Four
OREN
Just like every day I take off work, I stay in my room as long as I can. Which is always during the week when I know my father and brothers are working. In fact, I don’t even leave my room to eat. I have stashes of food littered throughout my room, hidden in places my father wouldn’t think to look.
Not my underwear drawer since that’s so cliché. But the pockets of my rain jacket. Within the folds of my umbrella. In the toes of shoes that I haven’t worn in ages.
Then the wrappers get balled up and stuck in jeans pockets so I can take them out with me when I go to work.
What I wish I had is one of my fidget button balls. I learned long ago that they could easily trigger Frankie to start hours of relentless harassment. As much as I really wanted to have one here, I stopped bringing them into the house. My room isn’t my own space and never has been. It’s not safe.
I wouldn’t take days off if I could help it. For a while, I tried to ‘work’ every day, just so I could be out of the house. Away from them . But my father threw a fit and went on about how they were taking advantage of a child and I was lawfully required to have days off.
To save Shelton the headache, I make sure to take days off.
It’s not so bad, though I refuse to leave my room as much as possible. I take showers at three in the morning when everyone is still asleep just so I don’t have to hear my father pound on the door to tell me he has to take a shit, which is always the case as soon as I get in the shower.
Dane would call me a girl for taking long showers, which is ironic since his are nearly twice as long as mine.
And Frankie would give me a hard time about getting dressed and making myself ‘pretty,’ though I take less than fifteen minutes total in the bathroom when he spends nearly ninety minutes in front of the mirror alone.
Yes, this is the life I live.
But there’s only so long I can stay in my room.
It took me a while to find the least offensive way to exist in this house, and I’d finally come up with a routine.
First thing in the morning when I’m home and sure that Dane and my father are at work, Haze is at school, and Frankie is still asleep, I silently move around the house and do my chores.
I make sure the dishes are taken out of the dishwasher. Run the towels through the wash, and wash my own clothes. Then dust. Those are my weekly chores. As far as chores go, they aren’t bad.
As soon as they’re done, I’d hide out in my room again.
Try as he may, Frankie isn’t quiet. I’d know if he was here because he can’t be stealthy to save his life.
So while everyone is out of the house, I allow myself time on my phone.
Most of the time, I waste the day looking for jobs that I don’t qualify for in cities as far from here as possible.
I look at apartments I can’t afford and cars I can’t drive.
It’s all simple, desperate daydreaming.
But as three o’clock approaches, I lock my phone and stick it on my charger. My phone is the only thing that’s mine. The only thing I pay for and no one has access to. I use a nine-digit security code that no one would guess—Mom’s social security number.
Not having access to my phone drives my father up a wall, especially if he ever sees it.
So it never leaves my room and is always on silent unless I leave the house.
We’ve gotten into huge arguments over it because he believes he should have access to everything.
Which I disagree with. I’m twenty-four, an adult.
If he doesn’t like me having this one thing, then I’ll leave.
It’s an empty threat. While I’d love to leave and give anything to do so, I have no doubt that he and my older brothers would hunt me down and drag me back. Somehow, someway.
When the time hits three, I force myself up and lock my phone, shoving it under the pillow. I grab a book and head for the living room, where I sit on the corner of the couch with my legs tucked under me and pretend to read.
The house is quiet since I’m the only one here. I look around and try to remember what the living room looked like when my mother was alive. Were there fresh flowers? Curtains on the windows? Were there still hockey things all over the room?
I was barely three then, so I don’t remember.
Over the years since she died, the pictures of our happy family that had once covered the house slowly disappeared and were replaced with something mundane or hockey related.
I asked why pictures of Mom were taken down once when I was eight or nine.
My father yelled for nearly an hour, his face beet red.
I didn’t even know what he was yelling about.
I never asked again. Years later, when I was home alone, I snooped everywhere in an attempt to find them. While I never came across the missing photographs, I found Mom’s social security card. I took it, leaving the house with it, and entrusted it to Shelton’s care.
It now lives in the coffee shop where I can stare at it sometimes. Just to remember she was real. She lived.
