Heart on a Chain (8 page)

The curse is that those remembrances also make my life now seem that much bleaker because there was a time when life was light. The darkness began the day my dad lost his job—but really; people lose their jobs every day. Why had it been so traumatic for my father? That’s a question I’ve never had answered.

In the beginning, my pregnant mother protected me from the worst of my father’s fury. She was the calm in the storm. When we could hear his car coming down the road, she would shuffle me outside to play on my new swing.

It was there that I found my escape. With the wind blowing through my hair, blue sky above and green grass below, I found flight. I would imagine I was a bird, and that if I could just go high enough, I could let go of the chains and fly far away from the yelling, from the sounds that I refused to let my brain process, but that always resulted in a black eye or cut lip on my mother.

When she went into premature labor after a particularly violent fight just a few days before Halloween, I was outside trying to reach that magical flight. I had heard my father slam out the front door and drive away when I heard her painfully distressed call for help.

I ran inside and saw the pool of blood underneath her where she lay on the floor, holding her rounded belly and gasping in pain. About a month earlier some scary looking men had come during the day and taken her car. I couldn’t have driven her anyway, being only nine and small for my age. Having no phone also diminished the options. It was expressly forbidden to go to the neighbors at all. When she slumped to the floor and I couldn’t wake her up, I was desperate. I broke the rule and ran to the house next door.

The neighbor called 911, but apparently, that was where her help ended. She didn’t even come to the house to see if she could help my mother, and even at that young age I could understand her reluctance to become involved. I would have happily uninvolved myself with my family if I could have.

Soon there was an ambulance taking her away. No one seemed too concerned that they were leaving a nine-year-old home alone with a large puddle of blood marring the kitchen’s tile floor. I was afraid of my father coming home and seeing the mess, so I found some towels and wiped it up as best as I could. I had never actually used the washing machine myself, but I had seen my mother do it, so I tried to mimic what I remembered and placed the red soaked towels inside, dumping in what seemed like the right amount of soap, and twisting the dial until the water flow began.

I then pulled the mop and bucket out of the closet and finished cleaning up, scrubbing around the edges of the puddle where the blood had begun to dry in a hard line, until I couldn’t see any remnants of the blood left. My father never did come home that night. He’d received the news somehow and had gone to the hospital. I stayed home alone.

I’d been out back swinging for quite some time before realizing he wasn’t coming, and neither was she. So I went in, locked the doors and went to bed as if nothing had changed. Noises in the night when you are alone are much more sinister than when you have someone there with you.

She didn’t come home the next day either, though my father came home briefly to tell me that she would be home the next day. I was surprised that he actually looked somewhat sad and something else—guilty?—when he stopped in. He brought a bag with a hamburger, some greasy fries, and a soda for me; a rare treat that I hadn’t had since before the day he had lost his job. He left and I assumed I would be spending the night alone again.

However, I was awakened in the dark of the night when he stumbled in. I cowered down under my covers, afraid without the protection of my mother. His footsteps stopped outside my door, and ice crawled over my skin, freezing my body motionless, even my breath. Finally, he stumbled on, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I shook like a fall tree in the wind, unable to control the residual fear, tears running silently down my cheeks. Sleep was a long time coming.

He did go to the hospital the next day to bring my mother home. When she arrived her stomach was strangely flat, and she did not bring a baby. I was so happy she was home I threw myself against her, wrapping my arms around her waist. But she didn’t hug me back, or even seem to notice I was there.

“
Leave off,” my father commanded roughly, a phrase both of my parents began to use with me quite often. I dropped my arms, looking up with a question. She didn’t even look at me, and I noticed how sad she looked, the corners of her mouth turned down deeply, eyes red and swollen. She walked into the house and lay down on the couch, turning her back toward us, pulling the blanket which hung on the back of the couch over herself, covering her head.

“
Mommy?” I questioned, calling her by the name I hadn’t used in a long time. She ignored me and then I heard her soft cries coming from under the blanket. I looked at my dad, accusingly, which seemed fair since he had been the cause of all her other tears for the last few months.

He looked at me and I saw guilt flit quickly across his face again, then he looked away and replaced it with his usual scowl.

“
Your mom lost the baby,” he told me.

Lost
it? Shouldn’t we be out looking for it? He must have seen the confusion on my face because he clarified.

“
The baby died. Your mom will be sad for a while so go outside and leave her alone.”

I was stunned. The baby had died? How did that happen? He glanced at me briefly again, saw the questions on my face and turned away.

“
I’m going out,” he called over his shoulder as he pushed out the front door. I stared after him, tears pricking my eyes. I looked back at the huddled lump on the couch that was silently shaking and did as I had been told; I went outside where my trusty friend the swing waited to take me away.

“
An only child, huh? Bet you’re spoiled.” Henry’s comment jars me back from my bitter memories as we walk. A cynical laugh escapes me at his comment. I’m the furthest thing from spoiled there could be. He looks sharply at me.

“
How was the game?” I blurt out, the first thing I can think of to change the subject. He watches me for a few moments longer, though I’m looking at the sidewalk, as if he might read my mind and see the truth.

