Should Have Known Better

“Oh no, Dawn, what did you do?” my mother asked, getting down on her knees to inspect the broken pieces.

“I was just playing,” I said. “They’re diamonds.”

“I told you to leave it alone,” she said.

“Leave it alone? You should be watching her!” My father’s voice boomed around the room like a siren.

“I can’t watch her every minute of every day,” my mother complained as we stood around her.

“You can’t watch her?” He bent down and slid his hand around her neck from the back, squeezing it so I could see his knuckles stick out. “You can’t do anything I ask you to do.” He pushed her down into the wet floor like a dog. “Get this cleaned up and watch her!” he said, finally letting her go and walking upstairs without even looking at me.

It was the first time I’d ever seen them like that— seen my father try to hurt my mother—or maybe just the first time I recall.

I rushed to her side as she gasped for air and continued picking up the leaves.

“You OK, Mama?” I asked.

“Just help me get this up,” she said. “I need to get this up before he comes back downstairs.”

Remembering the look in her eyes, the detached, silenced look in her eyes, I turned from the red 593 on my hand and saw my father’s old liquor hiding place at the bottom of the china cabinet staring at me.

I got up from the table and went to open the door, hoping and then not hoping I’d find something in there. He never stopped drinking until everything was gone and I was sure my mother hadn’t put anything else in there after he died. But with my memories and my realities, I wanted what my father always needed: a drink.

There was a full bottle of Scotch inside. I always hated that rubbery taste that took over every sense as you struggled to get it down. But as they say, after a man has his first glass, the second is like water. And my third didn’t even require ice.

Soon the bottle was half empty. And I had my legs spread up on the other chairs beneath the table. I stopped pretending to sit up and just slouched down in the seat, cursing the night for my life. If Reginald left me, if he really left me, I wouldn’t even have anywhere to go. I had no savings; hell, the library hardly paid me enough to buy groceries, and with R. J.’s medical bills, if he got sick or if any of us got sick, I’d have to . . . I’d probably have to come back home.

I looked around the room—the scene of the place I’d hated so much my only plan in life was to leave and never ever come back—and thought there was no way I’d make my children live my nightmare.

And what about Reginald? In his house on Lover’s Lane. In the bed with Sasha. Their meetings. Their big plans. Their future. All of this, and the past with me was so much of a nightmare that he had to leave without saying anything?

I poured another glass and sipped until I couldn’t feel my tongue anymore. Sipped until my memories and thoughts were just clouds over the chandelier.

And then my cell phone rang. It kicked into the dark house like a fire alarm and the vibrating made it coast all over the living room table. And I knew who it was. And why he was calling. I sat for the first ring, but then ran for the second.

I didn’t say anything.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I’ve been calling you all night. Why in the hell would you go to Sasha’s job?” Reginald’s voice was so loud I had to move the phone from my ear.

“Hello,” I said.

“What is wrong with you, Dawn? Why would you go to her job?”

“You said you would call. You never called. What’s going on? Why haven’t you come home?” I knew what was going on. We both knew what was going on. But I wanted him to say it to me. To say to me directly that he was having an affair with Sasha.

“I told you I’d call.”

“But you didn’t,” I charged. “And you didn’t answer my question—what the hell is going on?”

“Nothing . . . I mean . . .” he stuttered. “I just need some time. Like I told you.”

“Told me? You didn’t tell me anything. You just crept out of our house like some little boy. Ran

off and sent me a damn text to solve the case of my missing husband.”

“I just need some space.”

“Space for what, Reginald?” I asked and I could hear myself screaming then. “Space for what?”