Chapter 16 Samson
Dad stops shouting.
She runs to me.
“What happened, Samson? Hold it up, let me look at it. What happened, love?”
I stare at Dad. “I was cutting my nails and I slipped.”
“Expect you’ll be more careful next time,” he says.
“Put it under the faucet,” she says, pulling me toward the kitchen.
The cold water stings. I watch the stream leave the tap and hit my wound. I watch the gash flare open from the pressure and the skin turn white.
“Don’t waste the whole tank on it,” mutters Dad.
“I think it needs a couple of stitches,” she says. “From a doctor.”
“If he goes there he’ll only come out with something worse.”
Mom gives him a look and then turns to me and says, “Are you all right, Sam?”
I nod.
She puts two Band-Aids on my finger and gives me a Tylenol. He leaves to check oil levels.
I thought all this would stop once we moved here.
Back in the bungalow they were both under a lot of pressure.
Ever since I started playing with LEGO they’ve talked about the bills, the payment plans, installments, loans.
I’m not sure they ever realized I was listening.
They discussed the burden of running a home.
Insurance. Price of gas. Dad suggested moving to the boat would cut out the stress.
Cheaper than a single-wide. He said he would be able to focus solely on his writing and we would be happier.
I cut myself twice in the bungalow to make him stop shouting at her.
I cut myself twice, and one time I clamped my eyes shut and smashed my forehead into a mirror.
I still wear the scars.
I promised myself I would never do it again once we moved onto the boat and became a normal family again. I have failed, I guess. The choice between sitting on the cassette toilet listening to him go on, or me slicing my hand. There was no decision to make.
Mom looks at me with lines on her face. She sips from her mug. Two hands wrapped tight around it. There is no bracelet on her wrist but that’s not unusual. What is unusual is that her neck is also bare.
It is dark outside.
I have four years left. Just over. Once that is over I will pack my bag and be on my way, waiting for a train, one-way ticket in hand, leaving it all behind.
If I can’t afford the train, I’ll take a Greyhound. Have it all planned. But in my dreams it’s always a train.
She says, “Does it sting, my love?”
I finish the last of my hot chocolate and nod.
“You’re to promise me you’ll be more careful next time. I’ll cut them for you if you like; it’s nothing to be embarrassed of. Let your mother trim your nails.”
“I can do it.”
She smiles. “I know.”
“I’m not saying you should talk to Dad about it right now, I’m not saying that, but do you think I’ll be able to go on the field trip or not? I have to tell the teacher tomorrow.”
She looks down at her own hands.
“Only, I think it might be good for my grades. We’ll be sharing, like a college dorm, four boys to a room, and I don’t need any spending money, not a dime. All the meals are included.”
“Leave it with me, Samson.”
“You wouldn’t leave me here, would you?” I whisper.
“Sorry?”
She might have sold her necklace to someone at the library. Might have some money stashed to escape.
“You wouldn’t go?”
“No, love.” She strokes my cheek. “No, of course I wouldn’t.”
I lift my finger to my nose and take in the familiar, pleasing scent of Elastoplast. “OK.”
I’ve settled into a routine with Amber now.
As long as Dad doesn’t see her too much, and she’s quiet after nine, it’s as if she is invisible to him.
I suppose that’s how we all need to be. Not setting him off.
She sleeps by my feet and I can tell she likes it down there.
It wouldn’t be humane to lock her inside Mr. Turner’s boat all on her own.
Once I have washed and changed and walked her I climb into bed and listen to the radio on my Walkman. My cut’s throbbing. There is a squirrel outside scampering on the roof and I have to keep Amber looking the other way so she doesn’t start chasing after it.
At five to nine Mom says good night and heads back to her bedroom.
“Here, boy.”
I settle Amber and walk to him.
He is shirtless, glowing in the camp chair next to the fire. His scars are faint, but I can see them.
“Hand better?”
“Yes, Dad.”
I wish you didn’t have to act this way.
I love you, Dad.
You shouldn’t treat her like you do.
“Kiss your father good night and I’ll start work.”
I stand there.
I cannot move.
“What are you waiting for?”
I cannot speak.
“Cat got your tongue, boy?”
“I’m fourteen, Dad.” My voice is trembling. “I suppose, well, maybe I’m too old…”
“Yeah?”
“I think so.”
“That it?”
I nod.
He chews the inside of his lip and looks over at his word processor and then back at me. He exhales out of his nose.
“Yeah?”
I nod again.
His body is red from the glow of the fire.
“That’s it then, right?”
“I’m fourteen.”
“That’s the end, then. Never again.”
“I didn’t mean.”
“I said that is the end.”