I hold my hand to my ear in the pretend-phone position and start. “Hi, Bruce! It’s Sarah. Why did you really leave? And why don’t you call?”
Bruce holds his pretend hand-phone to his ear. “Hi, Sarah! It’s Bruce! I left because of a bunch of reasons. Mostly because Dad was abusive to us and it really messed me up and then he hit me again in Mexico and I couldn’t really forgive him, you know? And then Mom said—”
“Beeeeeeeep,” I say. “My voice mail doesn’t have all day. But did you say he hit you before Mexico?”
“Let me try again,” he says. “Hi, Sarah! It’s Bruce! I left because Dad was abusive to Mom and me and, yes, before Mexico.”
“Hi, Bruce, Sarah here. But why don’t you call me?”
“Sarah, it’s Bruce. I don’t call because after the whole thing in Mexico, he told me I wasn’t ever allowed to contact you.”
“Hi, Bruce! It’s Sarah! He told you that you couldn’t contact me? Me specifically? I wonder why he did that.”
“Hi, Sarah! It’s Bruce! Yes, he had this paranoia that I would tell you that he was a wife-beating jerk. So he told me he’d call the police if I got in touch with you.”
“Hi, Bruce! It’s Sarah!” But then I don’t know what to say. Dad said he’d call the police. That’s harsh. “But you’re my brother. What could he tell the police?”
“Hi, Sarah! It’s Bruce. I really don’t want to repeat what he said because it makes me want to vomit, but I’m a male and you’re a far younger female and I think you can figure it out if I just say this and hang up now. Click.”
“Hi, Bruce. It’s Sarah. I can’t believe he said that. I mean, I can believe he said that. He’s so schizo, you know? Is that how he was when you were little? Did he just lose it and then hit you? I’m sorry he hit you. I feel bad about that. I feel bad I never knew. I feel—I—”
“Beeeeeeeep! Never feel guilty for not getting hit. It wasn’t your fault I got hit. It wasn’t my fault I got hit.”
I think back to Mom’s face after we came out of the palm reader’s today. I think about what Tiffany must have said to her. “I worry about Mom.”
“Hi, Sarah. It’s Bruce. Welcome to the club.”
“Hi, Bruce. It’s Sarah. I’m pretty sure Mom and Dad hate each other. So why are they still married?”
“Hi, Sarah. It’s Bruce. They agreed to stay together for our sake. Didn’t you ever hear Dad go on and on about what it was like to grow up with no father? They didn’t want us to come from a broken home.”
“Hi, Bruce. It’s Sarah. A wise woman once told me that home is more than a roof over my head.” I take a deep breath. “Anyway, Dad doesn’t talk to me much, so I never heard him say anything about him coming from a broken home.”
“It’s like we had two completely different sets of parents,” Bruce says.
We sit there for a minute just looking at each other. Bruce has filled out. He used to be so skinny and now he has something inside all that skin. He looks like a man. His phone dings and he looks at the text that’s come in and then looks back at me. I put my phone-hand back in place.
“Hi, Bruce. It’s Sarah. How bad did Dad hit Mom?”
“Hi, Sarah. It’s Bruce. Pretty bad. One time he broke her arm. You’re probably going to ask how often this happened, and since I was a kid, I can’t quite remember, but I know it was at least once a month. Sometimes every weekend. They fought verbally all the time.”
“Hi, Bruce. It’s Sarah. And how often did Dad hit you?”
“Hi, Sarah. It’s Bruce. Dad hit me a lot. If you count slapping and hair pulling, then it was every day sometimes. I was nine when he stopped, but I never stopped being afraid of him.”
I don’t have anything else to ask. I feel so guilty. I want to cry but I don’t know how. I just feel like I wish I had been there to help him or to help Mom. But I wasn’t even born yet.
“Hi, Sarah. It’s Bruce. Can we go out to dinner now? I’m starving. Plus, when is it my turn to ask the questions?”
“Hi, Bruce. It’s Sarah. Let’s go. I’m hungry, too.”
We hang up our pretend hand-phones and Bruce asks, “Do you need a hug?”
I nod and we hug. I remember a hug he gave me once when I was tiny—maybe three or four—and he was sweaty after getting yelled at by Dad for over an hour. It might be my earliest memory, that hug—that sweat. He rubs my back and I cry a little because even though I was never hit by my father, I feel as if I just got hit by him a hundred times.
I say, “I hate Dad.”
“Don’t hate Dad.”
“Don’t you hate Dad?”
“I used to. But then I figured him out. I’m still angry, though. I’m really, really angry.”
“He didn’t really change,” I say. “He just stopped hitting people, I guess.”
“I meet little Dads all the time. Angry. Abandoned. Scared. If you see Dad as a kid, it really helps with not hating him.”
We walk up Pine to the restaurant. We’re a half an hour early, but they don’t mind. It’s Tuesday and the place is nearly empty.
When he orders lasagna and a Caesar salad, I laugh.
“I don’t understand why she stayed,” I say. “He broke her arm. He hurt you. She’s put up with him for twenty-six years. That’s too long.”