Only a single photograph remains of my mother. The only one that contains the six of us. It was taken three days after Haze was born.
My eyes drift to it and I stare for many long minutes, memorizing the faces in the picture. Mom is in the middle holding a three-day-old Haze. My brothers—Dane eight and Frankie five—are on Mom’s other side. Dane is grinning at the camera, but Frankie is staring at baby Haze.
Then there’s my father on Mom’s other side, his arm wrapped around her shoulders but his hand resting on Dane’s head. He looks proud. Happy. I’ve never actually seen that smile on his face before.
And me… Dad is holding me. My arms are wrapped around his neck, my forehead resting on the side of his face as I look at baby Haze.
In that photo, we’re a different family. Different people. When I was younger, I used to cry when I’d look at it because I barely recognized us as the people captured in that moment. I wanted those days back. I barely remembered them but looking at the photo, you know they aren’t who live here now.
For starters, Mom died two days later. It’s the only existing picture of our complete family.
The front door opens, and I turn my attention to my book. It’s a military novel. It took me three years to find a genre that didn’t cause me to be relentlessly harassed and mocked about. Apparently, guys killing each other and trying to exist with PTSD is manly and acceptable.
I know who walks in before they speak.
“Hey, fairy,” Frankie says as he walks past me and into the kitchen.
The thing is, I don’t think he calls me fairy because I’m gay.
I’ve given no one in this house—or most people outside this house—a reason to even consider the idea that I’m gay.
On any given day, my brothers and father could be very vocal bigots, but then there are others when their opinion is ‘they don’t affect me, so why should I care? ’ and ignore it.
Since everything I do is always under scrutiny and they don’t like me as it is, I don’t give them extra ammunition. I’m straight as far as they’re concerned. I’ve even dated Greta and our other friend Blanca on and off since high school.
I think ‘fairy’ goes back to the fact that I look nothing like my father. And therefore, nothing like my brothers. Haze is six foot. Dane and Frankie are six-two and my father is six-one. They’re blond haired and green eyed. They’re built like mountains.
And I’m… not.
I’ve spent a long time trying to figure out why my appearance is so different from theirs. My hair matches Mom’s, but the image is so grainy and far away, I’m not sure if my eye color does. I have to assume it’s the same. I don’t remember Mom more than feelings. Maybe she was small and thin.
Maybe they hate me because I remind them of Mom.
Other ideas have come up, though. Maybe they hate me because Mom had an affair and I’m the product of that.
Or maybe Dad did and I’m the product of that.
I don’t think it’s either of those, but since I don’t see any evidence of Mom’s existence outside of the social security card I stole, I just don’t know.
Keeping my focus on my book, I listen to Frankie move around in the kitchen and get dinner started. Thankfully, because they don’t like how I prepare food, I’m never required to cook.
Since Frankie can’t manage to hold down a job, it’s always his duty to begin dinner. He had these grand dreams in high school to play professional hockey. Those dreams carried on through two years of college, during which time he put almost zero effort into classes.
The thing is, he was never that great at hockey. Honestly, he kind of sucked. But he was big and was always the player to take on the fight. He was so sure that would be enough for the pros.
Imagine his surprise and misery when he flunked out of college and no one wanted him.
Not even the ECHL. He couldn’t get a hockey scholarship anywhere because they said the same thing I thought—he didn’t have any true talent or skill to speak of.
He had an agent for three months before they dropped him too.
Now he lives in an apartment above the garage, taking various jobs that he inevitably loses because he doesn’t actually want to work. Yeah, he’s a treat. Even more annoying, he still talks about hockey as if he’d been good.
I’m not sure if this family became all about hockey because of him or if he was a product of the love of the sport all around him. But you’d think that he’d already lived the hockey life and was wildly successful if you listened to him talking about it.
My younger brother steps inside then. I didn’t hear the door, but he’s always quieter. He looks at me, offering me a smile I don’t return as I turn back to my book.
Even not looking, I’m acutely aware of him moving about. He disappears down the hall to drop off his backpack before stepping into the kitchen.
“Hey, Hazey. How’s school?” Frankie asks.
