Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
brONWYN
EARLIER
My hands are shaking as I lead Trip away from the kitchen, just wanting to get him out of there.
Dad has no patience with him. Mom’s not got much either, but at least she goes through the motions.
Normally, that is. Today, she seems to have escaped to her bedroom, sent there by Dad, so she didn’t disgrace herself by fainting from the sight of Short’s blood, and probably remained upstairs as the house is full of bikers.
Trip needs routine. He knows that after breakfast, he goes to his playroom, which is actually surprisingly bare of toys to entertain him. It’s where he has “school”, but I haven’t seen Mom doing much teaching, and I’ve never seen evidence of what he’s learning.
Lately, that’s started worrying me. Having my head in the sand about his existence since the day he was born, it’s only recently, and helped by my nursing experience, I can see he needs more than what he’s being given.
But if I dare bring the subject up in front of my dad, he limits the little time I have with him.
Today’s an exception. I know that if something doesn’t go as expected, he takes it hard, which usually results in a meltdown.
Meltdown being the correct word for it – him being overwhelmed and automatically reacting in the only way he can - while my parents prefer the terms tantrum, or behaving badly.
Mom’s the constant, and today she’s missing. I’ve rarely been left alone with Trip, and I’m worried I might not be enough. Nervous, I don’t know how to talk to him, or how to entertain a boy who can’t use words to express how he’s feeling.
Mom calls her time with him “homeschool”, but in truth, keeping Trip occupied and out from under Dad’s feet is the real goal.
Dad hates the very sight of him. He’s our father’s one failure, his big disappointment, stemming from the fact that he should never have been born.
While Dad might have been able to overcome that if he were a normal boy, Trip’s issues were a step too far.
At least, up to now, he’s kept his hands off him, but I’ve started to notice a recognisable look in my father’s eyes, which means it’s only a matter of time.
The bikers’ appearance will have upset Dad, and he’ll need an outlet to work through his frustration.
Trying to concentrate on the here and now and putting my worries about what might happen when we get our house back to ourselves, I fall back on the staple that keeps kids amused, and resort to tuning the television to a kids channel, and leave him sitting in front of it.
Today, though, he’s too agitated, so I have to try something else. I pick up the well-worn Hungry Caterpillar I used to read from when I was a child, sit on the bean bag, and try to draw Trip down with me. He evades my touch, but at least sits at my side.
Slowly, I begin to read, but he’s unable to concentrate. He snatches the book out of my hands and throws it across the room, before he draws his legs up to his body, wraps his arms around them, and starts rocking to and fro.
“Trip,” I say softly. It breaks my heart that I can’t cuddle him, but he won’t take physical comfort from anybody.
“Trip, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay.
” I talk to him, just using words calmly, and keep my cadence soft and even-toned.
It doesn’t really matter what I say, and I’ve no idea if he can understand me.
It’s just a voice that reassures him he’s not alone.
The door opens, and Mom chooses that moment to step in. She sees Trip folded in on himself and rolls her eyes. “What have you done to upset him?” After glaring at me, she turns on the unhappy boy. “Enough of this, Trip.” She goes to pull him up by his arm, but I stop her with a hiss.
“He’s unsettled by the activity in the house. You know how much he likes his routine.”
“He’s got to get used to it, Bronwyn. Don’t mollycoddle him. It just makes him worse.” Then, ignoring my protest, she places her hand around his thin arm, yanking him up, before telling him, “If you want to be like that, you can go sit in the corner.”
I wince, the force that she used to lift him will probably leave a bruise, but Trip doesn’t cry. When she pushes him into the corner, he just stands, staring at the wall, and again starts rocking.
I want to rant at her that she’s treating him like a naughty child when it’s not him who’s done anything wrong. But raised voices will upset him, so I don’t want to get into an argument.
Instead, I try to reason with her, using a soft voice. “Mom, I’m here. I’ll look after him.”
She looks at me scornfully. “You haven’t the faintest idea what to do with that child.”
“And you do?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I’d kept quiet.
Her eyes widen at my challenge. “And you think you know what it takes to be a mother?”
Now I’ve started, I can’t stop. “He needs to be with other children. He needs specialist attention.”
“You think strangers know better than us? And who would want to deal with… that? Your father would never allow it, and you know exactly why.”
Swallowing down my pride, instead of criticising her, I hold out an olive branch. “I’m here now. Why don’t you take advantage of it? Go watch your shows, and I’ll stay here with Trip. I’ll keep him quiet.”
The house is now empty of our visitors. I’d heard motorbikes start up and go sometime past. Dad should be entrenched in his study.
I don’t know what he gets up to in there, but he seems to spend his time making calls and working on the computer as if trying to convince himself he’s still a professional.
It’s likely he won’t come out for a good few hours, which Mom knows as well as I.
As if it were her own idea, she sighs heavily. “I can’t do anything with him, so you can try. I’ll be in my room.” With that parting shot, she leaves.
When she leaves, Trip slowly stops rocking, and I encourage him back into the centre of the room.
Without success, I search for toys to amuse him, and finally resort to turning on the television again.
This time, he becomes engrossed in cartoons.
But whether or not he gets any of the jokes, not one laugh or giggle comes from him.
I get him his snacks at precisely the right time.
I try reading to him again. This time, he’s quiet as he sits beside me, but there’s no reaction. He’s not deaf, I know that, but his eyes don’t follow as I point out words in the early reader, and there’s no interaction.
He needs professional help, which my dad would never allow.
I’ve heard Mom pittering around for a while, but she never comes in to check on us, for which I’m glad.
