by Mia Kerick
See, the day my plane landed in Missouri is the day Dad and I finally talked.
Before we went home, we stopped to eat at this little diner called Busters. What should have been an hour of awkward silence (at worst) or parental anger (at best) turned into half a day’s worth of conversation. And it all started in the best possible way. The Beatles’ “Bungalow Bill” came over the restaurant’s speakers and Dad started whistling along.
I must have been staring, ’cause he looked up and smiled. “Remember singing this song together? You always called him Buffalo Bill.”
A knot welled in my throat then, and I put down my burger to write on Dad’s napkin, Do you love me, Dad?
The look on his face, fuck, you’d think I stabbed him in the gut.
“What?” he asked. “Seriously? How can you—? Yes. I love you. Renzy, I’ve always loved you. You’re my son.”
That was all it took and the dam broke and I shared everything. Through hand signs, guessing games, text messages, notes, even the drawings in my art book, I conveyed every last bit. My silence and his acceptance of that silence, what I knew about the affair and the kidnapping, my being gay, Mom’s abuse, Seven, and how much I appreciated Dad sharing his love of vinyl with me. All of it.
They kicked us out of Buster’s after only a few hours, but we continued our conversation at the coffee shop. By the time we got home, I don’t think I had any thoughts left in my head.
Recounting this long conversation now makes it sound like it all went smoothly, like my dad was totally cool and understanding. Instead he broke two coffee mugs. One at the restaurant, another at the coffee shop. The first he dropped in shock when I mentioned the hallucinations, the second he angrily snapped off the handle.
The second mug was about Mom.
Dad wanted to go straight to the cops, but I asked him to give her a running start. There was a very specific place inside me that wanted to see my mother pack her shit and go. I wanted to watch her put her whole life into a single bag and leave the rest behind. (See, I told you it wasn’t an axe-murderer thing.)
I got my wish. When we walked through the front door, my mother was at the kitchen table. She looked up at me blankly, like she hadn’t even known I was gone.
“Cassi, let’s talk in the bedroom.”
She wailed.
She begged me for forgiveness. She begged Dad for forgiveness.
But Dad wasn’t having her shit. He spoke for me and I let him.
“All this time, Cassi, I thought your ‘little episodes’ of rage were limited to me. I could handle it when you hit me and threw things at me. I could handle the bruises, the insults, the screaming, the broken plates, and the abuse. I stayed with you for our kids. But you hurt our boy. And I will never forgive you for that.”
He hadn’t known until I’d told him, hadn’t known Mom used to try to teach me to say “Renzy” instead of “Ren-Ren” by back-handing me when I forgot. That she used to be fine one minute, humming along with the radio, and the next screeching at me for making the slightest noise. He hadn’t known she’d put her cigarette out on me when I caught her smoking after she’d told us all she was going to quit.
“Jeff!”
“I forgave you when you conceived my son with another man.” I’d looked to Dad and saw how determined he was. He’d known about Larry, but it didn’t stop him from calling me his son. “I somehow forgave you when you brought that sicko Dorothy Alexander into our lives.”
Mom’s sobs rent the air, but I feel nothing for her.
“I forgave you for every ruined afternoon, and every emotional and physical scar you’ve left on me. I even forgave you about Jackie—”
“I told you, Jackie is yours!”
“Of course Jackie is mine—no matter who fathered him! But putting your hands on Renzy.” He growls the words, and I watch my mother tense in anger as if she actually has the right to be angry about anything. “I will never forgive.”
“I stopped!” she shouts. “After that bitch stalked him and-and kidnapped him… I stopped! I didn’t hu-hurt him again.”
She isn’t wrong.
She stopped.
Stopped hurting me with her hands, hurting me with her words…. Instead she’d cut me completely out of her life. My mother had turned me into the ghost.
“I found a bruise on Jackie’s back last week.” My father’s voice is so cold, so angry, and I shiver. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time because boys fall. They bruise. But, Cassi, who’s to say you aren’t starting it all over again?”
“Jeff….”
“Did you hurt the girls too?”
“Of course I didn’t!” Something changes in her eyes. They’re shadowed, secretive. “I would never hurt my girls. They’re not his!” She sputters in rage, her fists balling at her sides, hot color in her cheeks. Then she stalks at us, arm raised to rain down blows. I move toward her without thinking.
I still don’t quite understand where my mind went in that moment. But when I came to, her back was against the wall, I had her wrists in my hands, glaring her down. Her eyes went wide, not out of remorse for all she’d done, but out of sheer terror.
In that moment I was suddenly aware of how powerful I was. I could hurt her, I could slam her head into the dresser, I could show her no mercy the way she’d never had mercy for me.
I could snap the delicate bones I held in my fists.
But instead I steered her back toward the bed where she left her packing unattended. I forced her hands into the suitcase. Then I let her go, throwing up my hands as if touching her disgusted me. Because it did disgust me.
You will not hurt me.
You will not hurt my father.
You will not hurt my family, ever again.
When the girls came home from school that first day, Dad told them Mom was going out of town. It wasn’t a lie, of course. I assume she went far out of town. The story carried him through day four, but today is day five, and Dad’s just said the words aloud: Mom isn’t coming home.
