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“Yes, sir.” And I was definitely using that word way too much, but I couldn’t help it. The man didn’t only command respect—he reached out and snatched it from you.

The living room hadn’t changed in the past few days, except there was now a small pillow on the seat of the rocking chair. Wow, was he actually trying to make me more comfortable?

“You going to sit down?” Ken was at my shoulder, with his glass of water. He startled me so badly, I almost knocked it out of his hand and onto the floor.

“Oh shit! Sorry! I mean, yes, sir.” Good Lord, could I be any more of a dork? And did I really cuss in front of him? So much for the sweet little high school girl sacrificing her time to read to an old man.

He didn’t say anything, but nodded towards the empty chair. Great, I’d offended him. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t some crazy serial killer. He wasn’t going to do me the favor of ending my life, but it wasn’t exactly horrible going over there.

Three pages into reading, I heard the rustle of the paper bag and cellophane wrapper of the peanut butter cups. I glanced up in time to see him pop one whole into his mouth. The weird little twitch of his lips happened again. Two almost-smiles in one day. How special.

It took about an hour and an entire Big Gulp for Ken to drift off. His breathing slowed and settled into a deep rhythm—my signal to stop for the day. The blanket was in the same place as before, so I covered him up and tiptoed to the front door. On the entryway table was an envelope with my name scrawled across it. Inside were two crisp ten dollar bills.

I told James I didn’t need to be paid. Had he not told Ken? Did Ken not listen? It didn’t matter. Twenty dollars was a month’s worth of gas money. It meant a month of not having to ask Dad for anything. How could I not take it?

On the way home, I called James.

“Hello, Miss Persephone. How we doin’ this evening?”

“Pretty good. Ken’s asleep.”

“Good. I’m sure he needs the rest. Are you goin’ over there again soon?”

“We didn’t really talk about it. I mean, like I said, he was asleep when I left. I could probably go back over on Saturday. Sometime in the afternoon?”

“I’m sure he would like that. Just show up whenever. I don’t think his social calendar is too booked.”

“Alright. I guess I’ll call you Saturday then.”

“Sounds great, Persephone. You have a good night, and God bless.”
God bless me. Now wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace?

With Dad not due home for a few more days, my evening was quiet. Mom was out by ten, and I wrapped up my homework even earlier. I put my phone on silent because Maggie wouldn’t stop texting, sat down at my piano, and played until my fingers refused to move. I realized as I got into bed that every piece I played was almost happy, and I hadn’t thought about cutting once. Sleep was almost immediate and peaceful.

“So where did you disappear to yesterday?” Maggie leaned against her car, fiddling with her keys. We were a block from school, enjoying one last cigarette together before heading home.

“Oh, just some errands.” There was no good reason for not telling Maggie the truth except I hadn’t lied to her (or anyone else for that matter) in almost twelve hours.

“So what are you doing tonight? Your dad in town?”

“Yeah, trip got cut short. Mom texted me earlier. Guess he got home sometime this afternoon. Want to do something?” It was comforting that Maggie didn’t need an explanation. She accepted that I avoided the house whenever he was there.

“Sure. Mom’s going out with the newest one tonight, so we should have the house to ourselves. You can spend the night if you want.” Maggie’s mom was single and seemed hell-bent on dating every male over the age of twenty-five in the county.

“Where’d she get this one?”

“Dublin’s Pass, two nights ago. Seriously, how many love stories have you heard begin with ‘we met in a bar’? It’s pathetic.”

“I’m sorry, man. Do you ever wonder why they even had us? Really. It’s obvious they don’t like being parents. I mean when was the last time either one of us saw our mothers sober?”

Maggie and I spent many an hour bitching about our mothers’ shared pastime. While my mother sequestered herself in a bedroom with any alcohol she could get her hands on, Maggie’s mom enjoyed being on display when she was intoxicated. .

A few times I had gotten close to telling Maggie the whole story—why I didn’t want to ever be at home, why I hated my father so much. But what if she told her mom? Or heaven forbid, someone with real authority? No one would believe me. My father would deny it. My mother would finally go over the edge she had been teetering on for years. Besides, it was one thing when a little girl was messed with, but a teenager? Would Maggie look at me different? God, the possibilities made me feel light-headed.

