by W. H. Vega
I ignore him and inch closer as Nancy’s wails echo around the tiled kitchen.
“Just let me...” I mutter, kneeling beside the trembling woman on the floor. Ever so slowly, I reach out to her, my fingers shaking with sympathetic despair. My fingertips brush a stray lock of hair away from her ruined face as I force a smile onto my lips. “It’s OK, Nancy,” I say softly, “We’re here for you. We’re—”
My condolences are cut short as Nancy’s fist collides with my jaw. I topple over backwards, bright spots of light erupting in my field of vision. My head hits the linoleum hard, and I feel Nancy scramble on top of me. Her claw-like fingers dig into the skin of my shoulders as she wrenches me up from the floor an inch and slams me back down. The corners of the world are starting to grow fuzzy, and I can see is my foster mother’s furious face. The pure, unadulterated hatred boiling in her eyes hurts far more than any physical blow ever could.
“You dirty little slut!” she screams, her spittle raining down on my face.
“I’m not...” I whisper, my head spinning.
The plain white ceiling fills my world as Nancy’s body is wrenched away from mine. I draw in deep breaths, trying to keep myself from bawling. My eyes dart to the side, and I see that Garrick and Trace have captured Nancy between them. They’re trying like hell to restrain her without resorting to more violence, but I can practically see the temptation tugging at Trace.
“How dare you?” Trace shouts in Nancy’s face, “I’d expect that kind of thing from Paul, but you? I knew you were a lousy drunk, but I never knew you were so fucking cold.”
“It’s their fault!” Nancy screams, casting venomous glares at Conway and I, “They’ve got him all bewitched or something. Running around here in their slutty fucking clothes, acting like the whores they are.”
“That’s not true,” Conway says, helping me to sitting, “We’re just trying to mind our own business, OK? For Christ’s sake, you’ve known me since I was—”
“Shut the hell up!” Nancy moans, “I don’t believe a word out of that painted little mouth of yours. You’re trying to drive me fucking crazy, turning my husband into an animal...”
“Oh please,” Conway shoots back, “He’s been a pig since I’ve known him.”
“Watch your mouth,” Paul says from across the room. I look up at my foster father, who’s been silent this whole time. My heart sinks a foot as I see the wicked grin plastered on his face. Is he actually enjoying this?
“I just call them like I see them,” Conway says, brushing my hair out of my face.
“If I let you go,” Trace says to Nancy, “Are you going to behave yourself?”
The woman stares up into Trace’s gorgeous green eyes, takes a deep breath, and spits in his face. A wave of nausea strikes me as her vile saliva splashes wetly against Trace’s skin. His body freezes with barely restrained rage, and for a moment I’m worried that he might finally strike her. But instead, he wipes the spit away and stoops down so that his eyes are level with hers.
“If you ever hurt Nadia again, or Conway,” he says slowly, “I’m not going to hold myself back. I will come at you hard and fast, and I won’t be gentle about it.”
“You’re bluffing,” Nancy says.
“You want to test me?” Trace asks.
“Why don’t you get a hold of yourself, bitch?” Paul says from his corner, “You look like a mess, all hot and bothered. God knows you’ve never been beautiful, but this is a new low in the looks department.”
“You son of a bitch,” Nancy moans, “You’ve destroyed my life, you know that? Look at this. Look at us. We’re disgusting, you and me. Living in filth, drinking ourselves to death. It’s all that’s left to us. And it’s all your fault.”
“Don’t talk so sweet to me,” Paul sneers, “I don’t know if I can take it.”
“Why are you so cruel?” Nancy asks, her eyes imploring.
“Because I can be, bitch,” Paul says, stalking across the kitchen to Nancy.
Garrick and Trace step away from her, join me and Conway across the kitchen. Paul advances on his wife, catching her wrists in his grizzled, powerful hands. For a moment, they stand locked like that together, stuck in an endless power struggle that can only leave them both demolished.
“I wish I’d never laid eyes on you,” Nancy mutters finally.
