by B Truly
Big-brute releases my dad. “I will. Come on, Madison.”
He wastes no time leaving. He pulls my arm, tugging me to the car quickly. I hand him the keys. Jumping into the driver’s seat, my dad guns the engine, speeding out of the complex like a bat out of Hades. Determination is set in his features, wanting to get away from there as fast as he can.
After we’re on the freeway, I can no longer hold my tongue. “Are you going to tell me what in the world that was about?”
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but it’s nothing to worry about.”
Appalled by his nerve, I turn to face him, crossing my arms. “Are you really going to sit there and pretend like everything is fine?”
“I’m going to deal with this ... make it right.”
“Those men meant serious business. The big brute had you plastered on the wall. I’m not a little girl anymore, Dad, so please give me credit.” This isn’t a situation he can just sweep under a rug. “I was worried sick waiting for over thirty minutes. You owe me an explanation.” Prior to this, I never would’ve dared speak to him in this tone. But after what I witnessed, he needs to tell me something, anything. I am close to panicking. “Please, Dad? I’m scared.”
His face crumples. “Sunshine, please forgive me. I never should’ve brought you in the first place. I borrowed money from him, and I need to pay it back.”
“It seems like they were willing to beat you up, or worse behind it.”
“It’s a misunderstanding. I’m going to take care of it.” He tries to explain.
Sure, it is. Elephants can fly, too.
Mama’s conversation replays in my head. Did he borrow money from my grandma to pay them back, but it wasn’t enough to cover the loan? And why did he borrow money from the man to begin with? My senses are turning cartwheels, banking on the fact this dilemma is about more than a misunderstanding.
“What if you pay him back and he still comes after you?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head. I promise, everything will work out.” He eases up on the gas pedal. “This may be asking a lot, but can we please keep this between us? I don’t want to worry your mother for no reason.”
I disagree. There is plenty of reason to worry. He’s definitely trying to downplay the situation. I’m old enough to know when I smell trouble, or an adult attempting to sugarcoat a predicament. I decide to hold my tongue, not wanting to overstep my boundaries. These occurrences with him are so out of character. Picking me up drunk and taking me where men want to cause him harm because he owes them a debt—not typical. My mind spins in chaos, unsure of what to think.
I remind myself that I could always rely on my father. He has always been a constant in my life. A person I can depend on—someone who always keeps me safe. I understand in life, sometimes a person makes a bad judgment call. I am far from perfect, and look up to my dad, so I’ll keep his secret—cut him a break.
Fearing for his safety is my only dilemma. Pushing down my unease, I reply, “Of course, I can. But do you promise you will be all right?”
Leaning over, he kisses my forehead. “I’ll be fine, and nothing like this will ever happen again.”
My heart wants to believe him. Deep down, I feel a nagging in my gut, telling me this is not over. All I can do is pray for God to keep my daddy safe.
* * *
For the following week, I feel like my dad and I have some sort of secret code. Guilt is evident in his expression every time we make eye contact. I haven’t told a soul, not even Dariel, whom I tell everything. My older sister, Tanya, and I aren’t close, so it’s not like I can confide in her. I continue to pray for his well-being and that he pays those goons off.
A loud shriek jolts me awake. I bolt upright in bed, startled. Another ear-splitting bang sounds like it’s coming from downstairs. I scurry out of bed to see what’s going on. Tanya has heard the commotion, coming from her room also. We both take the stairs two at a time. In the family room, Mama is yelling at dad at the top of her lungs. Neither of them notices us. I spot the source of what probably made the loud noise. A broken vase lies shattered across the floor.
“Do you know what time it is? I can’t take this anymore, Phillip. It’s 3 am! Where the hell have you been?”
Dad scratches his temple. “I can explain.”
“Can’t wait for your explanation. It will probably only be lies.” Mama pokes her finger into his chest. “The evidence is on your breath. You’re wasted, as usual.”
“I’ve only had a few drinks. You’re exaggerating.”
“Spoken like a true alcoholic.” He narrows his eyes. “This has got to stop. I can’t keep covering for you.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Oh, really? Well, do you have the money we owe my mother?”
“I don’t have it yet. I had to pay back a loan.”
He’s not lying—I witnessed that firsthand.
Mama snorts. “I’ve been lying to her. Saying you’ve been working overtime, when the truth is, you’re gambling and drinking all the money away.”
Oh, now things are starting to add up. He has a gambling problem.
Dad squares his shoulders. “Now, wait a minute. Maybe I wouldn’t be so stressed if I didn’t have to worry about paying all the damn bills. You haven’t worked a day since we’ve been married.”
“That’s because you claimed you wanted to take care of me. Your old-school BS about wanting me to stay home and take care of the kids.”
“You don’t have to work full-time. I can carry most of the load. We both know our finances have been tight around here for a while. I’ve mentioned several times for you to work part-time or even as needed, but you refuse.” Mama flinches. “Not to mention, you spend money like it grows on trees. Always trying to live above our means.”
“At least I’m at home with our girls, sober.” He cringes. Mama crosses her arms, not backing down. “Where were you tonight? Gambling more of our money away.”
