At Daddy’s Hands

by Jacob Paul Patchen

  Instead, I figured I’d let my food do the talking. The lunch lady looked me up and down when I asked for three slices.

  “But, you’re just a tiny thing.” She said, with greasy spatula frozen in the air.

  “Won’t be for long if you keep eating like that,” said her hairnetted sidekick.

  “Oh, it’s not all for me, I’m getting a slice for my… friend-bully.” My arms were getting tired from holding out my tray.

  “That’s very sweet of you, darlin’.” She winked as she flopped two more slices in a messy stack on top of each other.

  I walked out of the line with a smile that I could hardly contain. I was enthu… enthudiass… nooo, I was… enthusiastic! (We learned that word last week in Language Arts. I told Mrs. V. that I was going to use it sometime.)

  Anyway, I paused and searched for her in the back of the cafeteria. That’s where the kids without many friends sit. There were only a handful of empty or nearly empty tables, and well, she’s not a small girl, so it wasn’t that hard to find her. Wait, is that mean? I’m just saying… ugh, never mind. Sorry. Anyway, my friends kept calling out my name, thinking I was lost or something when I walked right past our usual table in the front and headed straight for the back.

  Trisha had her back to the crowd, stuffing her face. I couldn’t blame her. I mean, I ate three pepperonis just on the way to her table. She didn’t see me freeze behind her in a moment of panic. (Thank God for that. I’m sure she would’ve made fun of me.) Then, one deep breath and a reminder that sometimes a bully just needs a friend.

  “Hey, Trish… aaa.” I stuttered like a moron. (Nailed it!)

  She didn’t budge from her tray of pizza and two bags of chips.

  So, I walked a little closer and moved to the side of her, so she could see me.

  “Trisha. Hey. It’s me… I’m Nikki. Nikki Handler. We go to school together.” Idiot.

  With her mouth full and a quick head snap in my direction, she glared at me, trying to figure out why I was disturbing her meal.

  “What do you want, Goldie Locks?”

  “Can I…” I swallowed that choking feeling in my throat.

  She was already going back for another bite.

  “Can you what?”

  I could feel the stares of egg-eyed sixth graders burning into my back of my orange “Colt Pride” t-shirt. The few tables around us fell silent. They were waiting for her to devour me. I just stood there beside her and her empty table, probably looking pale and parched as my stomach growled, Feed me! Feed me! It was now or never. I straightened up, locked my knees in place and clenched my tray like a shield protecting me from her laser beam glares.

  I smiled with fear in my eyes. “Can I sit with you, today?”

  She stopped chewing and whipped my way, again. She studied me, looking for any cracks, for the punch line, for any signs of a junior high joke.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know… you don’t have anyone to sit with. I just thought I would…”

  “What makes you think that I don’t have anyone to sit with?” She was glaring at me, not giving an inch.

  I looked around at all five empty chairs, at all five empty spaces. Then, I looked at the almost empty tables around us, pizza halfcocked to their mouths, all staring at our showdown.

  I slobbered over my tray, smelling the melted cheese and two pepperonis left. I wasn’t about to eat cold pizza!

  “Well, I’m sitting, and, I brought you an extra slice.” I pulled out a chair, not the one directly beside her, but the next chair after that.

  Her eyes were still hard and fixed on my face. She was still studying my angle. I slid my tray between us.

  “Here, pick one. Sorry, I kinda ate some of the pepperonis.”

  She looked down at my offering, then up to my face, down at the pizza, licking her lips, and then back up at me. Her eyes softened, her defenses fell. Just like me, pizza was her kryptonite.

  We ate in silence for the first few minutes, and then she did something so bizarre, sooo… awkward… so nice, that I started to feel sad for her. She thanked me. She said that no one had ever shared their food with her. That no one even wanted to sit next to her.

  We spent the rest of the period talking about what we like to do, what we don’t like to do, and that I should just call her Trish, and she should just call me Nik. She told me about her parents’ divorce, how her sister lives with her mom, and that she lives with her dad. She talked me about her dad’s temper, just like I was her… therapist… she told me about all the pain that he has caused her.

  I felt that. You know? I felt her pain. I connected with her. In a strange, weird, funny way… I felt like I knew her.

  I confessed about my dad’s anger too… about how he beats mom and drinks every night.

  I even showed her how I get through the pain. I shared my secret weapon, about how I had watched my father close his eyes when he was upset and count out loud over and over again until he was finally relaxed.

  I showed her how to do it. How to breathe in and out, real deep, through your nose and out your mouth. I told her to count really slow to ten. I told her to close her eyes and imagine somewhere beautiful, somewhere happy and warm. I said that the secret to feeling better was as simple as counting to ten.

  . . . . .

  Dad? Yeah, I mean… he’s alright. He’s always buying me things… gets me anything I want. But, I don’t really like to talk about him, much. He’s not the hero that I thought he was. You know? He’s a… he’s a taker, and like Mrs. V. says, that makes him a bully. But he doesn’t need a friend, he has lots of those, he needs… Jesus. Or Hell. I’m not really sure which. Is there any hope for him? What do you think? Do you think that Dad can… get better?

