24. One Condition
ONE CONDITION
I leave the car early. Conner understands, knowing what I mean about strict parents. They aren’t demanding with times and schedules. It’s more controlling, but a thousand more questions will blurt out of his mouth if I say that to him.
I close the car door and wave as he drives off. Once he is out of sight, I turn around to see the blinds pulled back at Mrs Crawford’s place. Again, the awkwardness of noticing Mrs Crawford watching the ordeal makes my smile tighten. She must have a clue why Conner parks here instead of at my home.
Nevertheless, I’m grateful she never comes out and asks why I walk up to her door and pretend I’m living here only to walk down the steps, as I’m doing now, and make my way to the cracked shell of a home.
Whenever Dad isn’t home, the house should feel inviting, but as soon as I open the door, it’s cold and lifeless.
There’s no sense of warmth. It’s like walking into a freezer and closing myself inside.
There are no fond memories—not a picture on the wall or a place where I can look and reminisce with a smile.
Conner will be home soon. I imagine him inhaling the smell of his mum’s meatloaf and remembering all the times he has eaten a homemade meal.
He will then play Mario Kart with his siblings in the living room—a game he has told me about.
There will be memories there. He has fond memories of his siblings.
There will also be pictures on the walls, medals, and awards displaying his achievements.
They would be proud…
I remember winning an award in year four. Held it with pride, but it wasn’t a joyful moment. It was yet another reason for a fight I had to witness while we were driving back home.
I sat in the back of the car with my head bowed to hide the tears as Dad reached over as Mum drove. The vehicle jolted before smoothing back out when he shoved the award in Mum’s face. “Are you proud of this?” he bellowed. “What is this going to teach her? Art? Fuck off.”
Dad tossed the award out of the jammed window and scolded me for wasting his time. He wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss if it were an English or Maths award. Something he would have deemed a worthy prize to be proud of. But when they discovered it was an art award…
I shake my head, removing myself from those memories.
As Mum washes the dishes, she points to the pasta.
I lean toward the repetitive pasta she makes every night for Dad.
I wouldn’t hesitate if she made the sauce instead of dumping a tin and mixing it around after cooking the pasta.
Not that pasta is horrible, but I want something different after eating it my entire life.
“Could you make a pork roast?” I ask her.
Her shoulder jerks when I talk to her. It is as if she wasn’t expecting it.
I thought about leaving the kitchen without another word, but Conner’s favourite meal came to mind, and I thought it was worth a shot, even if that shot is fifty yards away.
“Your dad doesn’t like…” She bites her bottom lip and cannot finish her sentence as I push away from the bench.
Everything she does is for him, and I’ve seen parents and their adoration for each other.
The love that never fades. They always have each other’s backs, but this isn’t it.
Mum does it out of fear that she’s trying to mask as love, and I don’t understand.
If she can just tell me. Make me know, or even make me—
I sigh and sit on my bed. Does it matter?
I clean my room before Dad enters. He isn’t overly drunk. If he were, I’d have heard the door slam against the wall and his loud thumping footsteps as he slurred his words. Instead, the door closes and locks, and the TV switches on.
Sitting on my bed, I look out the doorframe and watch his shadow move past my room and towards his chair. If anything, I expected him to barge into my room and demand to know why my friend had sent him the message. Is he too drunk?
With the impending worry weighing over my head, I don’t listen to music. I can’t even lie down in case I need to jump to my feet and defend myself. So, I sit, eye the door, and wait for the shadow to stretch across the living room to move, increasingly becoming a monster of my nightmares.
My hands tighten on the flannel pyjama pants, and my fingers poke through the hole until it tears wider. With a bite of my lip, I taste the iron lead and glare at the pile of clothes I must wash before the weekend. The weekend. I’m counting on not being here if things go my way.
“Noya,” Dad calls.
My body reacts. Prickles of hair rise on end, and a chill sweeps across my bones like dust in the wind. Yet, I rise because I know too well what will happen if I linger long enough for his patience to run thin.
Dad’s on his couch, a beer is in his hand, and he fixates his gaze on the television screen, watching a basketball game.
I stand off to the side, far enough so that if he rises, I’m too far away for him to grab me.
My form is rigid, and I glare down at my feet and at the redness around my ankle from where Sarah Jane shoved me.
“I’m speaking to you,” he grumbles.
“Yes, Dad,” I whisper, my hands tightening across my pants, and I bite the inside of my right cheek.
“Samantha, that friend of yours, sent me a message today while I was at work.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” I look up, just a quick look, but as I notice him looking at me, I suck in a breath and glare at my feet. Then, I close my eyes and silently pray for him not to stand…for me not to hurt.
“Did you tell her to send me a message? Did you force your friend to ask me if I can go on a school excursion?”
My eyes widen, and I step forward defensively and shout, “No! No, I didn’t!”