It was better to keep lying. Maybe, if I lied enough, I would start to believe it. Like the scars I hid beneath long sleeves, I tucked these truths away. If no one could see them, maybe I could convince myself they didn’t really exist.

The silence stretched out. Finally, Maggie spoke.

“You hungry?” Food—Maggie’s cure for everything. She was one of those horrible, annoying people that could eat her weight in Oreos then have the nerve to complain she couldn’t seem to gain weight. If I didn’t love her so much, I would have hated her with every ounce of my soul.

“Yeah, sure. Sushi?”

We took separate cars to our favorite sushi bar, giving me way too much time in my own head. Time to think about the nights Maggie’s house wasn’t an option. The nights I lay awake waiting for my bedroom door to sigh open, his figure filling the space, wearing nothing but his blue terrycloth robe. Or the nights, exhausted, I would finally fall asleep, only to feel his fingers slide along the sole of my foot, jerking me awake. The small touches, the stink of his breath on my neck, the coldness in his eyes… in those dark hours I was not his daughter. I wasn’t even a person. I was a toy. All I could think was
What a bastard.

When I returned home the next evening, I was pleasantly surprised to find my father’s car absent from the driveway. Mom was puttering around in the kitchen, half-heartedly pulling out the ingredients for a dinner for two.

“Hey, Persephone, how was school today? Did you have fun at Maggie’s?”

“Good and yes. Where’s Dad? Thought he was back for a few days since his trip got cut short.”

“So did I. Apparently, there was some crisis at the new restaurant in Dallas. He felt he should attend to it personally.” I wondered what her name was. “He left this morning.”

“Oh.” What a slice of pleasantness—an unexpected night of peace. As long as I could keep the nightmares at bay. “So what’s for dinner?”

“Nothing major. I was thinking about chicken casserole. Or maybe I’ll order pizza. What do you think?”

“Pizza sounds good.”

“Okay.” We both stood there, me staring at her, Mom staring at the countertop.

“Mom, is something wrong?”

“Huh? Oh no, just kind of spaced out there for a minute. Sorry, hon. Pepperoni good?”

“Yeah, sounds great. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, baby,” she answered, still gazing at the counter, as if talking to it instead of me. “Persephone, you would tell me if there was something wrong, right?” She raised her eyes to meet mine. I broke eye contact. Where was this coming from?

“Yeah, Mom. Why?”

“It’s just sometimes… I don’t know. You seem so distant, I guess.”

I tried to laugh it off. “I’m a teenager. That’s my job, right?”

“That’s what your dad said too, but it’s more than that.”

Of course that’s what Dad said. He must have seen the same thing in her eyes. She didn’t know what she was dangerously close to, but her instinct was telling her there was something wrong. I couldn’t believe she didn’t know. There were times I could almost taste the wrongness in my house. Surely Mom could, too.

If only one of us could have been brave enough to throw the first rock, break through the glass walls surrounding us. They enclosed the members of my little family. And what wonderful walls of funhouse glass they were. Looking out at the world through them, everything was distorted and ugly. But to those looking in, they saw the perfection of a successful, all-American family. We were a display at a museum. We were something to be admired but never touched. Don’t get too close—it’s against the rules.

We both kept our silence that night. I continued to look at my hands while Mom waited for something to happen. Then she shook her head like a dog waking up from a nap.

“Well, go get your homework done, then. I’ll holler at you when the pizza gets here.”

On my way down the stairs I heard the rattle of the cabinet as she took down a wine glass. I went to find the sheet music for ‘On My Own’ from
Les Mis
.

Saturday morning I stumbled out of bed long before I was normally up and around. Maggie and I had made our usual round of parties the night before, but I called it quits early on. Maggie hadn’t been much in the mood for drinking, so I didn’t have to worry about her making it home safe and sound. She had been kind of morose, grunting in response to my questions, barely smiling at all. I wasn’t in the mood and didn’t have the energy to deal with it.

