“She encourages you, puts dreams in your head about some fancy school in Portugal. As if you could ever get into a school like that.”
My throat closes, like someone pulling all the air out of me over and over, draining me. All this time, I thought Dad was protective. I hoped he was, making sure I wouldn't get too hurt if my dreams didn’t come true like his never did. But he isn’t scared for me. Again, like hands around my neck, tightening, I swallow hard to get the lump of despair that’s building up as far down as I can. It won’t go away. Dad doesn’t believe in me.
The letter is digging into my thigh, so I shift position in my chair. I want to pull it out, show Dad I made it, for the both of us. Let him read the words, join me in my joy. His words keep me from it. Without realizing it, I’m gripping the table, struggling to get the anger building up inside me under control. In a steady voice, I say. “Nana says I can do whatever I put my mind to! I believe that.”
He doesn’t lift his eyes from the plate. “Well, that proves it then. Nana is stupid!”
Mom brushes the table with her hands as if brushing off imaginary dust. “Let’s change the subject. Perhaps you’d like to have your dinner in your room tonight, Amalie?” She looks down at her lap. Her fingers braided together in a tight grip.
“I’m fine,” I say. Dad clears his throat, straightens his back, and pours more sauce on his steak.
I serve myself some salad. “How was work after I left today, Dad?”
Still not taking his eyes off his plate. “Don’t get smart with me. None of the idiots around here bought a car. Like yesterday, and the day before that. It doesn’t matter how hard I work. Not everyone’s as lucky as your mother.” He takes a bite of his steak. “No matter what Nana tells you, Amalie. It’s no use.”
Mom shakes her head at me, signaling for me to let it be, but I can’t. “Mom didn’t get lucky.” She’s worked more than anyone at making sure everyone working at The Bluebird and every customer is happy. Why does she accept this? “And Nana isn’t stupid. Stop saying that!” I think about the suitcase in my room. I throw the letter on the table in front of Dad. “Dreams do come true. I got the scholarship. I’m moving to Porto.”
I’m pleased for standing up for Mom, Nana and myself, until I see the look on my mother’s face.
“What?” I follow Mom’s fixated stare on my father.
He is pushing the letter back and forth with his fork, like a cat playing with its prey. He raises his glass of wine and, for every swallow, his eyes grow darker.
Hairs on my arms rise. My mother’s vein pulsates in her neck.
I don’t know where my anger came from. Mom doesn’t say a thing to defend the way Dad speaks of her mother. Nana wants what’s best for me, and that does not make her stupid. “I worked hard for that scholarship, and I’m going.”
Dad puts his empty wineglass down, still not taking his eyes off his food. He grabs the meat knife and smashes the blade through the letter and into the table. “You? You worked hard?”
What is happening?
My eyes dart back and forth between my parents and the grease running down the blade sinking into the paper between us.
I look at my mother; her expression is sad. I remember all the other times when he’s played with his food, and she’s asked me to go to my room. She was always quiet and deep in thought when I returned, and my father was either sleeping or gone. But he’s here now. And he is angry.
“You don’t know what hard work is,” he whispers. He stands up, pushes his chair to the side, and without warning, throws it across the room, shattering against the wall.
Dad shouts now. “What about me? Huh? Haven’t I worked my ass off since you were born?”
I jump up from my chair and freeze. He leans over the table and yells in my face. “You are not going anywhere, Amalie!”
His spit hits my face, but I can’t move. A part of me wants to say it has all been a joke, that I won’t go to calm him down, but I can’t get myself to say it.
“I stayed here because of you!” he continues. “I gave up my career, my dreams, because of you!”
My chin shakes, I try to stop it, but can’t.
Is he talking about London, when he was nineteen?
Mom glowers at Dad. “Your hard work will pay off, my darling. Let’s calm down and talk about this another day. We’re your family. We love you.”
He turns and looks daggers at her. “Like my father would say, ‘Family is only good for one thing: Looking good framed on the wall.’” He glares towards the staircase where our family photo usually hangs, and I brace myself for him to grab it off the wall and smash it to bits. But it’s not there. It’s still in my room.
