Chapter 3 #2
“Come on in,” she said, waving me in. She was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and her ginger hair, which was clearly dyed, stood up in all directions.
I took a step inside toward the family room, where I saw my sweet boy sitting in the bouncy chair I had loaned her while she was watching him. I scooped him up quickly, pressing my nose into his hair, grateful for something clean to breathe in.
Colette leaned against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. Her eyes looked tired; her mouth set in a hard line. “You’re early.”
“My shift ended a little earlier than I expected.” I forced a polite smile, shifting Braden on my hip. “Thanks for watching him.”
She shrugged, like it was nothing, but her gaze was sharper than usual. Irritated. Restless. I didn’t push it. With Braden in my arms, all I wanted was to get out of that house.
We made it home just as the sun dipped low. I carried Braden inside, hoping for a quiet evening. But the moment I opened the door, the sour smell of whiskey and the sound of a bottle hitting the table told me I was in for more trouble. Life wasn’t going to cut me any breaks today.
Papa was slouching in his chair, eyes bloodshot, his scowl aimed in my direction.
“Well, look who decided to show up,” he muttered, words thick with drink.
I hated having my son in this environment.
Papa wasn’t always such a mess. There were times when he functioned.
He kept to himself and minded his own business, but he wasn’t mean like he was now.
“I just need to feed Braden in the kitchen and we’ll get out of your hair,” I assured, feeling on edge.
“You don’t belong here, Elyna. Not anymore.”
My body stiffened from his harsh words as I adjusted Braden against my hip. “What are you talking about? This is my house too.”
His fist slammed against the arm of his chair, the sound cracking through the room.
Braden was playing with my face like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“No,” Papa growled. “This is my house. And you. . .” He pointed his finger at me, eyes wild.
“You don’t get to waltz in here like nothing’s wrong. ”
His words were a slap to the face. I never liked being home.
The only reason I stayed in Val-Du-Lys for so long was for Luc, who was now a grown man attending college in the United States.
Papa had been a lot of things growing up.
. .angry, drunk, bitter, but he never shouted, never really engaged Luc and me at all.
This was different. He was acting stranger than usual.
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I whispered, my throat tight. “I’m just trying to raise my son. Your grandson, let me remind you.”
“Your son,” he spat, like the words themselves were poison.
“Always about your son. You think you’re better than me?
You think you’ve got it all figured out?
” I figured he was on a drunken rant. That he didn’t mean anything he was saying.
That saying about words not hurting was so wrong.
Sometimes they cut deeper than sticks and stones.
My heart hammering and my baby in my arms made me feel helpless, but I knew I couldn’t be that girl.
At least not anymore. I’d do everything I could to protect my son and right now I was feeling especially low because I was exposing him to my papa’s dose of crazy.
“No, I’m not better, but please keep your voice down. Braden’s scared.”
Dad leaned forward in his chair, and for a moment I saw something behind his drunken rant, something broken and raw.
I didn’t know a lot about Papa. Growing up he wasn’t the sharing type.
What I did know was I never had grandparents.
But then whatever emotion had surfaced was gone in the blink of an eye, replaced with the same bitterness he was drowning himself in for years.
“You need to get out,” he said without looking at me, his lower lip quivering.
“Take your kid and go. Don’t come back.”
My breath caught in my chest. “Papa. . . please.”
“Go!” he roared, and the bottle in his hand crashed to the floor, whiskey spreading across the worn carpet.
Braden began to cry. My pulse was a drum in my ears. I backed toward the door, holding my son like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
I didn’t know what had set him off, why his rage burned hotter than usual. But one thing was clear, Papa didn’t want me here.
“Give me a few weeks, Papa. I’ll do my best to find a place to stay. I don’t have enough money saved yet.”
“Fine,” he muttered, but his focus was on the television so I wasn’t even sure he heard what I said.
I went to the kitchen to feed my son his nightly oatmeal and then I took him upstairs for a bath, but the whole time my stomach was in knots.
I wasn’t welcome here. I wasn’t welcome anywhere.
An unsettled feeling took root inside me suddenly.
It felt like fear. Like maybe Papa wasn’t all there and would try to hurt Braden or me.
I went back downstairs to find that Papa was gone.
He had a lady friend who picked him up most nights and drove him to the Frosted Mug.
I went out to the garage and found an old metal baseball bat.
I carried it up to my room and slipped it under my pillow. It was better to be safe than sorry.