“That makes two of us,” Paul replies, tightening his grip painfully.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” Nancy says, wincing, “I can’t.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Paul tells her.
“The hell I don’t,” she says, wrenching her hands away. She turns away from Paul, swaying drunkenly.
“What the hell are you doing?” Paul asks, and Nancy heads for the stairs.
“What I shoulda done a long time ago,” Nancy says, “Getting the hell out.”
“Yeah right,” Paul says, “Where you gonna go?”
“Anywhere,” Nancy tells him, “My sister’s.”
“You hate your sister.”
“Yeah, well, I hate you more,” she spits, climbing the stairs.
Paul clenches his teeth together as his wife disappears from view. He turns toward the fridge, wrenching open the door and filling his arms with beer. The four of us kids back slowly out of the kitchen, stealing away into the basement as quickly as we can.
We assemble silently, sitting together amongst the bean bags and blankets. I crawl into Trace’s lap, burying my face into his shoulder. He wraps his arms around me, rocking me slowly back and forth. I want to weep, want to let out all the confusion and pain and bitterness before I drown in it, but I can’t muster up the energy.
It’s well past midnight, and I have the feeling that this is just the beginning of a very long night. Garrick and Conway clutch hands as we all wait for whatever it is that’s going to happen next.
A heavy thudding begins to ring through the house. Nancy must be lugging a suitcase down the stairs. The TV drones on, filling the space with a dull buzz and occasional bouts of laughter. Nancy’s march is slow but determined. There are no footsteps to counter hers.
Doubtless, Paul is planted in front of the tube as ever, flatly ignoring his long suffering wife. There are no goodbyes, no pleas from either party, just the same old sounds as ever. We listen as the front door opens and closes, ushering Nancy out into the cold night.
A few minutes pass before a cab stops at the curb and honks its intrusive horn. We hear the car steal off into the night, and know that Nancy has made good on her promise.
For a long time, we stay where we are. Like a litter of abandoned kittens, we huddle together for warmth and comfort. Even Garrick, who’s usually far too tough for this sort of things, leans into Conway’s tiny frame. Little by little, we curl up into a tangle of exhausted limbs and heavy hearts. And though there’s reassurance and love here, a heavier, more frightening truth chills us all to the core.
As manic and temperamental as Nancy might be, she serves a clear purpose in this house. She’s Paul’s sparring buddy and verbal punching bag. They’ve always worn each other out and kept away from us kids. But now she’s gone, and we’re here with Paul, all on our own. Without his wife around to tease and torment, what will he become? Will he just sink into himself, a pathetic husk forever without love? Or will he lash out at whoever is closest? Think up new ways to punish us for driving his wife away?
“Maybe she’ll come back,” Conway says, as we all teeter on the edge of fitful sleep. “Maybe this will blow over, and she’ll be back in the morning with a fifth and a truce drawn up.”
“I don’t know,” Garrick says quietly, “That seemed pretty final.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Trace says, “Whatever’s coming next, we’ll get through it. Maybe it will even be better without her around, you know?”
None of us are convinced by his theory, but we’re far too tired to shoot it down. Trace and I lay together on the sloppy heap of bedding, my back to his chest. Even with everything
falling to pieces around us, I can still feel safe in his arms. At least I have that.
Twelve
Nadia
All Alone With Paul
We wake up early the next morning, a Saturday, and pray that Nancy has returned in the night. One by one, we creep up the basement stairs to gather whatever information we can. Throughout the house, signs of last night’s struggle lay. Broken glass, toppled chairs, general disarray, all indicate the mayhem that occurred when Nancy finally snapped at her cruel husband.
The four of us kids search the house from top to bottom, but our foster mother is nowhere to be found. I can’t help but be a little jealous that she’s managed to escape, at least for a time.
Paul is still asleep on the couch, and we decide to capitalize on his slumber. As quiet as we can, the four of us creep out into the early morning sunlight and pile into Trace’s car. Garrick slips into the backseat without anyone having to ask, just so that he can keep holding onto Conway’s hand.
