Page 48

PAST: AGED 17

I knew my mother was going to die before she did. I felt it in the walls.

The house had been too quiet all day. No dishes clattering. No humming from the bedroom. No whispers in the corners from all the invisible things my mother believed were watching her.

Even my father was quiet. That was how I knew. He only got quiet before he did something cruel.

I sat at the kitchen table with my hands folded in front of me, staring at a crack in the wood. It curved like a smile. Like the whole fucking house was leaning in, waiting for the screams to start.

My mother stood by the sink with her back to us. She wore her blue dress, the one with the tiny flowers on it. Her hair was brushed. Her shoes were on.

She never wore shoes inside. My stomach twisted. She was leaving.

I knew it before she turned around. I knew it from the shape of her shoulders, the tremble in her hands, the bag tucked beside the back door. Small. Brown. Half-hidden under one of my father’s old coats.

She was going to run. She was going to leave me here. She didn’t love me, not anymore.

My father was sitting in his chair at the end of the table, drinking coffee that had gone cold, watching her like he was watching a bug crawl across the floor.

I wanted to stand. I wanted to grab her hand. I wanted to be ten years younger and small enough for her to carry me out of that house, away from him, away from the walls, away from the blue light and the locked doors and the smell of his hands.

But I was seventeen. Too big to be saved. Too rotten to be her angel anymore.

My father set his cup down. My mother flinched like he had hit her. Her eyes darted back and forth.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

My mother’s lips parted. Nothing came out.

“I asked you a question.” My father began to get angry. That was never good.

“I was just,” she whispered, eyes darting to me, then to the door. “I was just going to get some air.”

“With a bag?” He pointed towards it.

Her face crumpled. My father stood. My mother reached for the bag. Everything went wrong after that.

A chair scraped. My mother screamed. My father lunged. The bag fell open and clothes spilled across the floor like guts. A nightgown. Socks. A photograph of me when I was little, folded down the middle.

She had packed me. She had packed a picture of me, but not me. Something in my chest split.

“You were going to leave,” I said.

My voice didn’t sound like mine. My mother looked at me over his shoulder, eyes wide and wet. “Milo, baby, no. I was coming back. I was going to get help.”

Liar. She was lying. Women lied when they looked at doors.

My father grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back so hard she cried out. “Help? You think anyone wants to help a crazy bitch like you?”

“Stop!” I said.

Neither of them heard me. Or maybe they did, and it didn’t matter.

He dragged her down the hall. Her hands clawed at the walls, nails scraping paint. She kicked. She screamed my name.

Milo. Milo. Milo.

I stood up. Then I sat back down. Then I stood again.