BrookLyn's Journey (2 page)

I used to dream that
there was only one
beast
lurking
behind the big wooden door in the house
that
the hands of my father built.
But you’re one too, Mother. You always were.

BrookLyn had
heard
the
story about
her father
building
their
house so many times that
she
practically knew
the dimensions
.
She couldn’t care less how proud he was of himself. Sure, he built his family a house, but he never
made it much of a home, did he?

She decided i
t wasn’t going to get any easier, no matter how many times she rehearsed it, so BrookLyn
sucked in a breath and crept down the stairs
to
the kitchen to talk to
her
mother.
Her s
tomach was twisted into a thousand tiny knots, each one competing for
a
grip on her emotions.

A wall of fear stopped BrookLyn
outside the kitchen doorway
. She paused,
listening to
the
blood rush in her ears and her mother
putter around.
She
was in the kitchen straightening
up
, and the
smell of dinner
still
hung in the air.

BrookLyn’s
father wanted everything in its place
,
or there was a price to pay
. Dishes
and pots
belonged in
the cabinets
.
N
ot in the sink. Every
inanimate object had its own place, and
BrookLyn had hers
too
—
out of
his
view and
in her room
,
alone
.

Her mother was flitting around the kitchen
,
adhering to her father’s rules, when she glanced over her shoulder
, almost as if she could feel BrookLyn outside the room.
S
eeing her walk toward the kitchen
, i
n one sw
ift move, she hit her with her i
sland tongue.
“You be standing out there
all night
or you got something to say
, huh
?”

BrookLyn was startled
—s
he hadn’t
realiz
ed
her mother
knew
she was there
—
so she just blurted it out.
“I want to go to Tiffany’s birthday party, remember we talked about it before?”
She was quite sure that her mother did remember and was probably hoping that BrookLyn herself had forgotten.
She balanced herself
,
putting her hands on the back of the chair
, as her
knees
threatened to
buckle
and
fear took over.

“What American boy you trying to go and see, huh
,
girl?”
Her mother dr
ied her hands with the dishrag
and
then waved
it in
BrookLyn’s face
with the other
hand
placed
annoyingly on her hip.

Her
mother was from St. Lucia
and
thought the kids born in the United States behaved worse than the kids where she was from
. She
reminded
BrookLyn
of it
with each accusation.

BrookLyn cringed not knowing what words would fall out of her mouth next.
“There is no boy. I just want to spend time with my friends from church
.
”
BrookLyn
kept
her tone
soft
and even.

A
nswering her
mother’s ridiculous
accusat
ions
with
annoyance would not help her cause
, but
s
ometimes it felt like her
mother lived under
her
skin
.
She never stopped agitating her
with
lies and accusations.
N
o matter how many times
BrookLyn
tried to view her
mother’s
life at the hands of
her
father
, she just
couldn’t
feel sorry for
the woman
—s
he was the vessel of his hate
toward
her.

“
Lemme
talk to your father. What
him
say, we do,” she said in her distinctive accent.
She completely dried the sink
with the dishrag, placed it on the counter
,
and walked out of the kitchen toward
the
office
where BrookLyn’s father was
.

BrookLyn peeked out into the hallway
,
watching her
mother
glide down it.
She inhaled a few times
,
hoping to calm her nerves
,
as her mother slowed her pace
,
nearing
the closed door.
She called his
name
while
knocking quietly on the door
as if she were afraid to disturb him
.
It seemed the
courage she used with
BrookLyn
was nowhere in the room when
ever
she approached him.

Even if BrookLyn
couldn’t see her
mother’s
slumped shoulders as she spoke with him
,
she could always feel
—
practically smell
—
her mother’s fear. This always forced unwanted
images of their interactions
to flood
her
mind.
She decided to sit down
to
wait for her mother to come back carrying the answer.

She tuned her
hearing
toward the office and her father’s booming voice, preparing herself for the expected reply.

“She can go
.
”

BrookLyn wasn’t sure she trusted her ears. He’d said yes. Either her prayers had worked for a change, or
more likely
,
he
had something he needed to do and didn’t want
her
around.
Still, she tried to temper her
excite
ment
as
her mother
returned to the kitchen
, the purpose ba
c
k in her stride
.

“
Him said yes, but him drop you there. Understand?
”
S
he
approached BrookLyn.
“
A
nd don’t put on no short skirt neither.”

“Yes,” she said
,
almost unable to contain her excitement.

I
t was
such a
silly thing
for her mother
to say. BrookLyn
didn’t
even
own a skirt that came above
her
ankle
.
Her
mother’s
comments
never
made
any
sense
,
so
she just made a mental note to
add
it
to
the never-ending
list
.

She forced a smile onto her face.
“Thank you
.
”

Her mother waved her off and
BrookLyn
scampered
quickly to
her
room before he
r father
changed his mind.

***

Once
BrookLyn
was dressed in
her
best hand
-
me
-
downs
—
jeans and a t-shirt
—she
waited for
her father
in the living room
. She picked up one of her
mother’s
boring
magazines
from the
end
table and
flipp
ed
through
it.
She
didn’t want to look eager
,
for fear
he
r father
w
ould
decide to
be spiteful and change his mind.

She
turned the pages without reading
anything
for
at least
forty-five minutes
,
while
waiting for him.
She was used to it.
He did things his way and expected people to do what he wanted.
A
n abnormally large man
, her father
frequently
used his size to intimidate people.

Finally
,
he
came down
,
wearing khaki pants that were too short, a short
-
sleeved
,
white button
-
down shirt and a thin black tie. He grabbed his tattered briefcase, jacket
,
and lunch
in his big meaty hands.
He paused
on his way to the front door
and peeked at his short
-c
ropped hair in the mirror
.
He smiled
arrogantly, almost
lovingly
,
at the image
that
she despised and feared.
She closed her eyes
,
uncomfortable
with
this silent exchange.

Without a word from him
, BrookLyn dutifully followed her father
out
to the car.
He
snatched
the piece of paper with
the directions out of
her
hands
, and t
hey
drove silently
all the way
to Tiffany’s house.
Th
e silence, too,
was nothing new
,
but it
was fine with BrookLyn
. H
e usually
only spoke
to
her
when
he was hitting
her
, so silence was a good thing
.

When they arrived, they both stepped
out of the car and
approached
Tiffany
. She
introduced
BrookLyn’s father
to her parents
and
BrookLyn’s s
tomach churned
,
unsure of how he’d respond
.
She’d never gone anywhere with him except church, and there he acted like a good and faithful servant.

Her father’s outstretched hand covered Tiffany’s father’s hand completely
, and h
e towered over him
like a giant.
B
ut
surprisingly
, he
softened
his tone in
a way he
’d
never spoke
n
at home.
In fact, h
e
barely resembled the monster he was,
with
his
pretense
masking the scorn that usually rested on his forehead.

BrookLyn kicked
at
the d
irt
,
resting her eyes on
it
,
unable to watch her father’s award
-
winning performance.
She was nervous and unsure of hi
s intent
so
s
he watched
cautiously
as
Tiffany smiled at
him
and he
smiled in
return
.
Tiffany
seemed to
notice
BrookLyn’
s discomfort
and
touch
ed
her
sympathetically
on the shoulder.