by Cecy Robson
My arm bands around Allie’s back, trying to somehow help her through it, the way she helped me. “The first smack was the one I really felt,” I admit. “It sent me flying like it did Angus. I managed to brace myself and not fall off the front porch.” My mind wanders and I almost check out. “The second didn’t hurt as bad, and by the fifth, I was completely numb.”
This moment is all about me and the not-so-sweet fairytale that was my childhood. The pain across Allie’s features temporarily steal the spotlight I inadvertently placed on myself. God help me. Even in all her misery, Allie is beautiful.
“I fought my father, Allie. I raised my hands and let my fists speak for me.” I curse under my breath. “I’d been in fights before. I had to be, growing up in the neighborhood I did, it was the only way to hang onto the few toys we had, and to protect my family. But there’s something really fucked up about hitting your own father.”
Allie covers her mouth, choking back a sob.
My head feels heavy. My arms do, too. Maybe hands have memory. It makes sense. I remember the pain that reached down to my bones each time my fists connected with my father. “I didn't spare him from my rage. I didn’t think I needed to. It felt like no matter what, I couldn’t stop.”
“Why?” she asks.
My mouth continues to move, but it takes a moment for the words come out. “As crazy as it sounds, if I had stopped, I’d be letting my family down. He’d get away with hitting Angus, with making my brothers cry, and treating Ma like she was nothing. It would be his ‘get out of jail free card’ for all those games he missed, and every smile he flashed when he led my mother into church, pretending to be something he wasn’t. Even though everyone knew exactly what he was. So, I couldn’t stop, even when my muscles were screaming at me to quit.” I groan, wishing all this shit didn’t still hurt. “But when it came down to it, I was a little kid and he was a very big man.”
Allie brushes my tears away with the tip of her fingers. She didn’t expect me to win the fight and she was right.
“It took Calla, that woman who helped break my mother’s heart, to make him to stop. ‘That’s enough,’ she said. ‘You’re going to kill him.’ She had a strong Philly accent. I could hear it even over her shrieking. I was this mess of flying limbs, making it hard for him to pin me down. As tired as I was, I fought to keep going. Finally, he grabbed me by the hair and twisted my arm, slamming me onto the porch.”
Allie is covering her mouth again, keeping all those cries that want to release from breaking free.
“Memories are a funny thing,” I say. “You don’t always remember the things you need to, but you never forget the things you should. I remember that front porch. It was a shitty little thing made from wood. Years of brutal winters had warped it, rotting it from the outside in, and staining it black.”
The rot. The smell of old, wet wood. The shock emanating from my father and the blood spilling out of my mouth. I breathed it all in. This part I don’t share with Allie. But it’s a part that still hurts.
“I couldn’t move once he had me down and I wasn’t sure what he’d do next,” I admit. “But then he lifted off me and I was sure I’d get up and start swinging again. But for a long time, I couldn’t get my body to move. ‘Go home,’ he said, then shut the door.”
“Did you leave?” Allie asks.
I don’t answer with a yes or a no. I answer with the memory. “The sun had gone down during the time we’d fought, and my breath was visible in the cold night air when I finally stood. I don’t remember the walk home, but I remember Ma’s face when she answered the door.”
Seconds go by and then minutes. It takes Allie asking the question for me to speak again. “What happened when your mother saw you?” she asks.
“She, ah, cleaned up my cuts and put ice on my face. Then she drew me a warm bath and got me my favorite pajamas. They were Spiderman pajamas—flannel, all warm and soft no matter how many times she washed them.” I say, recalling the dark red and blue pattern.
“Ma bought them brand-new,” I continue. “She knew how much I liked Spiderman. When she finished combing my hair, she tucked me into bed and kissed me good night.”
