“I…who told you that?” I ask, trying to stall until I can think of a way out of here.
“I want an answer,” he demands as he snaps the heavy leather belt he’s holding in his hands. The crack of the leather hitting against itself fills the air. Then, before I can say anything else he releases it with one of his hands and then smacks it hard against my legs.
I have jeans on, but I can feel the burn of the leather against my leg. My entire body jerks. I bite into my lip to keep from crying out. My fingers curl into the carpet.
“I just went with Reed because he had to have tests done,” I whisper, my voice trembling. I’m not quite telling the truth, but not lying either.
“What kind of tests,” Dad pushes, and I search my brain to try and come up with a plausible answer.
“He’s been sick since prom, and they were having a free clinic today. His job doesn’t provide insurance,” I explain, again not lying—but definitely not telling the truth either.
“Why did you have to go with him?” Dad asks, and I can see a little of his anger leaving, but I’m not about to breathe easy just yet.
“We’re best friends, Dad I went there for moral support.”
I stare up into the face of a man that has become a stranger to me in the past five years. He’s so tall that he towers over me. He’s also not a small man. He’s bulky and overweight by at least sixty pounds. He’s built like a linebacker and that’s only part of what makes him dangerous. His hair is the complete opposite of my dark, wavy hair. His is brassy red and curly. I look like my mother. Right now, as I look at the monster he has become, I’m glad. I don’t want to be anything like that man.
I just want him gone.
I can almost see him warring with himself. He’s trying to decide if he should believe me or not. I pray he does because I really need a break. Normally, I’m better prepared to deal with my father. I don’t have that luxury this time, however.
Dad’s been getting worse and worse since Mom’s health has been steadily declining. He’s scared of losing her—that’s probably the only thing the two of us have in common anymore. He has all this pent-up rage and it’s starting to boil over. At first, all he did was throw things and yell at me.
Lately he’s begun slapping me when I upset him. I lied to Reed and made him think that for the most part Dad’s abuse and anger wasn’t getting terrifying.
It is.
This is the first time the attack has been quite this violent though.
“Tell me something, Callie. What would have happened to your mother if she needed you?” he asks, staring at me and I swear, when I look up at him all I see is his hate for me.
“Mom was okay. I checked on her before I left, Dad. I even made sure she ate. I wouldn’t have just left. I even made sure Miss Hague from next door would look in on her until one of us returned.”
“You always have excuses. You really are worthless.”
“Dad, why do you hate me?”
I hadn’t meant to ask the question—I truly hadn’t.
“Callie, go to your room.”
Dad and I both yank around simultaneously to see Mom standing at the end of the hall, her long hair still in the loose braid I gave it this morning. She’s leaning heavily on the wall—even with her walker—and I know the pain she’s feeling has to be intense. Without thinking, I use the wall to support my body and slowly move into a standing position. I go to Mom, ignoring my father, but he’s doing much the same
If there’s ever been one thing that two of us can agree on, it’s our love for my mother. Ever since she was diagnosed with ALS, Dad’s anger with me increased.
“Mommy, you shouldn’t be walking,” I finally respond, helping to bear her weight.
I shouldn’t have bothered, because in the next minute, my father is picking my mother up and carrying her back to her bed. “Go to you room, Callie,” she weakly orders. I nod, knowing that my father won’t let me spend time with my mother anyway. That’s always a part of his punishment. I walk past Mom’s bedroom door into the smallest of three bedrooms in the house—which also happens to be mine. I flop down on the bed, feeling so lost that I can’t even imagine what my next move should be.
“I could hate you for what you’ve done to me, Trena,” I hear Dad growl.
“It’s not Callie’s fault, Niles,” Mom responds.
The walls in this house are paper thin and I can hear them talking as if I was standing right beside them. I’m holding my wrist as I lay on the bed, the pain a steady ache. I think it’s broken but I’m not going to worry about it right now. There’s not much I can do about it anyway. If I tried to leave again, who knows what my dad would do.