  It’s hard to talk about it. I’d rather just write about it. What’s that word you use... theerrraaa… peutic? Yeah, therapeutic. Writing is therapeutic. It helps me organize my thoughts and release stress. I can write a poem, or a letter, or even a story about whatever is bothering me at the time. I love writing stories. I mean, in stories you can make the characters do whatever you’d like them to.

  So, I wrote this story about Haley. She’s this quiet girl in my Language Arts class. I think she’s shy. I talk to her sometimes, but she doesn’t say much. She’s totally pretty though. She has really blue eyes and blonde hair. She’s skinny, about my height, and she bites her nails just like me.

  Well anyway, Mrs. V. gave us the whole period to write about “Courage.” She said that we could write about anything at all to do with courage. It didn’t have to be about us, or our family, or even someone we know. I thought about writing a story about a soldier, or a cop… or even a teacher. But, everyone was writing about that. I wanted to write about Haley.

  In my story, Haley is the baby of the family. They live out in the country, kind of like we do, but even further from town than us. She’s not as quiet at home. She plays and laughs with her brother and sister. She’s super close to her older sister. They’re like, best friends! Her older brother is always taking care of her, always protecting her. She’s so happy at home.

  But, one day, her uncle, from West Virginia, came to stay with them for a few weeks. He had a gambling problem and lost all of his money. Well, Haley’s uncle was her dad’s brother, and her dad told him that he could sleep in Haley’s room. Since she was the baby, she had to share a room with her older sister. But, she didn’t mind, because, like I said… they were besties.

  The first few days were weird having someone new in the house. But they all got used to it. Haley’s uncle was pretty funny and always telling inappropriate jokes (I’m not going to say them out loud). They were… dirty joke
s. Haley would laugh just to make him feel good, even if she didn’t understand all of them. She enjoyed being around her uncle. But that didn’t last long.

  Haley’s uncle was a perv! He would talk about her body, her bra size, and how she should lay out to get a tan because that’s what the older boys like. Soon, Haley started to feel uneasy around her uncle. He didn’t make her feel very comfortable anymore.

  One day, Haley caught him watching her change. He said it was an accident, but she didn’t think it was. She thought about telling her mom, or maybe even her dad. But she didn’t want to get her uncle in trouble. Besides, they probably wouldn’t believe her, anyway. So, she didn’t tell anyone. She kept it a secret.

  The next day, her uncle offered to babysit Haley while she was home “sick.” Haley told her mom that she would be fine alone, but her mom was very worried about her and wanted someone to be there to keep an eye on her. She even thanked Haley’s uncle for offering to babysit.

  That day, Haley’s uncle put his hands up her shirt. He said that he wanted to make sure that her heart was beating right. He said he might have to take her to the hospital, if not. She didn’t like that. She hated hospitals. So, she let him touch her.

  But Haley’s uncle didn’t stop there. He touched her in more places. He even made her touch him, too. He said that it was to make sure that he wasn’t getting sick, too. Haley and her uncle touched each other a lot that day.

  When Haley’s parents got home, they could tell that something was wrong. They asked a lot of questions, but Haley didn’t know how to answer them. She was scared that she would get in trouble. So, she made up a story about how she threw up in the living room, and her uncle helped her clean it up. That’s what she made her parents believe for a whole week.

  Haley started to have dreams about her uncle touching her in the middle of the night. She was so worried and scared. She didn’t know what to do. On some nights, she even cried herself to sleep.

  She decided to tell her dad. Because, well… because Dad could protect her. But that’s not what he did. Instead, her dad got very angry. He said that making up lies like that could ruin someone’s life and their career.

  He told Haley that she had to show him exactly what she thinks her uncle did to her. Haley tried to tell him. But he told her that she had to show him. He forced her to show him everything. So, she did. She pulled all the courage and strength from her soul, and she did everything all over again. And it changed her forever. She wanted to tell someone. She wanted to scream. Haley wanted to fight back.

  It was killing her to keep everything inside. She knew that she had to say something to someone. But, she didn’t know how. And she was very afraid of what everyone would think of her. She thought that she had done something wrong. She thought that she would get yelled at.

  Finally, a few weeks later, after her uncle finally went back home, she had told her mom that she didn’t want to be around him or dad anymore. Her mom asked a lot of questions. Haley had to be very brave, again. She answered them all so honestly. She, finally, told the truth, all of the truth.

  Her mom hugged her, cried, and told her how much she loved her. Haley cried, too. The weight of carrying all that pain and worry around with her had finally been lifted. Haley could finally start to be happy, again.

  She went to school and made new friends. She raised her hand to answer questions in class. She even started dating an eighth grader! Although she still had scars from what her dad and uncle did to her, she knew that she had the courage to move on. She knew that she could face anything because she was brave… because she was a warrior, a survivor.

  That’s it. That’s the end.

  That’s my story… uh, about Haley.

  Three.