His nostrils flare. “I’m done trying to explain myself. It’s like talking to a brick wall. I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t you dare walk away from me!” She blocks his path. “You should be ashamed of yourself—a gambling drunk, just full of excuses.”
“Charlotte, don’t push me. You’re a fine one to talk. Always giving me a hard time and putting pressure on me, when you don’t lift a finger to help.”
“Excuse me? I do plenty. I take care of this house and raise our children.”
He skims a hand over his head. “All you do is complain. Nothing’s ever good enough for you. It’s a wonder I come home at all. Ms. High and Mighty.”
Mama gasps, then she rears her arm, slapping him hard. His cinnamon-colored eyes couldn’t get any bigger. Tanya and I stand by the end of the stairs, frozen. Losing his composure, my dad moves his hand in a motion that appears like he’s about to retaliate. Mama’s honey-brown irises widen in surprise.
Tanya shouts, “Dad, don’t!”
Hearing Tanya’s voice stops him. His hand pauses midair, inches from striking her face. Both of their heads jerk in our direction.
Dad backs away from her with shame written on his face. “I’m sorry, girls. Your mom and I were only having a disagreement.”
Mama places her hands on her hips. Maybe if I were still a child, I’d believe him. That was more than miscommunication. Tanya and I remain silent, at a loss for words. My dad retreats, heading upstairs.
Mama sighs. “Everything is fine. You ladies go back to bed.” She turns away from us, our cue to leave.
My sister and I walk upstairs in silence, parting to our bedrooms. Dad’s eyes were wild and glazed over. The same way they were the day he picked me up drunk from school. He has a drinking problem, and he almost hit Mama. He’s an alcoholic. The realization causes my stomach to churn.
3
Vandalism
Over the next couple of weeks, my dad’s practically a ghost, which is no
thing new. What adds to the equation is that Mama has also been going out lately. The last two Friday and Saturday nights, I’m not sure when she came in. When Mama goes out, she normally doesn’t paint the town red. It makes me worry if she’s attempting to hide from her problems at home. My parents have been married for fifteen years—surely, they can salvage their relationship.
After our trip to the grocery store, the sun is starting to set. We pull up into the driveway to haul the groceries inside. Grabbing bags, I head toward the back door first, noticing it looks ajar. I take a step backward, almost bumping into Tanya.
“I think someone’s in there,” I hiss. “The door is open.”
Tanya’s honey-brown irises grow wide. We put our grocery bags down on the patio table as Mama comes around the corner.
“What’s going on?” Mama’s brow knits.
“Someone might have broken in. The door is open,” Tanya explains.
“Could dad be home?” I ask. I didn’t see his car when we arrived. Thinking so is a sense of false comfort.
“I doubt it,” Mama replies.
She places her bag down on the table with ours. Going toward the door, she eases it open. “Should we go inside by ourselves?” I wonder. The glare she gives me lets me know to shut up. My heart is jackhammering against my ribcage. Mama and Tanya head toward the family room. I enter the kitchen, noticing the refrigerator is ajar. The freezer side is bare. It’s a good thing we just came from the grocery store. “All the meat is gone.”
Mama rushes over, gasping. Nothing else seems out of order in the kitchen—other than the robbers getting their groceries here. The family room is another story. Pillows are tossed on the floor and the table decor is smashed. Stuffing from the ripped-open sofas and pillows are splayed over the floor like confetti. The icing on the cake is the 60-inch flat screen is nowhere to be found—along with the DVD player.
Tanya inhales loudly. “They took the TV!”
Mama places her hand against her temple. “This is unbelievable. Who did this?”
I swallow hard, having an idea. How upset will she be if I tell her my suspicions?
“My room,” Tanya drawls, rushing to her bedroom.
“Tanya, wait! What if someone is still here?” I call after her.
She doesn’t stop, continuing up the stairs. Mama heads in that direction also. I follow behind her—my chest constricting with each step. She doesn’t go to Tanya’s room, continuing to hers. I peek my head inside Tanya’s bedroom, which is ransacked. Her lips quiver as she looks around. Cautiously, I check the closet, not finding anyone. No one seems to be hiding in here, so I head to Mama’s bedroom.
When I enter, I can already tell her room is worse than Tanya’s. The first thing I notice is her TV is missing, too. There are clothes thrown around the room. All the dresser drawers are hanging open or lying sideways on the floor. Her mirrored dresser is a mess with perfume bottles knocked over and items scattered about. Mama is fumbling through her jewelry boxes.
“Those bastards took my good jewelry!” She rushes into the closet.
The bathroom door connected to their room is open. Something red on the mirror catches my attention. Stepping into the doorway, I feel my eyes grow large. The writing on the mirror is in red lipstick. I cover my hand over my mouth. This is turning worse by the second.
I hear Tanya whine, coming into the bedroom. “They took my flat screen and some of my jewelry is gone.”
It’s horrible these goons have stolen from us and destroyed our things. I’ll have to face my bedroom later. I don’t own much jewelry and not one diamond, but they could have torn my room to shreds. The message on the mirror is the most disturbing. It must be those men I’d seen.
Returning to the bedroom, I say, “They left a message.”
“What?” Wrinkles line Mama’s forehead.
