54. Sunday
SUNDAY
It’s quiet today. Last night, after I sent Conner a message that I was going to bed, I expected the hurricane. I expected something, but Dad never went out on Saturday night, and I thought he would because on Friday night he was sober when he picked me up.
When we got inside the house, I expected him to yell at me, but he ushered me away and watched TV. It made me more nervous about him staying home than ever when he went out to drink.
I lay in bed longer than expected when Mum calls my name, telling me dinner is ready.
I flinch, sit up and tuck my phone underneath my pillow.
Since Friday night, Mum has knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to have dinner with them.
Her choice of words was like a family. I didn’t want to, but I had to weigh the possibility of Dad snapping if I declined.
Dragging my hands through my hair, I glare at my room. They pretend nothing is wrong, as if nothing happens in this home. Like we’re a happy family. It’s unnerving. I can’t sleep at night, thinking Dad will barge into my room and hurt me at any moment.
I touch the Band-Aid on my finger. I know it’s real. They can act however they want. The remnants of what he has done are marked on me, unable to fade away. He can’t just think that everything that’s happened can disappear, and we play happy families now.
However, I’ll play their games. The reason… well, I need as much peace as possible before I leave Friday. I’ll make them believe I am part of this family. All the while, I set my eyes on a better dream.
I open the door. Mum is placing pasta into Dad’s bowl. Beside him is a can of beer. I still expect the worst. Hesitantly, I creep toward them. I ball my hands into fists, and my legs are ready to bolt back into my bedroom and lock the door if he looks at me with hate.
Mum slides the bowl of pasta towards me when I sit on the other side of the table. I cringe at the smell. It’s what I’ve been smelling all my life, yet it’s what Dad likes. Therefore, I don’t have a choice but to eat it.
Mum sighs with contentment when she sits down. I eye her when she eats. I expect her to croak. That Dad somehow snuck some poison in there. Yet, she keeps eating, and Dad eats and drinks. We don’t talk. The only sound is our breathing and the forks clinking against the bowls.
What do I say in this situation? How do I talk to parents I’ve not spoken to in years? That’s the thing. There’s nothing to say. There’s no reason for me to be here, eating with them while they watch a football game I’ve never even watched before.
“Noya,” Mum calls my name. I glare up at her, dart a look at Dad watching me, and then at Mum again. “Did you want any salt or cheese?”
I look down at my barely eaten food. I had four mouthfuls and then felt the sickness of repetitively eating something I had hated for years.
I set down my fork, reach for the cheese in the centre of the table, and sprinkle some on before taking another bite.
Mum smiles, and Dad returns to eating his food while watching football.
What kind of parallel fucking universe have I entered?
“I’ll fix your window sometime next week,” Dad suddenly says.
I raise my brows while taking another bite of the pasta. “Pardon?”
“Your window is jammed,” he states. “I tried opening it to bring more air into your room, but it wouldn’t budge. I’ll do it after your birthday.”
I furrow my brow while staring at my food. Is there something wrong with my window?
“I can have a look and get supplies at work tomorrow afternoon.”
“No!” Dad snaps.
I flinch, stiffening while keeping my eyes on my food.
Dad exhales a hiss of breath. “I will get someone to look at it next Tuesday. As for work… I will take you.”
My brows shoot up. “What?”
“I’m taking you to school and work from now on.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Noya!” Dad barks as he stands abruptly, towering over the table. “Go to your fucking room.”
Mum shrinks lower, and tears streak down her cheeks.
I chew the skin on the inside of my cheek while nodding. Without another word, I push the bowl away and enter my room. After I close and lock my door, I bite my nail while pacing. I clutch my phone, my hand trembling. I need to text Conner.
Me: Hey, Conner. I will see you at school tomorrow morning. My dad is taking me to school.
My heart beat faster and faster within my chest, heaving as heavy breaths choke out. I sit down to brace myself for what I have encountered at the dining room table.
The window!
I grip the lock, pull it out, and try to drag the window across, but it won’t budge. It is as if something is stuck, maybe even jammed in there, preventing it from opening.
I reach for my phone to flash a light on it when it vibrates.
Conner: Okay…
Conner (a second later): I don’t like it, but I guess there isn’t anything I can do. Is everything all right over there?
Me: Yeah. I’m fine. We can talk more tomorrow. I’m heading to bed. Goodnight.
Conner: I love you. Goodnight, baby.
I shine the light on the gap that slides the window out.
I’m struggling to peek through, hoping to see something I can easily remove without Dad noticing.
It’s not a coincidence that my window is broken and can’t open.
He doesn’t want me to jump through it. Mum must have told him I jumped through it that night and was out all night when I bought the wrong beer.
The way they’re acting… the way Mum is acting as if we’re a happy family that has eaten at the table every night, which is tradition. She offered me cheese and salt and smiles—even I can see it’s forced. Dad’s plotting something, and he’s brought Mum into it.
What should I do? Every aspect of my life is being controlled. Dad’s taking me to school and work. There’s no escaping those prying eyes. He barely drinks, making me believe he wants to be conscious for reasons I don’t know yet.
On my birthday… he was unequivocal that he would repair the window after my birthday. Then… what happens after?