Mom is the only one still sitting. “You don’t mean that, darling. We both decided to stay when I got pregnant.” Her voice is thick.
Desperation pours from her. She’s anxiously trying to make my father see things differently, but it’s not working. He shakes his head, laughing, and scowling at me.
“I am the man in this family. I decide, and you will work for me. You will make my business better, and I will get the respect I deserve in this town!”
Like a leaf shaking in the wind before fleeing the branch it’s holding on to, my body shakes. I have never seen this level of anger in Dad before. Gone are any thoughts of defying him; there is no reason behind the black in his eyes.
“Yes…” I inhale deeply, exhaling through shivering lips. “Sir.”
Tears run down Mom’s face. “We’ll go out, let things cool down.” She wipes away her tears with quivering hands, stands up, and calmly pushes both our chairs back in under the table.
Dad stands still, staring down at his plate. His hands are rolled into fists, veins pulsating through the skin. His jaw clenches harder together, and his breathing grows faster, louder.
“Celina.” The frostiness in his voice shoots shivers through my body. His eyes are glued to his plate. “Don’t you dare leave this house.”
Mom takes my hand. “We’ll be back before you know it.”
Despair fills her eyes, her voice with fear and her body is trembling. We have no choice; we must get out of this house.
Dad raises his eyes and stares at Mom for what feels like an eternity as my heart beats louder, before he yells, “You will both stay here!”
Mom stands firmly. “You promised me, Hermann! You promised never to hurt her!”
My stomach cramps.
Hurt me? Has he acted like this before?
Dad snickers. “Life doesn’t always turn out the way we plan, Celina. Not even for our spoiled daughter.”
“Dad, stop!” I scream. He doesn’t listen.
Mom stands there, quivering, her back straight, standing tall. “Run,” she whispers, with her eyes on Dad. She lets go of my hand. “Run, Amalie!”
I can’t leave her behind. I shake my head. “Not without you.”
She nods slightly, letting me know she’ll follow. I dart towards the door, which seems like a mile away. As soon as Mom sees me run, she follows. Behind us, the heavy oak table creaks as my father throws it to the side and comes chasing after us.
I tear the door open to let Mom escape before me. Her eyes meet mine when she is pulled back in one firm tug. He’s reached for her hair, pulling her to the floor, and is dragging her back to the dining room.
Mom is shrieking. “Run, Amalie!”
Letting go of the door, I run back to her, desperately pulling her arm to free her from Dad’s grip.
I don’t see his fist come. With one swift blow, I crash into the staircase.
His knee is in her back, pushing her body down with his entire weight. Her fingers desperately claw at the gray carpet. I crawl towards her. She screams as he forces her arms together behind her back, grabbing her neck and thrusting her face down to muffle the sound. The thump of her head hitting the carpet forces me to my feet. The light carpet turns red as her nose bleeds, and she cries through the bloody fibers.
�
�Run, Amalie. Run!”
I throw myself into Dad’s body to push him off. Mom lets out a piercing cry as my body hits his. It is no use. He doesn’t move an inch, his hands holding her arms, and her head locked to the floor. My body’s a feather compared to his. His focus never wavers from her. It’s like I’m not here at all, as though someone has dragged my father’s soul out of his body and all that is left is a mad, fuming animal. There’s nothing but hate in his eyes. No humanity is behind them anymore. His fingers tighten around her neck.
“Let her go! Can’t you see you’re killing her!” I scream so my throat bleeds, watching the life in my mother’s eyes slip away while she desperately kicks to get away.
I throw myself at him again and wrap my arms around his head to cover his eyes, nose, and mouth. I tighten my grip, digging my nails into his face.
It works. Dad lets Mom go. She gasps for air as he throws me off. The hard, wooden floor hits my back, pushing the wind out of me.
I remember two things before everything goes dark—I see my mother breathing again, then the desperation in her eyes when his fist comes towards mine.