“Normal,” Haze answers.
“Get laid today?”
I can practically hear Haze roll his eyes. “My class ended ten minutes ago. When do you think I had time for that?”
“There’s always time,” Frankie says.
Haze doesn’t answer as he leaves the kitchen. He falls into his usual seat next to me, his knee hitting mine. I shift slightly so he has more room, but he has the entire damn couch already. Still, I keep my attention focused on my book.
It’s like I can feel when our father gets closer. My watch vibrates against my wrist, telling me that my heart rate has increased, and the edges of my vision get dark.
I nearly jump when the front door opens. Reflex has me looking up as my dad and Dane step into the living room in matching Ironside State Prison uniforms. My dad’s been a corrections officer for almost thirty years. Dane’s been in the security office for the past three.
“Hazey,” Dad says, flashing him a smile. I’m momentarily reminded of the man in the picture. Until his eyes turn to me and he says nothing as he passes through the living room.
Dane gives our brother a smile, jostling his shoulder in that way siblings do. While I receive a scowl as he follows Dad into the kitchen.
Dane doesn’t actually live in the house.
He lives in a shed out back. Yes, a shed.
There’s a bed, a long dresser for his clothes, that serves as a kitchen countertop as well.
On top of it is a cooktop and a coffee maker.
There’s a single sink and a toilet in the corner of the room. Yes, the toilet is in the open.
He’s incredibly proud of his own place, but I’m absolutely disgusted by the entirety of it. I have no idea why he lives there. He must make decent money at the prison.
Taking a breath, I focus on the words in front of me. Haze’s knee touches mine again and I glance toward our legs. Shifting a little more, I scoot closer to the arm and try to lose myself in the book that doesn’t quite hold my attention.
I’m always forced to get dinner first, though I’m unsure why.
Since I rarely have an appetite, especially at home, I never take much.
Something I hear about often. As I’m passing, my father stops me and adds another burger to my plate, giving me a pointed look, leaving no room for argument that I am going to clean my plate.
We always eat in the living room, so I return to my seat and keep my head down as the rest of my family joins me. Haze is always next, taking his seat next to me. Then our brothers and our father last.
Once, I might have thought that them making sure I got my food first was a way of showing that they cared. Maybe it is. There’s always been a strange mix of care and disdain toward me. It leaves me with whiplash.
Around the room, they talk about their days. Haze is mostly quiet next to me. Frankie goes on and on about how he was robbed of his career and Dad says we’re all going to a game this weekend.
Most nights, I get through the evening without having to speak. Thankfully, tonight is one of them.
By the time it’s acceptable to go to bed, I’m exhausted from existing in their world. The offhanded comments and name calling. The snide remarks tossed my direction. All the little things that make my stomach churn.
I curl up in bed and face the window, staring out it.
I’m nearly asleep when my door opens. Without looking, I know who it is, so I don’t bother rolling over.
The door shuts almost silently, and there are no footsteps as he crosses the room.
I lose track of him until my bed dips and he settles beside me.
We live in a four-bedroom house. That means Dane got his own room, Frankie had his own room, while Haze and I had to share growing up.
For that reason, we were always kind of friends.
While they all like Haze, in some ways he’s a black sheep too.
He’s not an asshole to me for starters, but he also never speaks against them.
Something I know he feels guilty about. Since that’s always how these nights start off.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. I don’t answer. “One day, I won’t be such a coward.”
I still don’t answer. I used to say I forgave him, but I don’t bother now. Not only does the apology feel empty at this point, even though I can hear in his voice that he means it, but it’s far past the point where it matters.
When we were kids, we used to cuddle in bed a lot. Once, he confessed he thought it was his fault that Mom died since it was days after he was born. Our household wasn’t affectionate after she was gone, so I think we kind of turned to each other.
When Dane moved out, Dad moved Haze into his old room. That day, Haze had looked at me with near panic in his eyes. He was almost frantic.
The cuddles stopped that day; we’re adults now and it’s inappropriate, right? But Haze still crawls into bed with me three or four nights a week. Just to be close.
But I’m sure we’re both touch starved.