Under any other circumstances, I’m sure that she’d be thrilled to have so much of Garrick’s attention, but the current situation stifles all traces of her giddiness.
“Where should we go?” I ask the group.
“We just need to regroup for a second,” Trace says, sounding like a military strategist or something.
“You mean...we’re going back there?” I ask, “Even after last night?”
“That’s what we need to figure out,” Trace says.
We cover the short distance to our standby diner and shuffle inside. We’re closing in on the holidays, and the other customers seem chipper and merry, basking in the glow of the season. My foster siblings and I slink to our usual booth, bemused and befuddled by the casual happiness that everyone around us seems to be enjoying. I wonder if they have any idea how lucky they are to feel safe and loved this time of year, rather than fearful and lonely.
“Hey kids,” says our favorite waitress, Val. “You’re here awfully early for a Saturday. Everything OK?”
“Sure,” Garrick says, “Just...you know...Christmas shopping. Want to get an early start.”
“Isn’t that nice?” Val smiles, plunking four coffee mugs onto the table and filling them up to the brim. “These are on me,” she says, “As always.”
We force our mouths into smiles as Val bounces away. The moment she disappears, we get down to brass tacks.
“Chances are, this is temporary,” Trace begins, his jaw set, “Nancy will probably be home within the week, and things will be back to normal.”
“And if she doesn’t come back?” Garrick poses, “Is it still safe to be in that house with just Paul overseeing things?”
“We outnumber him,” Trace says, “That counts for something.”
“But he’ll be harder to manage, without his human stress ball around to even things out,” Garrick points out.
“Weren’t either of you listening to Nancy?” Conway snaps, “This wouldn’t have happened if Paul hadn’t come after me the other night.”
We look toward Conway, astonished. Garrick lays a comforting hand on her back and says, “You’re not blaming yourself for this, are you?”
“No,” she insists, “But we need to be realistic about what’s been going on in that house. Paul has been getting way too interested in Nadia and I.”
Trace grabs onto my hand and squeezes hard. I turn to him with a weary sigh.
“You know it’s true,” I say, “Remember the other night when we came home together? All he could think about was whether we were...you know.”
“He was just being a jackass,” Trace says, “He’d never act on it.”
“He tried to, with me,” Conway points out, “I know it’s ugly to think about, Trace, but we’d be better off thinking about the reality of the situation than denying it.”
“So, what do you suggest we do?” Trace asks Conway, “Call the cops, get hauled away to new homes in different states, never see each other again?”
“Of course not,” Conway says, “But I don’t think we can just turn a blind eye either.”
We all keep our mouths closed as Val delivers our usual orders to the table: four plates of waffles and home fries. It all looks as delicious as ever, but not one of us has much of an appetite.”
“Look,” Trace says finally, “I admit that the situation is shittier than ever, but I’m not about to blow our entire setup because of one drunken idiot. Jesus, I’ll be out of the system in a matter of months, you guys. And from there, I can actually help you. But I’ve got to make it through to the end.”
“And what about us?” Garrick says, “We’ll still be stuck in that place.”
“We can figure that out once I’m gone,” Trace says, “For now, I think we should hang tight. We’ll watch Paul more closely than ever, make sure he’s not up to anything. We’ll never leave each other alone with him, we’ll stay out of the house as much as we can. He’s no match for us if we stick together.”
“You really think it will be OK?” I ask.
“Of course,” Trace says, “You know I’d never put you in harm’s way. Any of you.”
That’s a fair point. Trace would never risk staying in Paul’s house unless he thought we’d all make it out OK in the end.
“Fine,” I say, “We’ll stay.”
“We’ll stay,” Garrick agrees.
“I guess. We’ll stay,” Conway finally allows. “But if he comes near me again, I’ll be AWOL before you can say ‘pedophile’.”
“That’s fair,” Trace says, “Now let’s dig in before this all gets cold. I’m freaking starving.”