The next thing I have to tell Allie would make some people smile. I don’t smile. I just take the moment to remember Ma, and everything she’s done for us. “My father came home a little later. He sat down to dinner as he did every night. And just like Ma did every night, she placed his warm dinner in front of him. It was a routine they both had. Except this time, things were a little different. I don’t think he’d taken his first bite before Ma nailed him in the face with a cast-iron skillet.”
Allie gasps, her eyes so wide I think she might pass out.
For a brief moment in time, I’m no longer me. I’m that little boy in his pajamas, waking up to screaming and swearing. “Ma didn’t stop with one swing,” I tell Allie, giving Ma all the credit she deserves. “She let Papa have it.”
I stroke Allie’s arm. “At first I thought she was finally done pretending she didn’t know where he went every afternoon. But when I found my father on the floor, his nose caved in and his hands up, I realized what made her sling that skillet. ‘You may have put these children inside of me,’ she told him. ‘But that doesn’t make you their father. You don’t touch my babies, ever. You haven’t earned that right. And if you ever lay your hands on them again, I’ll kill you in your sleep, you bastard.’”
“Oh,” Allie says. She doesn’t say anything more than that, but I think it pretty much sums it up.
“He never got near us again,” I say. “There were no hugs, but there never were to start with. He went from treating us like we were nothing, to pretending we weren’t there. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but it kept us safe.”
“Your mother kept you safe,” Allie clarifies gently.
I smile, tasting the pride I have for my mother, as well as the bitterness reserved for my father.
“Seamus,” Allie begins. “The affair didn’t stop, but I think you know that.”
“Alz, it didn’t even pause. The next day, he was back with his mistress. Ma may have had the strength to protect us, but she didn’t have it in her to stop him from cheating. It took me a while, but I think I finally understood why.”
“Why?” she questions when I don’t explain.
“My father was a lot like that busted up porch. In need of repair, but not loved enough to be fixed. Ma didn’t love him enough to beg him to stay. Calla didn’t love him enough to beg him not to leave. He only got enough to keep standing, until the day came when he didn’t get back up.”
Allie leans in and kisses me, her lips sealing over mine. I take the kiss and own it, making it mine, making it ours.
It’s not an outrageously deep kiss, nor is lustful. It’s full of love and meant to heal and that’s exactly what it does. She pulls away, her soft gaze mesmerizing me.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “For your pain, for what you endured, and everything your family did to protect you.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “Look, I don’t know if you know this, but when my father died, he left my mother his military and post office pensions, as well as his life insurance. He wasn’t a good father in life, or a good husband. But he became a provider in death. It was the best thing he could have done under the circumstances and it helped me bury some of the shit he put us through.”
My voice lowers from shame and maybe something more. “I haven’t had the best experiences with women. In my defense, our father sucked.”
“I know,” Allie says. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have the happiness your mother always wanted for herself.”
Of all the things Allie could’ve said, this one belts me the hardest. I don’t let it distract me. There’s a point to the story that I still need to make. “I think there are kids who’ve been hurt that dream of fighting their fathers. Some may even enjoy doing so. I didn’t. But some good did come out of it.” My kn
uckles skim her lower back. “It showed the man who hurt us that we were no longer going to take it.”
Her gaze drops before I finish. She knows where I’m going with this.
“Allie,” I say. “It’s time to tell those who hurt you to stop.”
CHAPTER 18
Allie
This coffee shop is the trendiest in town. Modeled in the early 90’s after the TV show Friends, with its own artsy twist, I almost feel like I’m in L.A., rather than South Street where shops sell everything from cheesesteaks to super-sized phalluses.
I adjust my position on the well-worn couch in the small seating area designed to mimic a cozy living room and check my emails. The light streaming in through the window makes it a little hard to read the screen, but I manage.
As per his request and Seamus’s encouragement, I’m meeting Andres. I like that Andres chose a public locale. As much as I think Valentina is aware of our meeting, I’d never want anyone to question my ethics.