“What?” Kendall cries, shock evident on her face. “What do you mean? Like, not coming home tonight?”
I let Dad talk for a while. I let him explain that she’s gone. Gone, gone. That she won’t be back—ever. Not to this house, at least.
“Why?” Flora asks on a hush of a whisper. Her bottom lip trembles, she’s pale.
Shock and hysteria soon set in as Dad explains bits and pieces of the story.
“Your mother… was abusing your brothers.”
Flora gasps and Kendall is silent, but they both look from Jackie, who is babbling happily about his trains, to me, who sighs.
They want confirmation. They need confirmation. I can see it glimmer in my sister’s eyes. Damn if I’m not really scared to give it to them. Almost as scared as I was seeing it for the first time. I reach up and very carefully touch the scar behind my ear.
We’re all in one giant roulette wheel together, I can feel it, and who the hell knows where everyone is going to land. Resentment? Relief? Anger? Apathy?
I finger the raised welt of scar tissue one more time. I could have kept it all to myself, let them live out their lives not knowing, but what about Dad? What about Jackie?
I nod, confirming the pleading fear in their eyes. Their mother—our mother—is not good, kind, attentive. She is sick. She is abusive.
I think Flora and Kendall are lucky, maybe. I don’t think they ever witnessed the side of Mom that exploded in rage at the drop of, well, a childish nickname like Ren-Ren. But maybe it’ll be a curse for them too. Since they never saw all the hurts, can they make themselves believe it really happened?
The girls don’t understand at first, but Dad lets them ask as many questions as they want, and he gives me the opportunity to explain everything I explained to him, if they want to know. He doesn’t censor me—he allows me to tell the girls as much, or as little, as I want. He doesn’t make me use spoken words either, and I love him more for that than I ever did befo
re.
Through my own unique pantomime, I use my hands to convey my thoughts. Flora is way quicker at catching my meaning than Kendall. I have a lot to learn, because it’s the first time I can remember ever really having talked with my sisters.
I tell them everything and I write responses to their questions.
They have none at first, then a million, then just a few, some of them repeated over and over.
Mostly: why?
It’s the one question I don’t have an answer to, and I’d give just about anything to offer them something to make it easier to take.
This is the reason I can hear the clock so loudly tonight, because dinner is such a silent affair. Well, except Jackie, who is pretty much always chattering.
I look at him and wonder, was Mom really abusing him too? He beams at me. Resilient little guy.
Flora pushes peas around her plate, her shoulders slumped. She doesn’t even pull out her cell phone, which is kinda like the end of days. Kendall sniffles, losing yet another battle with her tears. She’s been crying on and off for an hour, and I hope someday she’ll open up to me about the mother she knew. The one I think she’ll have to mourn over.
Dad looks tired, worn down from trying to hold his family together. My family is so confused, and I wish I could gather them all up in my arms and hug them.
I’ve always known I would leave them someday. Who sticks around forever? But since I used to be a ghostie haunting the halls, I imagined I would fade away into nothing, or drift out the front door and none of them would ever see me again. But that was before I found myself, found my strength, my voice, before I became fully formed.
They can all see me now and I get the feeling they need me.
I have a purpose here as big brother and son.
I want to help each of them so none of my siblings have to go through what I went through.
They’re going to get angry once the shock and sadness pass. They may even get angry at me. It’s possible they’ll blame me for making Mom leave, or they will hate her and stew in it. I can’t leave Dad alone with two teenage daughters and a son who won’t see high school for over a decade.
My mind flicks to Seven.
What would he think about my newfound purpose?
Will he stay in this “backwater town” (as he’s so fond of saying) with me? We could go back to school—well, no. He could go back to school. I think I might get my diploma through online classes. Either way, we could graduate together. Maybe we’d get a place together in town. Or maybe I’d live at home and see him when he and Morning fly in from Paris, Tokyo, or Milan. I don’t want to hold him back, but I can’t leave Dad to handle this alone.
“I… think I just remembered something,” Kendall says on a long sniff, looking up at me. Her voice is almost too loud in our uncomfortable silence. She has Mom’s chin, especially when she juts it out like that. “That… lady, Dorothy Alexander, taking you from in front of the house.”
Flora doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, like she’s afraid to break the silence that follows.
I nod. That would make sense. My sisters were there at the bus stop according to the newspaper.
“I always thought it was a movie I’d seen. You know, like, a really long time ago sort of thing? Where you only remember flashes? I thought it was all in a movie. I’m really sorry, Renzy.”
I smile at my sister who doesn’t owe me anything.
Tears crest and break, rolling down her cheeks in rivers that cut through her too thick foundation.
“I found a bear in the back of my closet,” Flora agrees in a voice so tiny, it might not be a voice at all. “I think the police officer gave it to me that day.”
“Do you…?” My father clears his voice. “Do you all want to talk about it?”
We look at him and we nod, one by one.
I WALK into the warm basement of the church, a specific Heart Aflame group on my mind.
It smells just like I remember, and I breathe in the mingled scent of people. Body spritz, sweat, tears, and the general odors of the outside. It’s not unpleasant. It’s just the smell of life, the smell of a gathering place.