As we lift heaping forkfuls to our hungry mouths, the sky outside opens up. The first timid snowfall of winter begins to drift toward the ground. Every other year, the first snowflakes of the season have been a welcome sight. But this year, they seem like one hell of a bad omen.
The first weekend without Nancy in the house passes tensely. Garrick, Conway, Trace and I tiptoe around the house as if the carpet was made of eggshells. But even as we fret and worry, we can’t help but notice that Paul doesn’t seem very different at all. He follows his usual routine of drinking and sleeping, pausing every now and again to shove something deep fried down his gullet. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that he doesn’t even remember that his wife walked out on him just a couple of nights ago.
For our part, we kids turn to all our typical methods for calming our nerves. I’ve started partaking in the drinking that goes on around the basement, for lack of any other option. A girl’s got to stay sane somehow. But on Sunday night, I take the next step.
We’re sitting around together, listening to Garrick’s favorite heavy metal album, when Trace starts to roll a fresh joint. It’s a wordless ritual: Trace puts the smoke together, lights it up, passes it to Garrick, then to Conway, then back. Round and round they go. But this time, after the three of them have filled their lungs with the heavy pot smoke, I hold out my hand to Conway. She blinks at me in the multicolored light, uncomprehending.
“I want to try it,” I tell her, “Pass it over here.” Conway glances at Trace, as if asking his permission. “It’s not up to him,” I tell her testily, “I can make my own decisions.”
“Hey, be cool Nadia,” Garrick drawls.
“Just...come on,” I say, taking the joint between my finger and thumb. “I’m curious.”
“You know what you’re doing?” Conway asks.
“Sure,” I lie, and lift the joint to my lips. I suck on the smoke as if sipping soda through a straw. The hot cloud fills my mouth, tickling my throat. Feigning mastery, I take the longest pull I possibly can and hold it. The other look at me, amazed, as I count out the seconds. Finally, I release my breath, sending myself into a coughing fit. My head feels like it’s grown three sizes, the sights and sounds around me are on a three-second delay. My mouth feels like an arid desert, and the whole thing seems hilarious, for whatever reason. I suppose this is what getting stoned feels like.
“Are you OK?” Trace asks, his concerned face swimming up out of the darkness.
“What...me?” I giggle, “Oh, sure. Don’t be such a Mr. Sourpuss.”
“Oh man, she’s a giddy one,” Garrick says, “Better than getting all down or quiet, I guess.”
“You bet,” I tell him, winking theatrically.
The joint makes the rounds again and again, and I happily suck in breath and breath of the stuff. With every puff, I feel my cells loosen. The weight of everything that’s been going on around here seems to roll off like a fog before the sun.
After a time, I hear a soft snoring beside me. Conway has curled up into a little ball on her bean bag chair, her skinny arms wrapped around her knees. In sleep, she actually looks her age. So often, I forget that Conway is even younger than I am. She’s so tough, so scrappy, that it’s easy to forget the fact that she’s still a little girl. We both are.
Garrick notices that Conway’s drifted off and pulls himself up from sitting. He gathers her little body in his arms and lifts her effortlessly.
“I’ll put her to bed,” he says drowsily.
“Stay up there with her,” Trace tells him, “It’s better if we don’t leave the girls alone.”
Garrick nods and starts up the stairs with Conway. Trace crushes the spent joint in an empty beer can and turns toward me. His brow wrinkles in concern as he notices how far gone I really am. When he speaks, it sounds like we’re both underwater and very far away.
“I shouldn’t have let you smoke that much,” he says. I imagine that I can see air bubbles rising from his mouth. “I’m sorry, Nadia. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Did you...send Garrick away on purpose?” I ask, my filter all but demolished by the pot I’ve smoked.
“Sure,” Trace says, “So he can keep an eye on Conway. Like we talked about.”
“Is that really why you wanted them to leave?” I ask, tipping forward onto my hands and knees. It feels like Trace is a thousand miles away, but I know I have to go to him. I place one hand in front of the other and slowly, very slowly, start to crawl to him.
“Nadia, you’re stoned,” he tells me, worry ringing clear in his voice.