BLAME
My eyelids stick together like clay when I try to see. As if ripping paper apart, I force them open. And like a paper cut, every blink is like tearing the skin. Through the blur, I make out Mr. Jensen in his light blue blazer and bow tie.
“Amalie? If you can hear me, you’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”
Safe?
I open my mouth to answer, but pain shooting in my jaw stops me. I move my hand to my face. The skin my fingers meet is foreign, stretched, and swollen. I try to speak again, but the pain waters my eyes, restricting my sight even more. A whimper escapes me.
Mr. Jensen darts out the door shouting. “We need help here! Hello?”
I blink to focus my view, with bright lights burning my eyes. On the wall in front of me hangs an old box TV, a window to my left, and a sink in the corner to my right. A bouquet of red roses stands on a table next to my bed. It’s a hospital room, and Mom isn’t here. Images of Dad’s fingers digging into her throat flash before me. A taste of blood lines my mouth and my heart beats as if it’s fighting its way out of my chest.
Where’s Mom?
My right shoulder stings as if knives are piercing its way through my bone then continuing down my back when I attempt to sit up. Like yanking off a Band-Aid, I force myself to sit up, too fast. Wires and tubes attached to my arms and body tighten. The room spins. Grabbing onto the steel railing of the hospital bed, I support myself, carefully lifting my legs out. The linoleum floor is like ice beneath my toes, but I ease both feet down.
A doctor rushes through the door over to me. She’s tall and looks about forty years old. Her hair is blonde like mine and pulled up in a bun. She places her hand on my shoulder, keeping me from standing. Mr. Jensen follows behind her, out of breath.
“Amalie, I’m Dr. Rose. Please lay back down. I need to examine you before you can go anywhere.”
I look up at her. “Where’s my mother?” Something about her makes me fight the urge to struggle, push her away to look for Mom.
Slowly, and with her support, I lower my back onto the mattress pressing each vertebra to bend. I force my eyes shut. Preparing myself for more pain, and terrible news.
The memory of Dad smashing Mom’s head to the floor flashes before me in vivid images, as my breathing increases and I gasp for air. “Is Mom alive?”
I study Mr. Jensen’s reaction as Dr. Rose replies. His facial expression will give away any detail the doctor won’t share. He’s an open book and like circles in water grow wider, his face will reveal what he can’t express vocally.
“Your mother is in room 232, a few doors down,” Dr. Rose says.
My body jerks and stomach acid fills my mouth. I stare down at my naked feet that are purple and bruised. Mom is alive, but if my body is this battered from Dad’s treatment, I can’t imagine how Mom’s look. “I want to see her.” Does Mom know I’m here? What had I been thinking? This is all my fault.
Mr. Jensen’s facial expression changes, and my anxiety increases. His eyes lock on the floor, refusing to meet mine. “She’s still confused. Nana’s with her, so she’s not alone.”
“How did I get here? And Dad, is he arrested?” I try to remember. It’s all a blur, but I recall a doctor, or paramedic hovering over me. The movement of the ambulance, Mom on a stretcher next to me, her face covered in blood. My body trembles at the memory.
A nurse enters the room. Mr. Jensen steps away to allow him to check on me. He’s short, thin and looks like he’s still in high school. He checks my eyes and my blood pressure. My eyelids become heavy until I can’t keep them open anymore. I fall asleep watching Mr. Jensen’s sad smile blur away.
When I wake up, Nana sits by my bed, stroking my hand. Her skin is pale, with dark circles under her eyes.
I swallow hard to force down the lump building in my throat. The tubes holding me back are gone. Through swollen lips, I whisper. “I want to see Mom.”
Nana nods, pulls my white robe out of a bag next to my bed and helps me up. “Mr. Jensen packed for you.”
My mouth fills with stomach acid again. I can’t tell if it’s from getting up, or knowing that Mr. Jensen has been inside our house and seen the bloody carpet, or if it’s the memory of Mom screaming at Dad, “You promised not to hurt her.” Which must mean that Dad has done this before. Mom has seen that side of him before, and he had promised not to repeat it. I can’t make sense of it. The room is spinning, so I grab onto the steel railing of the bed to steady myself. My fingernails are bloody, my feet like stones on the cold floor. There is no way I can get to Mom without support, and Nana looks drained.
