I pushed against Andrew’s chest, hit him without thinking. He shoved me against the wall, grabbed my shoulders, and shook me hard. My teeth bit into my cheek.
He leaned closer, breathed whiskey into my face. “If you go out there, I’m going to smash his head in with a shovel. Got it?”
We stared at each other in the dark hallway until I nodded. He let go of my arms. I slumped against the wall. “Come on,” he said. “I’m tired.”
I followed him back to the room. I couldn’t breathe, wanted to cry. Made myself put one foot in front of the other. I’d wait until he fell asleep. I’d go get the puppy.
I tried twice to sneak out of the bed, but he heard me move each time, held me down with his leg, his arm across my chest like an iron band. The hours ticked past. I stared at the ceiling, tears rolling down my face. I wanted to be stronger, to shove him away from me and fight for the dog, but I was too scared that he’d make good on his threat. I couldn’t forget the look in his eye, like he was daring me. Like he wanted me to make one false step so he could kill the puppy.
Finally it was morning and he got up for work. I pretended to be asleep. The moment I heard his truck leave, I went outside and found the puppy hiding under the front deck, shivering and sodden. I fed him warm food, tucked him against my chest in a towel, crooned my apologies, and swore that he’d never be hurt again. I’d make sure of it. When Sophie woke I gently told her that the puppy was sick and had to go back to his mommy. She was heartbroken.
I cried when I drove Blaze back to the farm and explained to the owners that my daughter had allergies we hadn’t known about. I didn’t know if they believed me, but the wife looked sympathetic and promised she would find him a great home. I gave them all of his belongings, the food, his dishes, even the collar. Every last item. I couldn’t look at any of it.
When Andrew came home, I told him that I realized I didn’t have enough time to care for a puppy right now. I wanted to focus on Sophie. He never asked about him again.
I watched as my mom poured hot water into the teapot with a trembling hand. I wondered how much longer she’d be able to do this. The doctors said she might manage for years, but no one really knew. The October sun streamed through the window, lighting up her blond hair and pale skin, so fair I could see the faint blue veins in her neck.
“Let me get the tea, Mom.”
“Stop. I’m not completely useless.” She smiled, and I made myself smile back, but my thoughts were all over the place, my nerves raw. I glanced at my watch. I couldn’t be long. He might come home at lunch. I mentally scanned through the items in our fridge, trying to decide what I could make quickly. He didn’t like me to drop anything off at his job site anymore. He said it wasn’t safe, that a beam could fall on me, but that wasn’t true. He didn’t like how the men looked at me. I saw it in his face, felt it in the way he’d hurry me to the car.
A few days after I gave Blaze back, Andrew told me he’d listed the house with a real estate agent. It sold quickly. It had been a week since we’d moved into our brand-new house, even bigger than our last one. Our third in as many years. I’d wanted Sophie to grow up in the same home for all her childhood like I had. Everything in my parents’ house was familiar. I gazed around at the pretty yellow curtains, the cow cream-and-sugar containers, the chicken salt-and-pepper shakers. My mother loved anything country, and for years we bought her the most obnoxiously cute things we could find for birthdays and Christmas. She cherished every one of them. She poured my tea from a pig-shaped teapot, gave my hand a pat as she sat across from me.
“Do you need me to do anything while I’m here?” I said. “I could help with the laundry.”
“Thanks, sweetie, but your father took care of it last night before I even got a chance. You two are so much alike.” She blew steam off her tea.
I thought of my father, coming home after a long day’s work and taking care of my mother. I wished life was easier for them.
“Your windows need to be washed. I’ll come on the weekend.”
“Stop,” she said. “They’re fine.”
“I like cleaning.”
“That’s true. When you were a little girl you’d pretend to be Cinderella and go around the house dusting and wiping everything.” She laughed.
“I wish I could say the same for Sophie.”
“How’s our little princess? Does she like her new room?”
“She loves it. We picked out some owl stencils, and she insisted on putting them up all by herself. Most of them are crooked but she says they’re just flying upside down.”
She reached over and brushed my bangs off my forehead like she did when I was a child. “I can’t get over this new hairstyle of yours. You look so grown up.”
Andrew had kept at me about my hair—I looked like a high school girl, or long hair was too sexy, it gave men the wrong idea. When I came home with a pixie cut, he said, “What did you do that for?”