Prologue
January 1954
Only God can judge me.
That was one Daddy's favorite things to say to Mommy whenever she was trying to get him to change something about himself.
“What do you think the towns-people say when you walk into the liquor store and spend over twenty dollars every week?” Mommy asked. She was trying to get Daddy to understand the severity of his problem.
He replied with, “I don't give a damn what they think, Monique. Because only God can judge me.”
But you're wrong Daddy.
So very, very wrong.
Because a jury of your peers can judge you too and something tells me that God would be more lenient.
Especially with the prosecution's secret weapon.
Me.
~ ~ ~
It's during Daddy's trial that I recall the first time he ever hit me.
When Mommy was around she talked him into building me a sandbox. I remember watching him build it. He spent four days straight, outside in the hot blistering sun. Sawing and hammering. Sawing and hammering. When he finished it and I dashed out the back door to play in it. I remember seeing a twinkle in his eye. He seemed happy that I was happy.
But I was wrong.
He didn't build that sandbox for me.
He built it for Mommy because she asked him to. Later I realized that he was on his best behavior during that time. Mommy was already drifting away, a glittering particle of dust in a ray of sunshine, and he was trying to catch her and keep her.
Forever.
Sometimes Mommy would stare off. She seemed lost in a world that no one else was invited to accompany her to. At the time she might have thought I was too young to notice, but I wasn't.
And I did.
I did notice.
Once I asked her, “Mommy, what's wrong? You look so sad.” We sat at her vanity and she dabbed lavender roll on perfume on my wrists. It was a ritual of ours. I frowned up at her through the mirror and grabbed her hand.
The sad look quickly evaporated from her face and Mommy replaced that look with a bright smile. She squeezed my hand. “Nothing my little bird.” Then she crouched down beside me, kissed my forehead, and took my wrist in her hand, sniffing it. “You smell lovely.”
“So do you Mommy.”
Another bright smile.
I knew she was lying and I knew she was lying to protect me in her own way. After dusk, I used to lie in my bed with my pillow wrapped around my ears to drown out the screaming from Mommy and Daddy as they argued and the sound of our household items shattered against the hardwood floor.
Then one day, after one of those arguments I woke up, and Mommy was gone.
A few days later, I was playing in the sand box Daddy built me. All of a sudden I looked up and Daddy was next to me. He didn't look right. His eyes were rimmed in red. He kept sniffling. All the color was gone from his peach colored skin. I hurt because Daddy hurt. And because I loved him, I wanted to do something to make him feel better. “Daddy, I'm building sand castles,” I said in a light-hearted voice. “Come build some with me.”
Daddy dropped his gaze to my hand as I extended it, reaching for his. When he raised his eyes, it was like something inside of him had snapped. He wasn't sad anymore. He didn't look hopeless. He looked mean. His eyes narrowed and he jerked me to my feet by the collar of my dress. “You don't have any buckets.” His voice was hoarse. Gravelly.
“What, daddy?” I didn't know how to react. I'd never seen him like this.
Then he brought his hand down and cracked me across the jaw. The slap stung. Tears welled in my eyes. I kept asking myself where my nice Daddy went. But before I could ask him that question myself he shoved my face in the sand and screamed in my ear, “You build sand castles with fucking buckets!”
I never played in that sandbox again.
The courtroom where Daddy's trial is being held is small. There are rows of wooden benches. Eight on each side. I'm sitting in the first bench on the right. The room is filled with hushed chatter and as my eyes sweep over every bench I realize that I'm looking for two people that I know won't be in this room.
Mommy and Damien.
In the last bench on the same side of the room as me are Damiens' parents. Seeing them sends a surge of pain through my heart. I clutch my chest, my eyes water, and I have difficulty breathing. I gasp out as the pain spreads to my side and center my gaze on my lap, watching as the tears fall from my eyes, dotting my daffodil colored dress.
Suddenly, all of the chatter in the room cuts out. The doors in the back of the courtroom swing open and I see my daddy. He's dressed in a jumpsuit the color of slate. His hair is long and shaggy. He has scruff on his jawline. Two police officers escort him down the aisle and his hands are cuffed behind his back. His feet are shackled and the jingling of chains ring out through the silent courtroom.
And his eyes are locked on me.
There's no love in them.
No remorse.
Once again, to him, all of this is my fault.
The only thing present in his eyes is pure hatred.
I keep my gaze deadlocked with his because I realize what he's trying to do. He's trying to get me to submit. He's trying to abuse me in an emotional way, by terrifying me from testifying against him. He thinks that his deadly stare will cripple me, turning me into a blubbering, pleading mess of the past. And his look does strangle me, but not because I'm afraid. No. I'm done letting this man terrify me. His hateful glare strangles me because I realize that to Daddy, I'm a nuisance and that he doesn't love me at all.
I drop my gaze to my lap, sucking back tears. All I've ever wanted was Daddy to love me in some way. But I know somehow that some people are just incapable of loving. Daddy is one of them. How can he love someone else if he doesn't even love himself?
You can’t find love at the bottom of a bottle, daddy. All you’ll find is a headache and maybe a worm.