When he starts to get antsy, I know he’s hungry, but at least Mom calls us in for dinner before he gets anxious.
This time, we get to eat the same things as she and Dad do – a pot roast that leaves nothing to complain about, potatoes, and vegetables.
I don’t draw attention to the minuscule portion she offers me, and watch fondly as Trip carefully separates his food so none of the items on his plate are touching each other.
Dad shows his distaste with a roll of his eyes, but he says nothing to disturb the peace.
Mostly we eat in silence, but I comment on how nice the food is. Dad counters by saying it’s acceptable, and Trip, obviously, stays quiet.
After we’ve eaten, I do the dishes, then I join the rest of them in the family room. Trip seems tired and sits quietly while a sitcom plays on the television.
At exactly the right time, Trip gets up from his chair and goes up to his room to bed. Mom reminds him to clean his teeth and wash his hands, but there’s no doubt he’ll do his chores. It’s part of his routine.
Once he’s out of the way, Dad stands and beckons toward me. Interpreting his non-verbal request, I follow him into the hallway. He’s already at the door to his office, standing aside and leaving it open.
My heart leaps into my mouth, and my hands begin to sweat. I’ve received many of his “corrections” inside. I long to stand up to him, to fight back, but he’s got brawn, muscle, and height on his side as he towers over me. I’ve no option but to do as he asks.
He closes the door as he enters and immediately grabs hold of my hair, slamming my head down onto his desk, taking care it’s the side of my skull that hits the wood, which won’t leave a mark, only a lump that could be felt but not seen.
Even though I was expecting him to be rough, the suddenness had taken me by surprise, and still tender from his attentions last night, for a moment, I’m dazed.
He pulls me up by my hair, tugging hard to make me wince, but I know better than to cry out. Using his hold, he forces me to face him.
“Those fucking bikers know about Trip.”
I’ve been fearing this all day. Dad’s so ashamed of his son that no one knows he exists. He’s enrolled in no school. Dad keeps him up to date on his vaccinations, treats his ailments himself, and discourages visitors from coming to the house.
“They won’t say anything, Dad,” I try to reassure him. “As you told them, it’s your business, not theirs, and has no bearing on you providing them with medical care.”
“They know about him,” he repeats. “I don’t fucking know how, but somehow, you’re to blame, Bronwyn. Why the hell did they come to the house when I could have gone to them?” His eyes narrow. “Where the fuck did you go last night?”
“Nowhere,” I cry out the lie. “I was just driving around.”
“Then why the fuck did they come here all worried about you?”
Because they were worried and they were checking up on me? But that seems ridiculous. No one cares much about me. I dismiss it as a coincidence and try to reason with him. “Short came off his bike somewhere nearby. They obviously thought it was quicker to come here.”
He wrenches my hair once again, making the roots scream. “It’s your fault, Bronwyn. Everything’s your fault. You know why we don’t want anyone to know about Trip.”
I do, and I hate it. “You having a son means nothing to them.”
He releases me so fast, I stagger and almost fall to the floor. “Trip was a fuckin’ mistake.” He stares at me, a look of disgust coming into his eyes. “And you? You’ve grown. You’re a woman now, fat and ugly, and too stupid to have a proper medical career like me.”
“I’m nearing completion of my studies to become a registered nurse—”
“Nurse? Any child of mine should have become a doctor. But you’re too stupid. You’re almost as dumb as Trip.”
I’d like to point out the common denominator is him, but I’m not as brainless as he assumes, so I keep quiet.
Again, without warning, he goes for me, his fist shooting straight into my stomach before I have a chance to prepare.
He didn’t pull his punch. All the air leaves my lungs, and I gasp for breath.
Not finished, he pushes me hard, and I fall to the floor, hitting my head on his desk as I go down for good measure.
“You’re fuckin’ useless to me. Get out of my sight.” Dazed, I pull myself to my feet, I start to move toward the door when he calls out, “I don’t want you anywhere near those bikers again. Whatever you say, I’m sure them coming here had something to do with you.”
There’s no reasoning with him when he’s in this kind of mood, so without comment, I open the door, slide out, then hurry up to my room.
Cradling my stomach with one hand, while the other searches for lumps on my head, I crash onto my bed and cry silently into my pillow.
I just want to escape this house, run away, and start over.
But I can’t without Trip. While I’m here, I’m a buffer between Dad and him.
If I left, there’s no knowing what he might do.
Downstairs, the television is still playing. Mom’s probably engrossed, and well into a bottle of wine by now, the alcohol that my parents never allow me to drink. Even though I’m of age, I’m still treated as a child.
Suddenly, I freeze as I hear footsteps outside my room. It’s not feet encased in the light slippers Mom wears. It’s something heavier.
No, not now, Dad.
But it’s not my door, he stops outside. It’s Trip’s.
I’m on my feet in a second, tears wiped away. I exit my door and run to place myself in front of Dad, stopping him from going into Trip’s room. I can read his intention in his eyes.
Knowing I’m risking him again lashing out, I hiss, “Not him. He’ll scream. He’ll fight you.”
The bastard tilts his head to one side. Then he says with a short laugh, “Maybe you’re right. I’m not prepared. Not as I was with you. He can wait until tomorrow night. He’ll like the hot chocolate, just like I used to make for you.”
Oh fuck no. I know exactly what he’s planning to do.
But not on my watch. As he turns and walks back to the stairs, I know the only course of action I can take. I need help, and there’s only one person I can ask. Though I have no right to expect him to follow through.
My hands shaking, I take out my phone and call up Short’s number.