same.”