She hurries into the bathroom with Tanya on her heels. Mama inhales loudly when she sees the message.
We know where you live now & next time, we won’t be so nice. We’ll visit when your family’s home. Pay us what’s owned. You have 48 hours.
“Is dad in some sort of trouble?” Tanya’s brow knits.
Mama’s lips tremble. “It looks that way. I’m calling him now!”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” asks Tanya.
If those men are bold enough to come to our home to steal and trash it, then there’s no telling what else they’re capable of. Fear of how deep in trouble my dad has gotten, I blurt, “I think I know who did this.”
Mama’s head whips my direction. “Well, don’t just stand there. Tell me what you’re talking about.”
Her faces gets more and more contorted as I explain what happened the day Dad went to those townhomes and I’d walked in on him getting strangled. “I should’ve told you … but Dad asked me not to say anything. He promised everything would be okay.”
“Does this look okay to you?” Tanya raises her eyebrows.
“You should have told me,” Mama chastises me. “But your father shouldn’t have told you to keep it from me in the first place.” She storms out of the bathroom. Grabbing her cell, she speed-dials him. He doesn’t answer, and she leaves him a nasty voicemail. “We were just robbed! They trashed the house. Of course, you’re nowhere to be found. You’ve gone too far this time, Phillip. We’ve had to suffer for your shortcomings.”
Mama sends him a text message next, typing furiously. I’m shocked she left that message in front of us. She’s normally so hush-hush about their problems—trying to pretend like everything’s dandy. I’ve never seen her so mad. I’m upset with him also. He didn’t fix this, and I’m scared of the threatening message they left us.
“We’re not going to call the police,” Mama tells us.
“What! Why?” Tanya asks.
“The people who threatened your father must be behind this. Madison has seen them, and they know where we live. These people are dangerous to do what they did to prove a point. I don’t want to involve the police—it could make matters worse.”
“What will happen if dad can’t pay them back?” I can’t help asking.
Mama’s mouth forms into a tight line. “I ... don’t know, but I don’t want either of you to tell anyone about this.”
“What about our stuff?” Tanya pouts. “Do you guys have insurance to cover our losses?”
Mama doesn’t answer. Instead, she replies, “Your father will get this mess situated. It’s not for you girls to worry about. Let’s start picking up to salvage what we can and remember what I said—not a word about this to anyone.”
4
Devastation
The house is still in shambles, and we’ve been picking up for hours, barely making a dent. The robbers had a field day with our property. Tanya and I are cleaning up in the family room when Dad shows up. Mama’s in the kitchen. When she spots him, she doesn’t hold back, hurrying into the room.
Mama crosses her arms. “Well, look who the cat dragged in.”
Dad changes his footing. “I got home as soon as I could.”
“Who are those men that ransacked our house?”
“It was only a scare tactic.”
“Well, guess what, it worked.”
“I’m sorry for putting you guys in this predicament. I’m handling the situation. They won’t come back.”
“You can’t guarantee they won’t.” Mama narrows her eyes and his Adam’s apple bobs. “What took you so long to get home?”
“I was tying up loose ends.”
Mama’s honey-brown eyes dilate. “What does that mean? Phillip, were you gambling again?”
“I’m ... doing what’s necessary to ensure this never happens again—taking care of my family.”
“Your gambling is why we’re in this situation in the first place.” Mama storms away, going upstairs.
She slams the bedroom door so hard I hear it from downstairs. Dad skims a hand over his head. If you looked up the word guilty, there would be a picture of his fa
ce for the definition.
Dad shifts his weight. “Girls ... I will make this up to you.”
There’s no sense for him to deny he’s the reason our house got robbed. The message on the mirror clearly indicates that fact. His argument with Mama only drives it home.
“Dad … I thought everything was going to be okay?” I can’t help questioning him.
“It will be. Soon, things will go back to normal.”
“How will it be okay? Those thugs took all our valuable stuff,” Tanya pokes out her lips.
“Material things can be replaced. Our lives can’t.” I smirk at Tanya, throwing a more important fact out there, the issue I fear most. Tanya’s eyes reach the heavens.
Dad’s cinnamon-brown eyes widen. “It won’t come down to that. I promise.”
“Those men were bold enough to break into our house.” Tanya’s lips trembles. “Are you certain they won’t return?”
“They won’t because I’m going to solve the problem.” His lips curve upward. I notice his smile seems strained. “I’ll help you girls clean up.”
I think he’s only telling us what we want to hear, so we won’t worry. I can’t shake the sensation that my dad’s in over his head and rectifying this situation will come at a great cost.
* * *
The following week tension lingers in the air. We manage to get the house mostly in order, which is now pretty bare. The majority of the furniture had to be thrown away. Dad is rarely home. My guess is either working or gambling. My concern heightens when he hasn’t been home since the weekend. I rarely see him on a weeknight, but I don’t remember seeing him at all since Friday night—four days ago.
At the dinner table, I pick at my food, unable to shake the feeling that something is wrong. Mama went out again over the weekend. Now, she’s pushing the food around her plate, too.
Unable to stand it any longer, I blurt, “Has dad been home? I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”
