“Out,” I say, hoping it doesn’t look like I’ve been crying for the last twenty minutes.
“That’s your answer? Show me some goddamn respect. I’m your father, for Christ’s sake.”
“If you acted like a father, I might respect you, but let’s not kid ourselves.” I can’t help myself. Today already sucks.
Dad tries to pull himself off the couch, but his hand slips and he falls back. He’s still drunk.
I shake my head and open the door to my room. “Pathetic.”
I hear a bottle shatter against the door as I lock it. Then there’s some swearing and another bottle crashes. Even drunk, the asshole still has great aim.
I crank my stereo up as high as it goes and I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling.
What kind of fucking life is this?
I bet that’s what Mom thought. But she wasn’t a minor. She could’ve left anytime. So what stopped her?
And why now? Why not wait until I graduated? Or why not sooner? Or why at all? I kick my mattress.
She hid what Dad did to her from me as much as she could, but I could usually tell when something had happened. He’d let up on the beating since the time he went off on Mom and I punched him so hard—and he didn’t see it coming—that he lost his balance and fell, cracking his head against the kitchen table on the way down. I was almost sixteen. I thought I’d killed him. So did Mom. After he came to, she got mad at me for the whole thing. As much of an asshole as he was, she loved him. I think she held on to the hope that he would change. But I knew better. So what happened to make her realize what I always knew? And how did I miss it?
The book Jordyn bought me about suicide notes creeps into focus next to the football I’ve been staring at without really seeing. For lack of anything else to do, I start reading. It’s interesting how some people leave perfectly coherent notes with instructions for how their loved ones should deal with their bodies and belongings, and others are obviously in so much pain that their brains are unable to properly convey why they can’t take it anymore, but it’s clear they can’t take it, and this is the only solution they can see.
Mom was always insanely organized, so why didn’t she leave instructions for me about what to do with her stuff or how to deal with Dad? If she was in such unbearable pain that she felt there was no way out, I wish she would have told me. Why did she hide it? If I’d known she was hurting, I might have helped. If I’d just gotten home five minutes earlier—
I slam the book shut, pick up the football, and hurl it against the wall as hard as I can. Then I pull out that notebook with the goddamn smiley face and a pen and I do something I never thought I’d do: I write. And write and write. About everything. About how pissed I am. About how Jordyn made me feel and then yanked the rug out from under me. About Dad, even, but I rip all those pages out and hide them in the metal box. I don’t want Dr. Dave to read that, and if Dad found them, he might kill me.
Once I’ve purged all the thoughts in my head, I turn on the TV and pass out watching an X-Men marathon.
? ? ?
When I wake up, it’s dark. The house is silent.
I venture upstairs to see if Dad’s gone. He’s not on the couch, but that doesn’t mean he’s not in his room.
Captain comes bounding through the doggie door. He’s been rolling in the snow and now there are snow dreadlocks all along his belly. The sight of him lightens my mood.
“Look at you. Let’s get you melted.” I motion for him to head down to my room.
The second I turn on the bath water Captain jumps in, splashing me. He loves water. He starts biting at the faucet, which always cracks me up.
“You crazy dog. You’re the best thing I’ve got,” I say. To which Captain begins to dig at the spot where the running water hits the bottom of the tub.
I manage to shampoo him without completely soaking myself, not that it matters, because in the course of getting rinsed, he shakes violently, sending soapy water flying everywhere. Once he’s fully rinsed, I drain the tub, but he refuses to get out until the last of the water is gone, pawing at it as if to say “No! Come back!”
After he’s dry, he passes out on my bed. I’d love to be him, to find that kind of pure joy in something as simple as a bath.
I take in the damage left in Captain’s wake. Every wall is dripping dog shampoo water. As I wipe things down, I spot something shiny behind the toilet. The razor blade. I thought I’d put it away after . . . It gives me the creeps and I want to call Jordyn. But that’s not an option. I should have listened to Dr. Dave.
TWENTY-SIX
I have a thoroughly unhelpful session with Dr. Dave on Saturday. He doesn’t even react to me doing his lame assignment. In all fairness, I don’t tell him he was right about me fucking things up with Jordyn either, so I guess we’re even. I spend most of the hour picking at my shoe.