I take a sip of my Americano, my go-to drink when I need to get piles of work done on very little sleep. Seamus and I fell asleep in each other’s arms following our very long talk. Neither of us planned it. It just happened, keeping each other warm with our bodies instead of the spread of blankets beneath us.
It wasn’t until the sun trickled through the stained-glass window, painting our faces in a kaleidoscope of blues and greens that we realized we’d slept until noon. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if we both weren’t hammered with work and late to client meetings.
“Oh, fuck,” were his exact words. I grin. But I could be wrong.
The next week consisted of more O’Brien festivities and finally Finn and Sol’s wedding. Finn and Sol haven’t had it easy, but they’re grateful and blessed to have each other. So, instead of walking down the aisle, they danced—the groomsmen and bridesmaids, too! Let me say, Seamus has some serious moves.
It was such a beautiful and fun wedding. I can’t remember ever laughing as much as I had at a wedding, then crying just as hard when Finn and Sol exchanged their vows.
My phone buzzes twice, announcing two texts. One from Seamus, one from Mom.
Is the Queen of Hot Air and Darkness and her midget prince there yet?
You’re meeting Andres? Does Valentina know? Do you really think this is appropriate?
I didn’t have to check the names to know who said what.
A man in his early thirties sits down across from me. “Hi,” he says. “Is this seat taken?”
I smile, thinking of Seamus and push back a curl behind my ear. It’s time for another cut and Shaqwana was nice enough to fit me in. “It’s not taken,” I say. “But I am meeting someone momentarily.”
He smirks. “Your boyfriend?”
I laugh, playing with the cuffs of my deep plumb blouse. “Definitely not my boyfriend,” I say.
He smiles softly, his eyes skimming my outfit and maybe a little more. It’s then I realize this very attractive man is checking me out. “It looks like you’re almost done with your drink. Can I get you another?”
Since Seamus waved his wand, I’ve been surprised by how many men have approached me on the street, in restaurants, even at the shoe store where I bought these new heels. I’m still not used to the attention, and I’m not certain I want to be. “That’s very kind of you,” I say. “But I’m seeing someone, and I don’t feel comfortable accepting a drink from another man.”
He nods. “I understand.” He seems to want to add more, but then he stands, straightening the jacket of his suit. “Have a good day.”
“You, too.” Wow. He sat down just to speak to me. I watch him walk out at the same time Andres appears with Valentina. The man holds the door open for them, but he doesn’t seem to notice Valentina. Instead, he turns back briefly to smile at me.
My gaze drops and I blush from the attention he showed me, but also because I wasn’t prepared to see Valentina.
Andres didn’t select his place. She did. They walk in, her arm circling his. The barista with a tattoo sleeve of fairytale characters pauses in the middle of handing out drinks, as the laughter and jovial conversations drifting in the air lower to a murmur.
Everyone is looking at Valentina in her red floral spring dress and how the skirt flutters behind her with every step. My sister is striking. She always has been. It saddens me in a way that Andres looks like a stooge merely trying to keep up. He’s dressed in a light green cashmere V-neck sweater and freshly pressed tan slacks. He has his head up, attempting to match Valentina in height. But in those platform heels, she towers over him.
Valentina’s smile lights up the room. She waves, her enthusiasm appearing genuine and further highlighting her ethereal presence.
“Trophy wife,” a man in the corner booth mouths to his friend, causing him to crack up.
If I didn’t know them, I’d assume the same thing. For the life of me, I can’t understand what Valentina is doing with him, and perhaps what Andres is doing with her, too.
Valentina clutches Andres’s arm as she nears, pulling him closer to her when he sees me and his eyes widen.
“Allie,” Valentina sings, bending to kiss my cheek. I don’t bother standing, but I do return her affections. She releases her hold on Andres and steps aside, allowing him through. Like Valentina, Andres bends to kiss my cheek. I jerk away before he can make contact. His face reddens, my response clearly offending him. Perhaps I should feel bad, but I don’t. I have my limits.
