Sean shrank down as Dad advanced on him, his panicked eyes shifting from Dad to me and back. I knew what he’d been trying to do. On any other night, Dad would’ve cheeked back about the “sodding police” and how pathetic they were without him there. But not when “Memories of You” played. Never then.
“He didn’t mean it,” I said, but I couldn’t distract him from Sean. I couldn’t stop him either. Not yet. If I played my cards too soon, it would get so much worse. But it was painful to stand at the counter and do nothing.
“You calling what I do worthless? You couldn’t wipe your arse without help.”
I watched him tower over Sean, as solid as a statue, watched his hand rise in the air. I flinched before I heard the smacking thud of Dad’s fist against Sean’s jaw but didn’t look away, not even when a stream of apologies bubbled from Sean’s lips in that simpering tone that only ever fed Dad’s anger.
Before his fist could fall again, I was there, standing tall between them, infuriating smile sliding easily onto my lips. I tried to find Dad’s eyes in the sunken shadows of his face. I tried to show him I wasn’t even a little afraid, but inside I was cringing. Waiting. Preparing. He wouldn’t hit me—or, at least, he hadn’t yet. But not all strikes are done with a fist.
“Out of my way, cow.”
“You never called Mum that,” I quipped back, earning the full glare of his wrath. “Cow” was probably the kindest thing he’d call me when he was drunk. He always got worse and louder, stood closer so that I had to smell him and feel his spit on my cheek. If there were any other way to make him leave us alone, I would’ve done it.
“You think you’re like her? You think you can take her place? Think you can wear her nobility like one of your whore outfits?”
I didn’t respond, just stood still, trying to block his view of Sean.
“You’re nothing like her, you filthy slag. She was an angel. You’re nothing.”
I watched his gaze drift again toward Sean, who sat frozen in his chair, not whimpering softly enough.
I sighed. When it was just the alcohol, he’d go through a few of his favorite diatribes and then storm off to finish his bottle, usually without hitting anyone. He was always especially creative on “Memories of You” nights—like freeing his fists freed an arsenal of insults, too.
Evidently, I hadn’t yet taken enough. I slid my hands up to rest on my hips and attempted to widen my infuriating grin before the next assault on my character began. But as Dad called me a liar, a street bitch, and every other synonym of whore he had ever learned, unworthy to tread the same floorboards my mother’s sacred feet had walked, my mind drifted to the last time I’d struck this very pose. Miraculously, my thoughts filled with tubes and flasks, with the long, thin fingers that adjusted flames to a lower setting, conducting his orchestra of drips and bubbles.
I thought of Sherlock Holmes and his ridiculous mop of hair sticking up in front, and I almost laughed. In fact, before I knew it, Dad was grabbing his bottle, mumbling something about how I wasn’t worth his breath and he couldn’t stand the sight of me. And finally he stumbled across the hall and into his room.
As soon as the door slammed, Freddie and Michael appeared from the shadows of the staircase and descended on the food. Fred met my eyes guiltily, and I shook my head as I wiped my shirtsleeve across my cheek. Dad turned the music up higher to mask his sobs, but it didn’t work. This was the routine on “Memories of You” nights. And, fitting with that routine, I went to the freezer to grab a sack of peas for Sean’s face.
“Make a plate for Seanie,” I said quietly as my youngest brother snatched the sack from my hand.
“I’m no baby,” he snapped. “I’ll get my own food.”
I resisted the urge to ruffle his hair as I walked by him toward the door to grab my coat.
“Where’re you going, Mori?” Michael asked timidly. He glanced out into the darkness of the hall around Dad’s door, then back at me. But we both knew he wouldn’t come out again—not after one of his crying jags. I’m sure he didn’t want us to see him like that. Like hearing wasn’t enough for us to realize how pathetic he’d become.
I caught myself staring past Michael and met his eyes with a reassuring smile. “Out.”
Chapter 3