She sighs. “Why don’t you take a warm shower first, and I will ask Mr. Jensen to help us.” I glance into the bathroom, relieved to find there are railings to support myself on every wall and a stool in the shower for me to sit on.
Nana helps me into the bathroom and gets the shower running. Although she tries to hide it, her strained face reveals how tired she is.
“I’m so sorry.” My body shakes, sweat trickles down my forehead, and I gasp for air. I can’t calm down.
This is all my fault.
“I should have stopped him.” I try to slow my breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. But it doesn’t work, so I try again. And again.
Nana wraps her arms around me, repeating. “It was not your fault.”
But I don’t believe her. “I knew Dad was struggling at work, I noticed the whiskey on his breath, I should have known better.” I wiggle out of her arms and slide down to the floor. Fixated on the incandescent light in the ceiling. I inhale as deeply as I can, and again. I can’t change what Dad did, but I can help Mom get better, take away Nana’s worries. It’s working. I fill my lungs with air. I’m calming down, and when my breathing’s back to normal, Nana helps me up onto the stool.
“Please get Mr. Jensen,” I say.
When the door closes behind her, I stagger over to the mirror. My purple right eye stares back at me in the bathroom mirror flashing my father’s fist before me. Underneath it, my face is swollen, covering my high cheekbones and normally defined jawline. Like a sponge, the skin caves around my fingers when I press on it.
The water stings my skin where purple and blue bruises reveal his assaults on my chest, arms, and thighs.
You continued to hit me after I fainted.
My own father.
How could you?
I rub the bar of soap against my skin to get rid of the hospital smell glued to me, shaking from pain when it touches my bruises. I scrub harder to wash it away, to force these symbols of Dad’s attack off me. I’m disgusted. They remind me of how weak I am compared to him. As I stand veiled by the water, the thing that hurts the most is that although he beat me, his voice in my head is still telling me I’m to blame. And I agree, knowing it’s wrong, I still agree. I catch myself wishing he was here to tell me
what to do, force me to move on, belittle his actions and tell me I’m overreacting.
It infuriates me to think about the hold he has over me, and I want it gone. Nothing can defend what he’s done. I refuse to accept that I still want his approval, his guidance.
I’ll never invite a man like my father into my life.
The lightweight merino sweater Mr. Jensen has packed for me is usually soft and loose but feels like sandpaper on my skin when I pull it over my shoulders. At least it isn’t yellow. My jaw clenches at the thought.
The loose jeans scrape my knees. I hold my breath, prepare myself with eyes shut. In one tug, I jerk the jeans up. Surprised by my scream, I close my mouth to hold it in. I have to be strong, for Nana, Mom, and myself. I ease my feet into two fluffy slippers, cherishing the few millimeters raised from the floor when Mr. Jensen enters my room.
“Oh, Amalie, are you sure you want to do this so soon?”
I hold my arm out to him, and with no more said, he helps me out to the off-white corridor. With every step, pain shoots up my spine as my hips move.
Through the window in the door of room 232 is a shadow of the woman I know. Her face is swollen like mine in blue and purple, and a neck brace remains from Dad’s attack. My body shivers as I recall her screams. Her bruised hands lay folded over her chest, both with bandaged fingertips. Her nails must have come off as she clawed to free herself from his choking grip. I shake the memory off, wishing I could erase it entirely.
I close the door behind me. Mom turns her head, revealing stitches over her right eye. The sound of her steady pulse frequency beeps in the background. Although I was with her only yesterday, it feels like years ago. I long for her smile, her open arms and comforting words telling me everything will be fine.
Mom stares at me, arms folded. “Who are you?”
Yesterday, my father threw me off his back, and I hit the floor with a force that pushed the air out of me. This feels exactly like that, only worse. I stutter. “I’m Amalie.”
Let Go Page 13
