Chapter 2
TWO
Rowan
I quietly step out of my shoes, trying to be as silent as possible, and I carry them as I walk into the house. It’s past eleven thirty, which means it’s way past my sister’s bedtime, and I don’t want to wake her up with the clacking of my heels on the linoleum of the kitchen floor.
After grabbing a cold bottle of water from the fridge, I slowly make my way up the stairs.
When one of the steps creaks beneath my feet, I hear a grumble from down the hall followed by the thud of my dad’s bedroom door slamming shut.
I flinch at the sound and heave a sigh, knowing I’ll be hearing about this tomorrow.
·
“If you finish your pancakes,” I say, trying to bargain with my sister, “when I get home from work tonight, we can watch any movie you pick.”
She considers for a second, deciding which animated movie she’ll subject me to, before grabbing her fork in her fist and shoving it into one of the already-sliced hunks of gooey, syrup-covered pancake on her plate and popping it into her mouth.
“Pick us a good one,” I tell her as I take the last bite of my scrambled egg.
She responds by bursting into song, belting out part of the soundtrack to her choice of movie, and I can’t help but smile as I look at her. Macie is only five years old, but she’s my favorite person in the world. She’s so smart and so kind, and I think she got that from our mom.
Sometimes, I wonder if she remembers that day; especially when I focus on that little scar over her cheek. It’s not obvious if you don’t know to look for it, unless she’s smiling, then it crinkles just enough to draw attention to it.
I wonder if she remembers anything about our mom.
Three years without her has been hell on me and Dad, but Macie seems to be doing really well.
She’s making friends at school, she sings and dances and puts on performances any time I give her half a second to, and she’s always smiling.
She’s my only truly bright light left in this house.
Once Macie has finished eating, I pick up both her plate and mine, taking them to the sink to rinse them off before setting them into the lower rack of the dishwasher.
I hear Dad’s lumbering footsteps before he comes into the kitchen, and I can tell by the sound of his footsteps that he’s already irritated. Most likely with me, because since Mom died, everything that I do seems to be wrong.
“Hey, kiddo, go upstairs and brush those teeth so we can leave, okay?” I tell her, inclining my head toward the stairs.
Dad stomps into the kitchen not even a minute later, surrounded by a cloud of cheap scotch, and he walks over to the coffee pot to pour himself a mug.
“You know, if you’re gonna be out partying all night, you could at least be fucking quiet when you come home. It wakes people up.”
“I wasn’t partying,” I correct him, “I was at a work event. And I was home before midnight.”
“Ooooh, Rowan gets invited to special parties,” he jeers. “She’s so important, no one else matters.”
“I’m sorry I bothered you. I tried to be quiet, and didn’t expect the step to make noise.”
He slams the mug down on the counter, making me jump. “Don’t be fucking smart with me.”
“Alright, Dad,” I say, chewing on my lip, trying to keep it from trembling.
I always feel so small when he raises his voice at me, like I’m three years old again and my dad is so much bigger and tougher than me.
Like I’m small and weak and unable to stand up for myself against someone so much bigger.
So much smarter. So much more of a person than I am.
That smallness is almost always met with soul-piercing grief over the Dad that three-year-old me knew versus the one I know today.
His eyes roll so hard, I think – and hope – they might fall out of his head. “Just get out. And get that stupid fucking chair out of the shower before you leave.”
I don’t know why I bother trying to explain myself to him. It hasn’t worked over the past three years, and it probably never will, but I hate the assumptions and accusations he makes. Some of them really dig in deep, and it’s starting to wear me down, little by little, piece by piece.
I hold in my sigh, knowing it will only set him off more and make the entire situation worse if I make another sound - or god forbid, have a feeling - and I head to the bathroom upstairs.
Macie is at the sink, still scrubbing away at those little teeth. I squeeze past her and slide the shower door open to grab a towel to dry my chair off faster before lifting it out and hauling it back into my bedroom, setting it down on the floor next to my twin bed.
Macie walks into my room, toothpaste all over her mouth, wringing her hands. “Are you and Daddy fighting?”
“No, kiddo,” I say, grabbing a tissue to wipe her face. “Everything’s okay. Let’s get you to school, huh?”
I put a hand on her back and guide her out of the house, dodging our dad while I grab her backpack.
I’ve gotten used to his moods, to the drinking.
I’m used to being the target for his anger.
As much as I wish I could say it doesn’t bother me, I don’t think a day will ever come that I can honestly say that.
It’s settled into a low ache, but it’s always present.
I don’t care – he doesn’t direct his rage at Macie, but when she can hear him, it gets her really upset, and that, I do care about.
She’s the only reason I’m still in this godforsaken house.