Tonight, I’m here with purpose. No more wandering into a random meeting to see what’s going on, and no sitting in the corner, haunting like a specter. Tonight I’m here to participate.
Amber smiles at me when she sees me walk in, her eyes flashing in delight. Her expression is as warm as the room.
“How are you, Renzy? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I thought maybe you weren’t coming anymore!”
She’s laying out the tray of cookies, and I grab the lemonade and begin pouring it into little cups. After the last Oreo is perfectly arranged, she wipes her hands on her jeans and wraps one arm around my shoulders, hugging me.
I smile at her.
Tonight I’m here to attend the Survivors of Abuse and Neglect meeting. There’s no survivors-of-kidnapping meeting, nor is there a figuring-out-how-to-talk-to-the-guy-you-are-in-love-with meeting. But this will do.
I’ve been drawn to this group from the beginning, and I never knew why. It just seemed like I listened to the stories of these survivors a little more closely than the overeaters and depression, or any of the other groups.
I’m nervous tonight.
Actually, not true. I’m full-on freaking out.
I’ve heard this done a million times before.
Hi, my name is…
I know the rules of group. I know the dos and don’ts. I even know the members of this group and they know me.
But how weird is it to actually sit in a chair? To participate?
How do I explain, “My mom was pretty okay, except those times she would explode in anger and beat on me. My birth father’s wife was obsessed with me and kidnapped me from in front of my home. The wife is in lockdown in a mental hospital, and Mom is on the run. Oh, and I don’t speak.”
I guess I just do it.
I guess I just say it the way only Renzy can.
IT’S LONG after midnight, and I’m up in my room, thinking about the group, my siblings, and life. I thought about getting high, but tonight I want a clear head. So here I am, playing Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence.” These two totally get it.
You have to say something.
And I’ve been silent for way too long.
That’s why I’ve been drawing all evening—laying out everything that’s in my heart on paper.
Saying something.
Dad comes to check on me. Even though he and I are communicating more now than we ever have before, seeing him in my doorway is still startling. I don’t remember the last time he visited my room.
He asks if he can come in and I nod. Of course.
“Doing okay, Lorenzo?” he asks. I nod at him after a moment.
I’m doing okay. Not great. Definitely not amazing.
“I’ve been getting a lot of calls from your friend, Seven,” Dad says. “He really wants to speak to you.”
A guilty flush heats my cheeks. I received some texts from him, but they… stopped. I just hadn’t been ready to talk to him when he tried to contact me. And up until now, I was afraid he’d gotten bored with the game, maybe even moved on.
And if he wants me to speak, then I will never be ready to talk with him.
But if he wants to meet and see me, the real me, the Renzy exposed—then I will meet him with everything I’ve got.
I look down at the picture I’ve just drawn. A bunch of Sevens, all across the page—his different expressions captured as I remember them. The rare flush of vulnerability, the arrogant eyebrow, disgust and pleasure, laughter and pain. Seven in all his states.
I left the guy I love halfway across the country. I’m such an asshole.
God, I love him so friggin’ much.
Dad walks up beside me and looks down at my paper.
“Is this… him?”
I raise my eyes and meet my father’s gaze, nodding without shame. For a mo
ment he hesitates and then he asks, “You love him?”
I nod without hesitation. “Then why don’t you communicate with him, Renzy?”
“Communicate.” Not “speak.” How did I not know my father was such an amazing guy?
My smile doesn’t waver.
Don’t worry, Dad. I will.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Seven
“I WANT you to come with me.” Morning folds her arms across her chest and stomps a foot. Her bottom lip protrudes. She really is adorable when she’s pouting. “Now that you’ve figured out how we can graduate from the online school at the end of June, there’s no reason for you to be living on your phone and attached to your computer. The problem is solved, mon frère, so let’s move on!”
She’s right. We have officially enrolled in the Coming into the Light Virtual Secondary Education School, the Rolls Royce of online high schools, and have withdrawn from Redcliff Hills High School. I can say officially that I am no longer a Killer Bee, and I can say it without a hint of regret. “Look, I don’t need psychological counseling or group therapy, let alone group hugs. Here’s the hard cold truth of the matter: Rhonda and Edgar suck at being parents. They have always sucked, and yeah, maybe we were what you could call ‘neglected children.’” I use air quotes for emphasis. “But in my not so humble opinion, the money we have more than makes up for their absence.”
If I keep on saying this, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
“Like hell it does, Seven. Put your jacket on. The Bimmer is leaving in five.”
According to my phone, it’s a balmy day, if you consider sixty degrees and sunny to be balmy. I suppose it is for March in Missouri. I don’t need a jacket, and Morning knows perfectly well how to operate my BMW. Besides, it’s time she got her own car. I have no idea what’s been holding her back from picking up her own little sports coupe. She’s the embodiment of Miss Independence lately, right? The girl goes to the gym to work out, to her rape survivor group meeting to commiserate, to the local Designer Outlet Mall at least three times a week to shop, and to the spa too. You name it, Morning goes there. Alone. Sans moi.
