Prologue II
Lila
I was eight years old when I made a vow that I wouldn’t end up with a man like my father.
For instance.
Mama had told him that the dishwasher had quit working.
He had disconnected everything and pulled it out of the house.
And instead of buying her a new one so it would be easier on her, he made that his alcohol corner.
A few weeks go by, and there’s a smell in the house.
Dad kept asking what it was.
But mom had tried everything to get rid of the smell.
However, one night, she started to investigate.
And that was when she found it.
Water.
Pooled underneath the sink, all in the cabinets, and the smell was horrendous.
Then he came into the house and started complaining about the smell again.
She showed him where the line was disconnected.
And my mama had just gotten done working a double at the diner, had told him that if he cared more about us than his alcohol, he wouldn’t have missed it.
And he had the audacity to slap her.
Another instance.
It was three days before Christmas.
The trailer was clean, and some areas were sparkling.
Sparkling in such a way that the lights from our Christmas tree seemed to glow on the laminated surface in the kitchen.
Lights reflected off the windows. It truly felt magical.
Mama had just turned off the simmer pot, which was what she told me it was called. Inside the medium glass pot were cranberries, orange slices, apple slices, a sprig of rosemary, some cloves, and two sticks of cinnamon. It truly made the house smell like Christmas.
And the moment she turned that burner off, the front door slammed open.
I jumped.
Mama gasped.
And then I looked and saw my father standing in the open doorway.
A breeze blew by, and instantly I was hit with smells that, at the age of eight, I shouldn’t be familiar with.
Alcohol.
Booze.
Tangy.
Smoke.
And.... a sweet floral scent... my mama didn’t wear that.
Before I could let that thought go any further, I saw my mama open her mouth and then snap it shut.
I knew she wanted to ask him where he was, but she didn’t dare.
She had learned not to.
Evidence was shown in the holes in the walls, the width of a fist slamming into it.
My dad stumbled into the house, wearing a white t-shirt my mama had tried to scrub clean every week for him, and one he didn’t hesitate to dirty up as much as he could just to make her suffer.
I sat there holding in my breath, wondering what he would do next.
Normally, he would stumble to the couch, light a cigarette, get one or two puffs into it, and then fall asleep, not snubbing it out.
No, my mama had to do it for him.
And I’d had to do it on the rare occasions as well.
Or he would go to the little hole that was left from our old dishwasher, grab a bottle of booze, go to the couch, and start drinking.
Or... he would look to see what mama made for dinner... and if he didn’t like it... Then none of us got to eat it.
We didn’t get to eat it because he would do one of two things.
The first was that he would spit in it, causing her to dump it out in the trash can.
Second, he would grab the pan, go to the back door, and throw it out for the trailer park’s dogs to eat.
Every time he did that, it ripped a little piece of my heart away.
But everything I expected him to do... never happened.
It never happened because in my wildest dreams, I never could have predicted what would occur.
“Got laid off. Need the money.” That was all he said as he bent beneath the tree and unwrapped the gifts there, then he lifted them in his arms and stalked out of the house.
Leaving wrapping paper in tatters.
Leaving red and green bows scattered around.
Leaving a little girl in shambles who knew not to cry.
Crying led to him beating my mama.
In his words, his daughter wasn’t going to be a whiny little bitch.
And I made that mistake once.
I wouldn’t do it again.
Not if it meant seeing my mama covered in bruises, wincing when she moved the wrong way.
And there I sat on my behind on the floor in front of the television, trying not to let the tears fall.
I felt the all too familiar scent of nothing but goodness wrap around me a second before my mom curled her body around mine, and in my blonde hair, she whispered, “It’s okay, sun beam. Let it out.”
I shook my head, then I whispered, “I can’t.”
I felt her arms tense around me as she asked, “Why not?”
Even though I was only eight years old, I knew the difference in my tone when I said, “Because he will know.”
Her arms tightened around me as her voice shook, “I don’t care, sun beam. Let it out.”
I shook my head again, “No, Mama. I remember what happened last time I cried. You had bruises. I’m not letting that happen again.”
“Lila,” she started.
I shook my head. “No, Mama. No. You’re the only one in my life who loves me. I’m not going to cause you pain.”
And there in front of Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer that was playing on Channel Three, I felt her arms tighten around me, and I didn’t know what she was thinking.
Not until a few moments later, when she said, “Right. Enough is enough.”
Thirty minutes later, we had my belongings in a black trash bag, as well as hers.
We were loaded up in our old four-door Ford that had seen some much better days, and off we went.
The first night I slept in a women’s shelter, I did it pressed close to my mama’s side.
On the second, third, fourth, and fifth nights, I repeated the process.
And on day sixty-four, we walked into a small house on the outskirts of town.
The first safe haven I’ve ever known that wasn’t in my mama’s arms.
There was no yelling.
There were no holes in the walls from fists.
There were no bottles of alcohol.
And no meals were being thrown outside.
On our fifth day in our new home, he apparently found us.
And when he tried to come in, our neighbor, a detective, was there.
He was there the next time my dad tried.
As well as the next time my dad tried.
And on his last attempt, the detective was there as my mama handed him divorce papers.
That was the last time I saw my dad.
Thankfully.
He’s now on wife number five. Or he was... now it’s wife number six.
But my dad made the mistake one year and tried to get her to take him back... however, my stepdad, that detective, said something to him and he left us alone.
And well, my mom and stepdad... that was a story for a different day.
***
I had thought that everything that happened with my dad when I was a little girl was the most horrible thing I would ever have to endure... but apparently, I was wrong.
So, so, so freaking wrong.
***
I walked out of the doctor’s office and tried to keep it together until I got in my car and got home.
And when I got home, I closed the front door, leaned back against it, and fell to my ass, and for the first time since I was eight years old... I didn’t stop the tears that were cascading down my cheeks.
Because having diabetes wasn’t enough.