  Ally

  2017, November

  The truth is, I haven’t always hated people. I used to love life. I used to have friends. Jessica. Jessica was my friend. I can still remember playing over to her house when I was, like, I don’t know, seven or eight. She had this tire swing that was tied to this one rogue branch that veered off to the right, while all the others headed toward the sun, on a huge tree in her front yard. We used to push each other for what seemed like hours and talk about those idiot boys at school, our new clothes, or how our mamas liked to brush our hair. That was before mine had her… uh, problem.

  There’s no doubt I was happier back then, before all this other bullshit. Back when dad still loved me or at least acted like it. But Jessica was a good friend, as far as third-grade friendships go, beautiful, with her Taylor Swift hair, always combed with bangs. And then there was me with my always-in-a-ponytail midnight hair. We sat beside each other at lunch, and sometimes we’d share our food. I remember when Mom used to make this kickass pineapple upside down cake, and every Monday she would wrap a huge slice in tinfoil and write these cute little notes, like, Have a wonderful day sweetie! Remember, you’re just as sweet as this cake! I loved that. And, so did Jessica, because sometimes I’d share… well, if her mom had made those delish chocolate chip cookies. Ha-ha. Even back then, I guess it was all about me.

  Sometimes Jessica would come over to my house, after all, we had the best yard to go exploring in. I guess you could say that I was a bit of a tomboy, back then. No matter how often Dad would call me his little princess or “Daddy’s little girl,” we were still turning over every rock, stick, and piece of trash trying to find worms for the pond in the backfield. Jessica in her hand-me-down-jeans and I in my new Hollister’s that mom would buy with dad’s money. But he didn’t mind. He’s always spoiled us that way. Jessica didn’t know how to bait her own hook so I would do it for her, just like Dad had shown me. We’d sit there on the little patch of dirt that Dad had cleared in the chest-high grass so that mom and him could see us from the back porch, while we threw rocks at tadpoles and tried to catch frogs.

  She used to tell me her secrets. I still remember back when she leaned in real close and whispered in my right ear that she had walked in on her older sister changing in the bathroom. We used to giggle about how big her boobs were and wonder how many things she would bump into or knock over with them. We would pretend to be her, sticking out our chests, bumping into each other, or trees, or bushes, like, oh, sorry, excuse me and my big boobs. God… I would give anything to have tits like that now.

  But, that next year, everything changed. That was the first time that dad forced me to touch his dick.

  Honestly, it came out of nowhere, right out of left field. I mean, the day started out just like any other. Mom made us all breakfast, probably scrambled eggs and toast with extra strawberry jam, my favorite. Dad helped me get dressed while mom was struggling with toothless Tyler and baby Nikki. I remember throwing a fit about the sparkly pink shirt that he picked out. I wanted to wear my Pittsburg Steelers shirt, again, but he wouldn’t let me. I cried into my Hannah Montana pillow for five minutes before I finally caved and stuck one arm through the sparkly pink shirt and walked around the house all pouty face and dramatic, like I was being tortured or something. Dad’s raised voice finally made me put it on the right way and finish getting ready for school. That sad… disappointed… broken look in his eyes when I told him that I hate him was a look that I would see again later that evening.

  It had rained the night before, and the ground was still wet, so when dad got home about an hour after us and saw our muddy footprints streaked through the hall, he flipped. He was sort of a neat freak. He would always say, “You’re only as clean as you keep your house.” But what did I care? I was nine years old and always getting yelled at for my messes.

  “Ally! Ally, come here! What the hell is this?” He was standing in the entrance with the door still opened, pointing at our footprints lined through the hall and up the stairs to our rooms. His black suit looked wrinkled, and th
ere was mud splattered up his trousers all the way to his butt.

  “Get down here now, and clean this up!” He demanded when I peeked around the corner from the top of the steps.

  “That wasn’t me, that was Tyler.” I tried to pass the blame like big sisters do.

  “I don’t give a shit who it was, I told you to get down here and clean it up.” He was in a particularly grumpy mood and scrubbing at his dress shoes with an old t-shirt rag by the time I reached the last step.

  “Why do I gotta do it?” I was testing his patience, and I knew it.

  He met me at the bottom of the steps where I had stopped to protest.

  “Because I said! You don’t need any other God damned reason than that!” His voice was a kind of mean that I hadn’t heard before.

  Mom’s concerned face rounded the hallway corner with Nikki on her hip.

  “Daddy, shhh.” Nikki put her tiny painted fingernail up to her lips like Mom always would.

  Dad shot her a scolding look. “Don’t you shush me!” It came out way crueler than what was called for.

  “Now, Jim,” Mom’s eyebrows were scrunched, “settle down, settle down… it’s only dirt, it’ll clean up.”

  Dad searched for a clean spot on his rag to get the last bit of mud from the top of his right dress shoe.

  “Don’t you start, too. It’s been a helluva day! You couldn’t possibly imagine the carnage that we dug out of Will’s Creek today! The bodies of these high school kids… mangled, twisted, naked, for God’s sake, they had rope burns around their necks!”