Mom was cratered when I got home and comatose in the morning. I put on a pot of coffee and threw some cinnamon rolls in the oven. Either the smells would entice her out of bed or they wouldn’t. I tried to care one way or the other but couldn’t muster it.

On one hand, I was furious with myself for not spilling it all when I had the chance. On the other hand, why the hell did she even need to ask? She was my mother, for God’s sake. How could she not know something was wrong? Something was horribly wrong. Seriously. Maybe if she’d stopped living in a Stoli bottle she would have had a clue what was going on in her house.

There were times in my childhood when it seemed Mom realized what she was doing to herself and, by extension, me. She even went so far as to buy one of those love yourself, I’m okay, you’re okay books to help with her drinking.

Two days later, Dad laid into her about something. He did it so often I don’t even remember what it was about. Eventually the argument degenerated into the name-calling and accusing phase. When Mom questioned him about something, he responded with, “You see, that’s why Persephone can’t stand being around you. You nag her as badly as you do me. I understand you can’t get being a wife right, but you could at least try to be a decent mother.”

And there it was—his fallback position. He told me for as long as I could remember that the best defense was a good offense, and he definitely practiced what he preached. It was Mom’s weakness, her meltdown button—questioning her skills as a mother and her relationship with me. All else was forgotten as she curled inside herself. As Dad convinced her over and over that she was failing me, her guilt and pain consumed her.

The next day the book was used as a coaster for her cocktail glass. It is difficult to maintain your resolve when the harsh light of reality comes busting through. How many times had I promised myself I would never cut again, only to scramble for a razor later that same day? You do what you need to survive. Mom had to drink her way through a hellish marriage. I cut my way through our hellish family. Booze or blood, there was no real difference. We were dealing with our pain.

As the rolls were coming out of the oven, Mom shuffled in. “Good morning, sweetheart. I didn’t hear you come in last night. Did you have fun?”

You wouldn’t have heard a Cat-5 hurricane last night.
“Yeah, we had a good time. Actually, I got home kind of early. You were already asleep.”

“Oh, I must have been really tired.”
Whatever.
“You have any big plans today?”

“Oh, this and that. Have some errands to run later this afternoon.”

“Well that sounds nice. I think I will be lazy today. Maybe play in the garden a little. Will you be home for dinner?”

“I can be.”

“That would be nice. Dad isn’t supposed to be home until Monday at the earliest, so we could go out somewhere, just the two of us. Maybe that little Italian place we used to like.” That little Italian place had been closed for almost two years. The last time we had gone was on my fifteenth birthday.

Dad had met us there after work. When dinner was over and the bill was paid, he told Mom he had a surprise for me. Why didn’t Mom go on home? He wanted to take me to get my last present. We would see her later. I should have known better.

My gift was some ridiculous CD at a discount music store. He claimed it had meant a lot to him in his teenage years, and he thought I would appreciate it, too. His gift to himself was he got to fondle my knee the whole way to the store and on the way home. It was dark when we pulled into the driveway. He gave me a ‘birthday kiss’. I hadn’t spent a birthday with them since.

On my sixteenth birthday, I feigned illness. They had already told me they were getting me a car but hadn’t found the right one yet. I begged for a MINI Cooper (I became obsessed with them after seeing The Italian Job a few years earlier). Mom said not a chance. They were impractical and way too expensive for a sixteen-year-old, even a used one. Dad said he tended to agree with her.

Because of the expense of a car and insurance, there weren’t any gifts to unwrap, so I spent the evening in bed watching stupid movies on cable. That weekend I went out with Maggie, and we got blitzed. A week later my car showed up in the driveway—a three year old, cherry red MINI Cooper.

Mom was furious. She said it was too new for a sixteen-year-old, and I would wreck it in a week. She asked Dad through clenched teeth what happened to the ten year old Honda they looked at a few days before. Dad gave me a wink and a pat on the butt when he put the keys in my hand. I hated the car, too.

The next year I pretended to forget it was even my birthday. Mom couldn’t understand how someone could forget her own birthday. I couldn’t understand how she could be so naive.

For my eighteenth birthday, I was trying to figure out how to have a funeral instead of a party.