“It’s cool. You’ll meet her tomorrow. She wasn’t supposed to just show up like that, but I think she just misses you a lot.”
We don’t say a word for a few minutes. I can’t tell if Bruce believes me or not, but he will.
He says, “I’m going into the school tomorrow to talk to the principal about your art project.”
“Waste of time,” I say. “That’s a complete waste of time.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“Why?”
“If you can’t face your demons head-on, you’re fucked.”
“In that case, we have bigger demons to face head-on than some dumb principal.”
Bruce walks me to the corner so he can see that I get in okay, then he waves and goes back to the B&B. Mom is waiting for me in the living room. She looks worried.
“Were you out with Bruce?”
“Yeah.”
She pats the couch for me to sit down.
“How is he?”
“He’s great. Loves Oregon. Looks good.”
“But he’s okay?” Six years. And all she wants to know is if he’s okay?
“He’s fine,” I say. “How are you? You don’t look fine.”
“It’s been a day,” she says. Her hair looks like she was in a tornado. Or a joust. Her eyes look like they’ve been crying.
“I want to bring Bruce over tomorrow. He wants to see you.” She shakes her head and her eyes dart around the room like she’s looking for a reason Bruce can’t come over. Her own son. “Why are you punishing him for something he didn’t do?” I ask.
“It’s very complicated.”
“It’s simple. I know everything. I know what Dad used to do to you and to Bruce. So you’re scared—so what? Bruce isn’t. He wants to see you. He’s your son. It’s not complicated.”
“You know everything?”
“I know what Bruce told me. He’s the only honest person around here, so that’s all I got.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“I’m angry because no one ever told me any of this before and you all thought I could grow up here and not know something was wrong. I feel like I’ve been festering in rotten water for sixteen years.”
“We didn’t want you to suffer,” she says. “We made a deal.”
Blank
It’s Thursday morning. Like all other Thursdays before June 17th, I should be in school. Instead, I am about to watch a divorce. Or a tornado.
Bruce and I walk toward home slowly.
“Are you scared?” I ask.
“A little.”
“Do you think he’ll punch you again?”
“He better not,” he says.
“He won’t.”
“He might.”
“He thinks you’re in Oregon. He believes you were baptized in a river and you don’t call us because you’re a God snob now.”
“I think that’s very convenient for him,” Bruce says.
“I don’t think he’ll punch you,” I say.
“What’s he like on a normal day?”
I think about Dad on a normal day. “He’s like—blank.”
“Blank?”
“Just blank. I mean, two weeks ago he was lecturing me on going to school, so he’s like—a dad or whatever. But he doesn’t do anything. He goes to work. He watches baseball. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Doesn’t say Time to make the art! or anything like that. Blank.”
“Blank.”
“He’s just a hole where a rat used to be,” I say.
Bruce nods. “And he’s never hit you?” he asks. “Never?”
I shake my head. “Mom said he made a deal.”
“We had a family meeting about that deal.”
“But he hit you in Mexico.”
“He broke the deal,” Bruce says.
? ? ?
When we walk in the door, it’s eleven in the morning. Bruce leaves the front door open but locks the screen door. It’s a beautiful day. I figure he wants to let some light and air into the house. It’s a row house and the only windows are in the front and back. It’s an old house. It could use some fresh air. We find Mom in the kitchen, Black Sabbath pulsating from her headphones. Dad is probably in his room.
Mom screams at first—a startled scream, not a scared one. She takes her headphones off and the music still blares from them—a tinny sound of something larger. Then, the house is quiet but for the sound of Bruce and Mom talking to each other. Mom is hushed. Bruce is not.
I decide to sit on the couch. It’s like being in the water in Mexico all over again. I can decide the pillows are my friends. I say, “Hello, pillows,” and they say, “Hello, Sarah.” We are friends, the pillows and me.
We are spectators, today. That is our role.
From here, Bruce’s voice has the male bass that Dad’s has. It permeates the walls and the floorboards and I wonder when Dad will notice that there is another man in the house. I decide it will be five minutes. I decide that Dad will come downstairs and he will be wearing his pajamas at noon on a Thursday.
The thing about decisions I make in my head: They are not real.
Dad comes down in less than a minute. He is in a pair of sweatpants that have to be from 1985. His legs are too long for the pants because his middle has grown and he wears them higher on his waist. He looks ridiculous.
“Who’s here?” he asks.
I shrug.