“
It was okay, I guess. Typical, lots of screaming kids not watching the game at all. It’s more social than anything. I doubt more than a few of the people there could tell you the difference between a touchdown and a field goal.”

I feel mortification color my cheeks, wondering if he knows that I don’t know myself.

“
I think most of the guys go to watch the cheerleaders, and most of the girls go to watch the football players.”

He has no idea how great the whole thing sounds to me.

“
And we lost anyway. Next week should be better, though. We play Jefferson.” Jefferson High School is our schools biggest rival, though I never could figure out why they should be a rival more than any other school. “You should come.”

Sensing the refusal I’m about to issue, he hurriedly jumps in. “Before you say no, just promise to think about it. If it’s an issue with your parents not wanting you to go with a boy, you could just meet me there. I’ll make sure there are girls with us so that you won’t have to lie. I can even get someone to come pick you up—a girl I mean. It doesn’t have to be like a date or anything, if that’s a problem. Just friends, just for fun,” he holds up a hand in supplication. “Just think about it? Please?”

I don’t want to argue, or have to try to make up an excuse, so I just nod, knowing I’ll have to say no on Friday afternoon. He smiles triumphantly, and I feel bad thinking about having to take away his perceived victory.

I have to admit, for the rest of the week, I fantasize about it. I imagine telling him yes, see again how it would be, sitting there like everyone else, as they all take for granted, being
normal.

Chapter Seven

He doesn’t mention
the football game again the rest of the week. Part of me hopes he’s forgotten about it and won’t ask me again, forcing me to tell him no if he does.

A bigger part of me is dismayed at the thought that he’s forgotten, or regrets asking me, and that he won’t ask again.

He drives me home on Friday. Every day he has shown up in the morning. Sometimes we ride in his car, other times we walk. I like the walking better because it takes longer to get to school. Alone with him I can be myself and talk freely—or as freely as I can for someone full of secrets.

I’m tense on Friday, filled with dread over whether he’ll ask again or not. He doesn’t say anything about it on the whole ride home, granted the drive doesn’t take all that long. So it’s with both relief and disappointment that I say goodbye as soon as he opens my door and I climb out of the car.

“
Wait,” he says, grabbing my forearm lightly. “Did you think about the game? Will you come?”

I can’t.
Those are the words in my head, the ones I intend to say. Instead I hear myself say, “Okay.”

What?

His face echoes the stun in my head, but he recovers quickly.

“
Cool. Should I pick you up at your house or…”

“
I’ll meet you here.” Not sure how I’m going to accomplish
that.
My throat closes with fear.

“
Okay. How about six-thirty?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, walking quickly away instead of waiting for him to drive off like I usually do. I hurry home, wanting to finish my chores as quickly and efficiently as possible to hopefully avoid Mom’s wrath. I feel like I might throw up from the tightness that seizes me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I’m praying for something like a miracle to pull this off.

When I get home, it’s to find Mom showering. This throws me since she never showers in the afternoon. It’s rare she showers in the morning but it’s never occurred in the afternoon.

I stand in the kitchen, unsure of what to make of this.

“
Kate?” she calls a few minutes later from her bedroom. At least she’s calling me “Kate” instead of “Kathryn.” When she calls me by my full name, it never ends well.

With trepidation, I approach her bedroom door. I knock softly, and she calls for me to come in. I stare at the door with terror. I’m never allowed even near her bedroom, let alone within. My hand is on the doorknob, afraid to turn it, afraid not to.

“
Kathryn, get in here,” she demands.

I open the door, but stay on the threshold.

“
There you are.” She stands in front of her closet, dressed only in underwear and a bra. I look around, wondering if I’ve stepped into some twisted version of the real world.

“
I need your help. I’ve gotta get ready for dinner.” Like this is a usual request.

“
Dinner?” my voice is a strangled whisper.

“
Yes, dinner.”
You idiot,
is the clearly unspoken rest of that sentence. “You know what that is, right? Food you eat in the evening, after lunch, before bedtime.” Her voice is derisive.

I’ve heard of that, yes, I just usually don’t get to have that myself.
I imagine the consequences of speaking that sentence aloud. Instead, I say, “What can I do to help?”

“
Your dad’s boss is having some fancy shindig that the wives are required to show up for. You need to help me get dressed and fix my hair.”

I wonder if she’s suddenly speaking a foreign language, because her words make no sense to me. When I just stand there, she throws me a dirty look.

“
Don’t just stand there like an imbecile. Get in here.”

I step hesitantly into the forbidden realm, trying not to look around, though I can’t help it somewhat. Dirty laundry and paper clutter the room.
Well,
I think,
if you don’t let Cinderella into the castle, she can’t clean it up for you.

She puts on a button-up blouse with a wraparound skirt, which I help her tie. She sits while I use the blow dryer to dry her hair. She wants me to put hot rollers in for her, but the close contact with her makes me a nervous wreck, and I keep dropping them. Finally she swats my hands away.