Going Deep (Imperfect Love 2)

Prologue

Giselle

“I know you’re cheating on me! Admit it!” Mom chucks a vase across the room at Dad, who doesn’t duck quick enough, and it hits his shoulder before it crashes onto the tiled floor, breaking into a million pieces. “I hate you!” she shouts with tears streaming down her cheeks. She turns around, her possessed eyes searching for another item to throw. My dad uses that moment as an opportunity to wrap his strong arms around her tiny, fragile body from the back. She kicks and screams, trying to get out of his hold, but he’s stronger. “Let go of me! I’m going to kill you! You’re such a piece of shit liar!”

Ignoring the hateful words she’s spewing, he pulls her down onto the couch as I pop the lid to one of her prescription bottles and shake out two pills. While he’s holding her down, I pry her mouth open and push the pills down her throat. She tries to gag, her manic gaze hitting me with so much hate, it sends chills racing up my spine. She continues to kick and thrash around while Dad holds her tight, waiting for the pills to make their way through her system and temporarily calm the beast inside her.

She was doing so well the past few months, I thought for sure this time the therapist got her meds right. She was so happy and cheerful. It was as if she was on cloud nine. Until she wasn’t. And now, once again, it seems we’re back to where we started.

Once Mom’s lids begin to droop, Dad lessens his hold on her, and my sister makes her presence known. “Is Mom okay?” she asks quietly, afraid if she speaks too loudly she might poke the beast, which in our many years of experience is never a good thing.

“She’s okay, Addy.” I cut across the room and pull my scared sister into a tight hug. When she was little and Mom would lash out, she would hide in her bedroom until one of us would come and get her. Now that Adrianna is older, she no longer hides. She’s too worried about our mom hurting herself or one of us. But because of how violent mom can get, Dad and I make her hang back while we get her under control.

“Dad, I think she needs to see a psychiatrist again,” I say to my father. “Her pills aren’t working. We can’t keep drugging her like this.” My eyes dart to my mother who is lying lifeless on the couch, still in my father’s arms. My heart breaks every time we have to sedate her, but we don’t have any choice. It’s either that or she will end up hurting one of us, and then when she wakes up and realizes what she did, she will sink even further into depression. It’s a shitty no-win situation.

Dad silently shakes his head in frustration as he lifts my mom and carries her to their bedroom. Once he comes back out, he grabs his briefcase and cell phone and heads toward the front door without saying a word. This is what he always does when she gets like this. Hides away at his office. Sometimes he’ll be gone for days at a time, but it’s pointless to call him out on it. He’s the only breadwinner in this family, which means we need him. He pays the bills and attempts to take care of our mom. And I love him, even if many days I also hate him. When he comes home and smells of another woman’s perfume, I want to smack him senseless, yet at the same time, I can understand why he does what he does. He’s married to a woman who is so far gone most days, he spends more time taking care of her than actually being with her. Their kisses have turned to tears, and their love that once upon a time shined through during even the darkest of days has been covered by a dark, black cloud that has been stagnant directly over our life for too many years.

“Dad,” I call out, refusing to let him run this time. We can’t keep doing this. “She needs help.”

“What do you want from me, Giselle?” he snaps. “Our insurance barely covers the appointments, let alone the medications. The doctor has tried every drug imaginable, and nothing fucking works. I’m doing the best I can.” And without waiting for my response, he’s out the door.

“I found this,” Adrianna says softly once the door has slammed shut. I turn around to see what she’s talking about, and in her hands is my acceptance letter to NYU Paris I received in the mail last month. The deadline to accept is coming up.

“How many times have I asked you not to go through my stuff?” I swipe the paper out of her hands. She frowns, and I immediately feel bad.