I pack up the boxes and tape them closed again, putting them back in the exact position I found them, and I take the dress downstairs into my room. I don’t have a lock on my bedroom door. I wish I did, but Dad says a lock would be a safety hazard. I know the truth. I know he doesn’t want me to be able to shut him out. I shove the heavy ottoman from the foot of my bed up against the door, and then I strip naked and slip the dress over my head, wriggling into it and maneuvering the zipper closed at the back. Just as I suspected, it does fit. In fact, I barely recognize the girl staring back at me in my full-length mirror. I look like…I look like a woman. And my cleavage is killer.
“Coralie!” The sound of the front door slamming closed downstairs sends a jolt of adrenalin firing through me. I drop the hairbrush I’m holding in my hand; it’s heavy, silver-plated, and makes a loud bang as it hits the floorboards. Sound travels badly in this old house. Downstairs, my father most certainly heard the crash. My heart begins thumping in my chest. Fuck.
I haven’t gotten around to figuring out the answer to question four yet. I have no idea what I’m going to tell my father to make it okay that I want to go out after dark. I hadn’t planned on being in one of Mom’s dresses when I broached the subject with him, either. I have about fifteen seconds to get out of the dress and to hide it, otherwise I’m in seriously big trouble.
It was tricky enough getting the zipper closed, but getting it open again is even harder. I scramble against the fabric, trying to shimmy it over my head without undoing the fasteners properly. I can hear Dad’s heavy footsteps climbing the stairs, thumping slowly up each step as he gets closer and closer. I can tell a lot from how he climbs the stairs. If he’s angry, he’ll storm up to the second story, each thump of his footfall ringing out like a gunshot. If he’s tired and he’s already had a drink on his way home from work, he’ll move much slower, like he is now. If he’s already had a few beers, he could either be in a really good mood, or a supremely bad mood. It’s always a Russian roulette with him.
I finally manage to yank the dress over my head, but he’s already reached the top of the stairs. It takes seven measured steps to get from the top of the staircase to my bedroom door, so that’s how long I have to race to my closet and pull on an oversized sweater. No time for pants. No time for anything. I’m not even wearing a bra. My bedroom door creaks as my father tries to push it open from the hallway. He swears on the other side of the three-inch wood.
“Coralie? Open this damn door right now, young lady.”
I slip on the floorboards in my haste to push the ottoman out of the way. I hit the ground and skin my knee—it stings painfully. No time to inspect how bad the damage is. I’m up and shoving the ottoman from the doorway so he can get in.
The door bursts open and there he is, panting, his shoulders quickly hitching up and down. He’s only forty-two, but he looks a lot older these days. The permanent downturn of his mouth makes him look angry at all times. Which he is. There are lines at the corners of his eyes that were never there before, when my mother was alive, but it would be foolish of me to try and sugar coat how things were back then. He was still filled with fury. He was still a monster.
“What have I told you about obstructing this door?” he snaps.
“I didn’t mean to. I just wanted space to do some yoga, Daddy. I needed the room to—” His hand whips out and he catches me by surprise, his palm connecting with my face. He was probably aiming to slap my cheek but instead he gets my jawbone, which is agonizing for me and probably just as painful for him. I stumble backward, tripping over the ottoman I just moved out of the way, and then sitting down heavily on it. I clamp my mouth shut, knowing from experience that he’ll only grow angrier if I cry out.
My father shakes his hand out, gritting his teeth. “Damn it, girl. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Of course him hurting himself when he hits me is my fault. It always is. “Tell me why the fuck is your leg bleeding,” he commands.
“I—I tripped. I fell.”
Dad glowers at me, opening and closing both of his hands into fists now. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You want people to think I beat you or something. You’re a devious little cunt, Coralie. You’re just like your mother.”
It doesn’t matter to my father that he does beat me. It doesn’t matter that he has marked, scarred and bruised me way worse than this tiny scrape on my knee. He just doesn’t like seeing blood, unless he is the cause of it. I cover my grazed knee with both my hands, trying to remove the offending injury from his line of sight. “I didn’t, Daddy, I swear. It was an accident.” My voice is the hushed, quiet, penitent voice of someone used to apologizing. Someone used to their apologies falling on deaf ears.