Fighting Lust: A Deadly Sins Novel (36 page)
I’m going to throw up. My hands are shaking and sweat drips down my back. It’s like every pore has chosen this moment to release every ounce of fluid from my body. The air conditioning is on full blast, but it isn’t helping. Gripping the steering wheel, then releasing it, over and over, I force deep breaths in and out of my lungs, trying to gain control. I repeatedly contemplate what could be such a simple act: starting the car and driving away. But each time I envision my sister Rowan’s face, and remain glued in place, because I cannot fail her. She deserves better than the sick existence we’re living each and every day. I can do this, I tell myself. I can do anything for her.
That decision made once again, I think back to an all too familiar setting a few days ago. I came home from work to find my mom drunk and stoned again. How, after all this time of being exposed to this as a regular occurrence, I can keep wishing for a different reality is beyond me. With each arrival home, I feel a small flicker of hope before I open the door, and each and every time I’m disappointed. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but what I want is fairly simple - to be able to come home after a long day of work, shower, maybe have a little dinner, and get my ass into bed. Instead, I’m again confronted by the shit hole she calls home.
The sight is overwhelming. I sigh deeply and run my hand through my hair in exasperation before setting my bag down and closing the door behind me. Feeling grateful my twin Rowan is staying at her friend Erica’s house overnight, I make my way to the kitchen. After the time I came home from work to find a strange man in Rowan’s room, about to do things I can’t even fathom, I rest easier when I know she’s not here - especially when I’m working. Since she’s gone for the night, it also means I will sleep easier. I can allow myself to succumb to a deep sleep rather than staying on alert throughout the night.
A guttural noise arises from the other room and I am once again aware of the present. Grabbing a trash bag from under the kitchen sink, I scan the living room. Beer cans are on every available surface. White powder is sprinkled on the sparse tabletops, some of it in well-prepared lines. Dear ol’ mom is passed out, half on, half off of the couch. I’m surprised she doesn’t have several of her “friends” here. Rare is the night I walk in here and find her alone. Generally, the room is full of her obnoxious partying hard friends either awake and slamming them back with her, or dead to the world alongside her.
As I clean up, thoughts of my sister consume me again. I’m not sure what time she’s due back tomorrow, but leaving all of this until morning is definitely not an option. I don’t want to chance her coming home to this. As quickly as the thought take forms, I shake off thoughts that this behavior, and my feelings, are dumb. I’m devoted to her and need to protect her. I know my twin is not unaware of our reality, but I still feel like it’s my job to safeguard and shelter her as much as possible. No one means more to me, and if our mother won’t take care of her, I sure as hell will. She deserves better than this shit. We both do.
As if on cue, as I’m finally putting the last of the trash in the bag, my mom starts moving around on the couch and mumbling, a sure sign of the extent of her partying. One time, about a year ago, she started jerking around on the couch and making gurgling sounds like she was having some kind of seizure. Rowan started crying in fear. Just as I grabbed the phone to call 9-1-1, she came to and upon being told of our concern and what I was about to do, hit me for even thinking about calling for help. Ever since, when I find her passed out, I position her on her side so she doesn’t die from choking on her own puke. Although, sometimes I have no idea why I even care and think we’d all be better off if she did die – and that’s the worst part. But not for long. In two years, Rowan and I will be eighteen and we will be out of here. I can’t fucking wait.
“Don’t you dare leave me, Bryce!” Whipping around and staring at my mom, I wonder what the hell she’s muttering about. Given the clarity and strength of her words, I’m surprised to see she’s still sleeping. Having no clue who Bryce is, I continue to glance around one last time to be sure I got everything and tie the trash bag up so I can take it outside. “Fuck you,” she yells loud and clear. I turn around again and see she’s still sleeping. As I rub my temples, feeling the call of my bed and need for sleep she continues the diatribe. “How dare you leave me because I’m pregnant, Bryce Martin. How dare you!”
I freeze. Every part of me stiffens up and I drop the bag and stare at my mother. I hope she says more, I silently beg her to go on. She’s never spoken his name - my father’s name - not ever. She’s long made it known that even the mere reference of him is strictly off limits. Hell, even before she started getting stoned all the time, she was angry and bitter and would quickly become enraged at any question about him. He was not an allowable topic of conversation. For us, it’s as if he never existed at all, for her, he’s been a very bad memory. I still remember Rowan crying and wishing out loud that he were available to attend a daddy, daughter dance at school. All she wanted was for our father to show up at the door and take her so she could be like the other girls. I think that she held onto that hope all night, until she knew the dance was actually over. I tried to distract her with playing games – Hungry Hippos was her favorite – but nothing worked. And mom, well she comforted her daughter by raising holy hell – yelling and screaming at Rowan. Telling her to shut up, to stop crying and sniveling over a father that never wanted or loved her.