Valentina beams, ignoring my dismissal of Andres. “Look at you. I can’t believe how much you’ve changed. You look . . . different.”
I’m not convinced she likes my new style of dress or my hair. “Sexy in business without being slutty,” Seamus calls it. I don’t know about that, but I’m overjoyed with my new wardrobe and that Seamus likes it.
My talk with Seamus the other day took a lot out of us, but when he walked me out to my car and he hugged and kissed me sweetly on the lips, I fell so much more in love with him.
“Are you still with us?” Valentina asks.
“Sorry,” I offer, setting my coffee down. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“On Seamus, perhaps?” she asks, her smile oddly feline.
“Yes,” I admit, the heat that claims my face validating my words.
Valentina sits on the couch across from me and crosses her legs, so perfectly poised I’m tempted to check the area for cameras. Andres sits on an extra wide chair to my left.
It surprises me that he doesn’t sit directly beside Valentina. The twinkle in her eyes tell me she already knows what I’m thinking and is happy to put my concerns at ease. “Andres and I have a meeting with our wedding planner. It’s the only reason I’m here.” She laughs when I tilt my chin. “Allie, you don’t think I’m here to make sure you keep your hands to yourself, do you?”
I pucker my brow, tasting a pang of what feels like resentment. “That’s nothing you have to worry about, I assure you.”
“I’m not worried,” Valentina adds sweetly, her gaze flickering over me.
My instincts warn me to move away from her, but I don’t stop holding my ground. She doesn’t sound nasty, nor does her expression give anything close to it away. But I feel it directed at me like a shove.
Valentina continues to analyze me. “Did you wake up in a bad mood?”
“No, why?” I ask, noting how she’s attempting to turn the tables to resemble prey and not the predator.
“You seem, I don’t know, perhaps bitter is a good word,” she muses.
I turn to Andres, mulling over whether he’s responsible for this ambush. This is a man I once knew so well, whose statements I could guess before he made them. I can no longer tell what he’s thinking. He could be nervous, sad, or possibly nonplussed, waiting for what comes.
I cross my palms over my knees and turn to face Valentina. It’s the position I often assume when I’m meeting with clients for the first time. It’s nonthreatenin
g and reflects the honest person I pride myself in being.
“Why do you think I’m bitter?” I ask.
I’m not certain what I say or do to cause Andres to sit beside Valentina. He’s just suddenly there. Seamus did something similar a few weeks ago when we went to a dive bar with his family to eat the best pierogis ever made. A man stepped in front of me on my way to the restroom. I didn’t feel Seamus approach. He materialized with his arm around me, leading me forward and around the man who seemed interested in more than the pierogis. But where Seamus stood close, Andres sits away, keeping a good foot of space between him and Valentina.
Valentina’s eyes darken. “Andres and I are in love, Allie. We never planned on it, it just happened.”
“That’s not entirely true,” I point out, cutting off her undying declaration of devotion. I look to Andres. “That day, you said you had to do research at the lab, and that you’d be gone all day. When you came home, you told me you spent the afternoon with Valentina, who no one realized had flown in from France. That took a great deal of planning, even though you’re not willing to admit it.”
Andres regards Valentina as if waiting for her response. “It wasn’t like that, exactly.”
“Yes, it was,” I say.
Valentina smiles. “It was a long time ago, Allie. It would mean a lot to us if we could move on.”
Andres looks to Valentina as if searching for permission to speak. I’m glad he does. It’s another reminder of why we never would have worked out. I want a man. Not a spineless slug.
“You hurt me. Both of you. It didn’t end with that day.”
Valentina’s laugh cuts me off. “My goodness, Allie. You’re not wasting any time are you? Going right for the throat, I see.”
Again, she’s trying to come across as the victim. “I have a client meeting in an hour. If we could get on with this, neither of us have to be late for our appointments.”
I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep my voice neutral or that it would shake inconveniently, making me appear weak. For now, it’s hanging in there, and so am I.
