Teaching Willow: Session Three (7 page)

One way or the other, this has to end now.

Slowly, I walk over to the man whose genetic material I share and I pick up his vial of coke.  I dump a mound onto the spoon and hand it to him.

I smile down at my father, part of my heart as cold as the ice in his eyes.  “One more, right?  If I remember correctly, you hit it three times before you go out,” I say, my voice calm.

We stare at each other, a million unspoken things filling the space between us.  I add some water to the coke and I wait. 

Finally, with a blonde head still bobbing in his lap, my father flicks his lighter under the spoon and heats it. I watch him go through the same motions, never wavering in his method, until he draws up the mixture.  He guides the needle to a vein in his wrist, the tip making an indention in the skin yet not quite piercing it. 

He holds his position and glares up at me.  One side of his upper lip curls into a sneer.  He raises his chin to look down at me, even though I’m standing. He’s telling me he’s bulletproof.  I’m praying he’s not.

After what seems like forever, without glancing away, my father slips the needle into his vein. I see the action through my peripheral vision. After a few seconds, I see him depress the plunger, sending a possibly-lethal dose of cocaine into his bloodstream.

With our eyes locked, hatred against hatred, Jeffrey Snell tosses the needle aside and grips the arms of the recliner, his body stiffening almost immediately.  His pupils dilate even further and the muscles around his mouth twitch.  But still, he holds my stare. 

In his eyes I see disdain.  And selfishness.  And an emptiness that most humans aren’t capable of.  I see no remorse, no love, no shame.  Only a defiance that scares the shit out of me.

I hear his breath hitch in a gasp.  I see his eyes widen almost imperceptibly. His arms straighten, forcing him back into the worn cushions of the recliner.  He looks frozen as perspiration breaks out across his forehead.

I know what’s happening.  I know the amount of coke I sprinkled in that spoon could be enough to kill my father.  And he knew it, too.

I also know that, in this moment, I have a choice to make.  I can call 911 right this second and possibly save his life. If he stops breathing, I could perform CPR on him until they arrive.  There’s a small chance he could survive this.

For a few heavy heartbeats, I waver, my conscience not feeling completely absolved yet.  It’s as I watch him, as I look into his eyes, that I realize that he will never change.  Whatever he and my mother are up to will likely involve people getting hurt and me paying a tremendous price for it. 

And that’s all happened before.  It’s not
my
price that haunts me so.  It’s the other people who have to pay that I have difficulty living with.

And who might it be this time?  What has he done?

Visions of young girls suffering at the hands of my family circle through my head. Nameless, faceless girls who are someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend.  Girls who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s the knowledge that others will likely be drugged, raped and left for dead that gives me pause and keeps my feet rooted to this spot as
spectator
rather than
rescuer
.

With one step, I could change all this, I could possibly keep my father alive. I could be responsible for his presence remaining in this world.  Could I live with that?

But it’s the last vision to scroll through my mind that nearly stops my heart. It’s the vision that keeps me right here watching him die rather than helping him live.

It’s the image of Willow.  Willow suffering unspeakable things because she fell in love with the wrong man. Willow losing that light in her eyes because she trusted the wrong person.   Willow lying helpless as someone, who I unwittingly led to her, steals the life right out of her veins.

She’s the only person I’m close to, the only person that I’ve let get anywhere near the important parts of me.  She’s the only thing that they could use as leverage against me.  And it’s with rising alarm that I realize that’s why my mother is in Florida.

And it’s all for him.  My father.  The criminal.  The rapist.  The drug dealer.  The pimp. 

As I look on, his body begins to convulse. I can hear his erratic breathing from where I’m standing.  I see his knuckles turn white as he grips the armrests.  I hear his fingernails dig into the fabric as he spasms.  The girl on her knees doesn’t even stop what she’s doing.  I don’t think she notices what’s going on. 

After nearly a minute, after one final jerk, he relaxes in his chair.  His body slumps slightly and his head lists to one side.  I know that all the things that made my father who and what he was are gone.  And so is a person who brought only pain and suffering to others through his life.

I watch him for a few seconds more, a combination of fear, sadness, resolve and relief swimming through me. Then, not even speaking to the girl who has finally raised her head to look at my dead father, I turn around and make my way back out to the waiting cab. 

“Where to?” the cabby asks when I slide stiffly inside.

“Home.”  That’s all I can afford to think of right now.

THIRTEEN- WILLOW

Wednesday ushers in gray skies and rain. It matches my mood perfectly.

I slept very little.  After leaving Tiffany’s, I debated going to Ebon’s. To say what, I don’t know.  To beg for forgiveness?  To somehow convey to him how very sorry I am?  To see him one last time? Or maybe just to test the waters? I don’t know.  But I figured showing up on his doorstep in the middle of the night probably wouldn’t win me any points, so as difficult as it was, I waited until today.

It’s just past dawn, although it’s not much lighter than dusk, what with all the clouds hanging over my head.  The street lamp is on and I can see Ebon’s living room light shining softly onto the curb in front of which I parked.

I consider calling him instead, but that’s not an option.  When my parents wouldn’t give me any space and kept leaving me shitty voice mails, I threw my phone against the bedroom wall.  It smashed into a zillion pieces and unfortunately, I didn’t even think to dig my “Sage” phone out of my underwear drawer where I hid it.  So, for the moment, I’m phoneless.  It’s this or nothing.  Do or die. 

I wait for a few seconds, bolstering my courage, willing myself not to cry like a crazy person, before I exit the car and make my way up the walk to the porch.  I duck quickly under the overhang and tap the doorbell.  For some reason, knocking seems too familiar, too intimate.  Even after all we’ve shared, I feel like it would somehow be an insult to treat him like we know each other so well.  In some ways we do, but in so many ways we don’t.  I’ve seen to that by deceiving him so thoroughly.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the sting of tears.   It seems I’m always near tears lately.  I guess that comes part and parcel with being a selfish, lying bitch living a life of thoughtless deceit.

My lids snap open and my breath catches in my throat when I hear the doorknob jiggle.  It opens first a crack and then fully, light pouring out around the silhouette of a woman, haloing her in a golden glow. 

My first instinct is to be heartbroken, heartbroken that Ebon has already moved on to someone else.  But that only lasts a fraction of a second.  When I see an older woman standing before me, I feel only confusion.  For a moment, I consider leaning back to check the house number to make sure I’m at the right door.

Oh god, how humiliating!
I think, in the event that I’ve made such a careless blunder.

“You must be Willow,” the woman says before I can panic.

My smile is hesitant.  “I am.”  I pause, giving her a chance to introduce herself.

She doesn’t keep me waiting long. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Willow.  I’m Audrey, No-ahem, Ebon’s mother.  Won’t you come in?”

To be continued…

Session Four coming May 6, 2014.