As soon as my mom’s gone on one of her famous booze runs the next day, I search through everything she owns. Drawers, closets, her dresser, a junk drawer full of paperwork; nothing is off limits. I don’t know how much time I have, so I rush through everything trying to put it all back the way I find it. I hit the jackpot when on a second run through of her closet, a box way in the back hidden underneath piles of clothing and shoes calls out to me.
I know it’s what I need. Opening the box with trembling hands, I exhale a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. Not far into the pile of papers are our birth certificates, and picture after picture of my mom with a man that I see when I look in the mirror. Where our features are sharp, Rowan’s somehow manage to look softer. There is no denying the man in the pictures is our father. Under the pictures is a stack of letters.
I rifle through what must be dozens of them written by my mom to him, all defaced with a ruggedly written return to sender. Daring to open some, all are various versions of her begging him to come back, threatening to sue him for child support, and the most difficult to read are those in which she says she will get rid of us if he will just return. Reading these confirm everything I have ever thought and felt. We are expendable annoyances in her life. But seeing it in black and white feels different. It hurts deeper. Penetrating my heart like a butcher knife, until the twisting blade stirs every feeling I’ve ever had and makes me angrier than I have ever been
.
How amazing that Rowan and I were not given away long ago. That we’ve survived and made it to the age of sixteen feels like a ridiculous accomplishment. Every moment of neglect and abuse are experienced in one burst of explosive emotion.
Imagine my surprise when after some intense computer research, with the help of a techie friend, I find out that Bryson Martin lives only a couple towns over from ours in California. My first feeling is one of sickness. How can he be so close and have nothing to do with us and not help us? I then wonder if perhaps my mother has been lying all along. Maybe for some reason he didn’t think we were his. Maybe he didn’t even know about us. Given the woman she is, it wouldn’t surprise me if she had been stepping out on him. So maybe that’s why he left us. Can she be so different now from what she was like then?
Whatever the reason, I know I need to find out. If there’s even a remote chance that he can help Rowan and me, then I need to try. And so, despite the numerous mixed feelings I’m experiencing, I must do this. I’m going to confront the man that left us behind. It’s worth trying for her.
Flash forward to right now, only a few days since she muttered words that are likely to change my life. I think part of me expected to feel relief, or to be more complete by knowing his name, but all it did was make me want to know more. I’ve had a thousand what if thoughts, but no more. Time to have my questions answered.
Taking a deep breath, I put my face in my hands and rub for a minute, then step out of my car. As I slowly make my way to the front of my father’s house, I take in the blue picture perfect house with the white picket fence. It has white shutters and a swing on the porch. My knees are shaking so hard, I’m surprised they don’t knock together. Clenching my hands into fists and gritting my teeth, I make myself keep putting one foot in front of the other, taking one small step at a time. Seeing my sister’s face in my mind is all the motivation I need.
Startled when a light comes on in the window at the front of the house, I stop. A boy and girl walk into the room and set something on the table. Following them is a woman with pretty brown hair and a smile. She rubs her son on the head as she walks by, and as she sits down, she smiles at who I’m assuming must be her daughter. Taking in the family scene and the young children I think perhaps I have the wrong house and momentarily consider turning around until he walks into the room. I suck in a breath as I watch him set a large plate on the table and say something that makes them all laugh.
I must make a movement of some kind because suddenly I’m struck stupid when his head turns toward me. I’m close enough that my eyes connect with his, and I see his brow furrow. I see his mouth move, and he stands abruptly. If anyone else looks my way, I don’t notice. All I see is him.
Suddenly, the porch light illuminates the area and I find myself blinking at the bright light. My father, the man I’ve spent endless hours daydreaming about stands before me. Endless scenarios in which he comes to our rescue play out quickly in a flash and I feel overwhelmed and unable to speak. The bright light at his back makes me unable to make out his features, and he almost looks like the savior I’ve seen countless times. What I don’t realize right then, is that the bright light that is almost angelic in sight, is just camouflage. It briefly hid the reality that smacks me in the face with a brutal harshness I didn’t expect. It would become the defining moment in my life where my constant anger, became so much more.