He eyes me with those poised brown eyes. My breaths sharpen, becoming more erratic—the beat of my heart becomes a symphony of drums orchestrated at a school band lesson.
He grimaces and turns away. “I believe you. You’re too stupid to think of that.”
With my hands balled into fists, I murmur, “I will talk to her tomorrow and tell her not to disturb you.”
“Do you play me for a fool, Noya?” he drawls. “Say a fucking word, and I’ll make sure that smart mouth of yours doesn’t move for a week.”
“Sorry,” I breathe.
He rises, and I drop, cowering with my head between my legs and my hands over me protectively. I screw my eyes shut, and hot tears leak out. “Get the fuck up, Noya.”
“I don’t want to hurt anymore,” I breathe.
“What did you say?” he barks, his voice growing feverish.
I stand, wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes and murmur, “Nothing.”
Dad arches his chin as he glares down at me. “You can go to the stupid camp,” he says. “And you can go to your friend’s place on the weekends, as long as they send me a confirmation message. I know you, Noya. You’re a fucking liar.”
My eyes widen, bewildered. “What?”
This must be a joke. He has to be pulling my leg right now, and when my smile reaches my face, he will hurt me to prove something—anything.
He’s lying. There’s no way Dad will let me stay at a friend’s place.
The number of times he has reacted—and Saturday, he hurt Mum because I wasn’t in my bedroom.
I can’t accept this.
“On one condition,” he says with a smug look. “You give me your card.” I blink a few times as he reaches out his hand toward me. “I keep your card and use it whenever I want.”
“But what about the bills?” A spark of pain throbs across my cheek. I cup my cheek and lean into the pain of the slap that stings like a bee.
“Don’t you dare fucking talk back to me?”
“So—”
His eyes burn ablaze before I can finish.
Lowering my focus, I nod instead. “Good. Now get your fucking card, Noya.” I scurry into my room, and while I grab my wallet from inside my bag, I wonder if giving him my card would prevent me from buying beer.
As I return, I reach out, and once he swipes the card, I release my hold and take a step back. “Get out of my sight.”
As I enter my room, part of me wonders if I should have rejected what he said, taken a beating, and kept my card.
However, the taste of freedom on the tip of my tongue causes me to do what he says.
I can leave home on the worst night of the week instead of cowering in my room and waiting for the storm to pass.
I need this more than my card.
Besides, I’m going to the bank in Central to open another account. I will transfer the funds to my new card. Dad won’t ask for my login or PIN, and I receive my monthly transactions via email. So, he will stop using my card when it declines.
As much as I hate to admit it, I fed my dad’s addiction, so I don’t hurt for a night. So I can be somewhere else…anywhere else.
Lying on my bed, I grab my phone from underneath my pillow and notice four new messages.
Samantha: Hey, I hope it was OK that I texted Ur dad
I smile.
Me: It worked out. I’ll see you bright and early on Saturday morning!
Samantha (immediately after I replied) texts: OMG! I CAN’T WAIT!
I turn away from the fading light in the living room and move on to the following message. I’m a little more reluctant to read this one.
Andy: Can I take u 2 work on Thurs?
Me: Sure
Andy: Sweet
I wonder what the reason for this is. Perhaps Andy feels guilty for getting angry at me last week when I told him Conner was taking me to work. I’m not too fussed about his reasoning if that’s the case. Maybe he’s turning over a new leaf.
Conner: I told my mum you’re coming over on Friday. We’re ordering pizza…, so are you a pineapple-on-pizza girl?
Me: No. I don’t like cooked pineapple… Oh, and Andy is taking me to work on Thursday.
Conner: Is he taking you home?
Me: I don’t think so…
Conner: I’ll drive you home.
Conner again: I’m going to sleep now, so I’m sorry if I don’t reply. I fall asleep instantly, haha.
Me: Goodnight, Conner. Sweet dreams.
Conner: Goodnight, my Guinevere <3
Me: No.
Conner: Lol.
The last message isn’t as promising or inviting–not from a friend, but a company.
Orange Energy: Hi, a direct debit payment of $49.99 for electricity has been unsuccessful due to a lack of funds. We will reattempt payment in 8 days. If you wish to pay now, log into…
I grimace. Dad took my card and spent it on beer and groceries, so the fifty dollars I kept in there to pay our electricity bill were gone. Because of that, I likely have a bank fine.
While I glare at the screen, I drag my fingers through my hair. I need to get to a bank tomorrow afternoon and figure something out because I’m unsure what will happen if the payment doesn’t go through within eight days.
Why doesn’t Dad pay for any of the bills anymore? It’s like he doesn’t care. Or is it because he knows I pay for him, so he doesn’t have to?
I lift my leg and slap my foot against the wall. The coolness hits the sole of my foot, sending a chill across my skin on this humid and hot night. Closing my eyes, I then try to sleep.