Only Trick

Trick nods without looking up from the mess in front of him.

*

In the car I call my supervising physician and then I call Nana. As the gates open I expect my heart to start racing in my chest, but it doesn’t. It’s as if I don’t care anymore. I’m not here for permission or approval.

“Ms. Carmichael, how nice to see you.”

“I’m still Darby.” I hug Susie, the housekeeper who’s known me since I was born.

She smiles, a soft crinkling around her eyes and lips shows the years. “He’s in his office.”

“Thanks.”

I nod and smile at the extra security stationed around the house. The place I called home for two years before college has become a fortress over the past few months. I knock on the solid wood door.

“Not now.”

I roll my eyes and open the door.

“I said not—” My father looks up from his desk, reading glasses low on his nose, gray hair combed over Donald Trump style. “Darby.”

I step in, closing the door behind me.

“Did I know you were coming?”

I chuckle. “No, sorry did I need to make an appointment?”

He removes his reading glasses, tossing them on his desk, and leans back in his chair. “Have a seat.” He nods to the chair opposite him.

“I’m leaving town.” I sit on the edge of the chair, not planning on staying very long.

My father folds his hands and rests them in his lap. “You made the trip here to tell me you’re going on vacation?”

“No, I made the trip here to tell you I’m leaving indefinitely.”

“That thug break your heart?”

I wish there were some compassion in his voice, like a father should have if his daughter did in fact get her heart broken, but my father is devoid of that.

“No, he stole it.”

“You’re too good for him. You were raised better than that.”

“Better than what? Homeless? You don’t even know him.”

“I’ve seen all I need to know.”

“You’ve seen all you need to know. And what is that? His tattoos? His address?”

“You’re not leaving. With two months left before voters go to the polls, the last thing I need is you making a scene.”

I spring from my chair, gripping the edge of his desk, leaning forward. “A scene? Falling in love and living my own goddamn life is not making a scene! Fucking anything with tits and a skirt is making a scene!”

“That’s enough!”

“I don’t know what my mother ever saw in you.”

“I said that’s enough!”

“Fuck you, father!”

Whack!

Stomach acid gurgles up my throat, but I swallow it back down. With my hand cupping my cheek, I taste the salty metallic mix of blood on my tongue as the tip of it traces the gash on my lip.

“Now look at what you made me do.” He grabs a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the blood … my blood from his hand.

I suck in my bloodied, quivering lip as hot tears bleed down my cheeks. “Nana said my mom saw something special in you … but I’ve never ever seen it.” Turning, I make my way to the door with wavering steps.

The biting sound of hate in his voice stops me as I turn the knob. “That’s because it’s gone. It died with her … the day you killed her.”

Swallowing back the sobs, I run straight to my car. Susie’s voice echoes in the distance, but I don’t stop. The wad of tissue sticks to my lip as I blot the blood and wipe my face in the visor mirror. I wasn’t an abused child. I can count on one hand how many times my father has hit me. Tonight was number four. Justified? Absolutely not. Provoked? Always.

The pain he doles out makes it easy to walk away, but it also makes it easy to come back. Four—the number of times I’ve seen the pain … the love he must have had for my mom. Twenty-seven—the number of birthdays I’ve celebrated without my father. He’s always left a gift or money, but I’ve never once seen him on my birthday. That line between love and hate is so fine it’s nearly invisible. I thought it would get better, but as the years progress his “love” for me has been engulfed by pain, and now all I see is his anger.

*

It takes me less than fifteen minutes to pack my suitcase. The moment I pull into Trick’s garage, I feel the heaviness in my heart lift and nearly vanish. He is my home, my safe haven. Before the elevator comes to a complete stop, I see Trick sitting at his kitchen counter eating a sandwich.

“I was going to wait for you to eat, but my stomach overrul—” Trick gets his first unobstructed look at me as I tug my suitcase off the elevator. “What the fuck!” He stands with a jerk, sending the stool crashing over against the concrete. He cradles my face before I can utter a word. I flinch as his thumb grazes my cut lip. “Darby, what the fuck happened?”