Chapter Five #2
All these years later, saying that about my mother still hits me with the impact of the bullet that ended her life.
It is something that I will never get over.
It is something that I never want to feel the pain of ease.
I want to live in that hurt forever. Because it is my lifeline to humanity.
Because it is my link to that first time I began to understand that the world that had been presented to me was dark and skewed.
But it was not life as it was meant to be.
“And what about you?”
It’s difficult to understand why I ask this.
I’ve never been particularly interested in someone else’s life story.
And yet, I’m curious about her. About this woman who’s carrying my baby.
She is going to be half of that child, after all.
It is something I comfort myself with every day, that my blood does not only belong to my father, but it also belongs to my mother.
Mothers are of inestimable importance. That my father chose a woman at random to become the mother of my child is unthinkable to me, and yet I cannot say that I would’ve wanted someone different.
Likely, I would’ve chosen someone more sophisticated, and certainly not American. But she has the spirit.
“I had a friend. Second grade, I think. So that’s seven years old.
And she came over to my house. I didn’t ask my parents.
I just invited her. It didn’t even occur to me to ask permission, because half the time my parents were away, or they were on a bender.
But that was just life to me. I brought her over, and she was horrified.
She looked around the house, at the mess, the empty cupboards, my mom staggered out of her bedroom at one point, high, and she begged me to never have her over again.
She didn’t talk to me at school after that either.
But I never realized it was wrong until I saw how much it scared someone else.
How much a decent, normal day in my parents’ house scared another child.
Well, then I started to understand. And later, I realized more and more.
Watching TV, talking to other people about their families. ”
“The documents that I read about you said that you ran away around fifteen.”
She nods. “Yes. I was tired of living in that house. Tired of having to dodge men who came for drugs but decided they wanted something from the teenage girl that lived there.”
“You were assaulted?”
“There were attempts. I was both lucky and brutal. The last guy that tried, I was in the kitchen. And while he was talking I put some water on the burner. I managed to keep him talking until it started boiling. Then I threw it at him, and I ran away. I didn’t go back home after that. I just went and applied for a job.”
“That was when you started fishing.”
“Yes. That is when I started fishing. Rough work. And rougher people. I lied about my age, but when I look back on pictures from that time, I think it should’ve been obvious. But you know, no one really cares.”
“No. They don’t.”
It’s strange to feel like I have something in common with this girl.
She’s from a different country, she’s a different age, and an entirely different sort of creature.
And yet there is a sort of steely-eyed realism that I do recognize.
We also both looked around and realized that our lives could either continually be controlled by awful people making terrible choices, or we could make our lives into something else.
I don’t judge my sister for not pulling away from my father.
For all the reasons that Lindsay has pointed out.
To live life away from protection as a woman has different consequences.
And if Vittoria could have taken shelter with me, things might’ve been better.
Maybe.
She had still been too enmeshed in our father’s world then.
And maybe our father would’ve killed her. It’s impossible to say. And relief, yet again, that he’s burning in the fires of hell even now.
I’ve never given much thought to the hereafter.
But I did decide when my father died, that I had to believe in it.
Because I cannot accept a reality where his death allows him the chance to escape from all the problems that he’s created for so many people, without any comeuppance.
And so I choose to imagine him that way. Burning. For all eternity.
If I have to burn as well, I can accept that. If only so that I know he suffers forever.
“It is interesting,” she says, looking up from her nearly clean plate, “that you have all that insight into your childhood, but you don’t see how neither of us would be fit parents for this baby.”
I stop. My knife poised just next to the vegetables. “How dare you attempt to manipulate me?”
“I’m not manipulating you. I’m just being honest. You’ve had this epiphany about your childhood, the same way that I’ve had one about mine, but you think that you’re going to be a good father?
You think that you’re just going to magically be a great dad with the example that you have?
With your burning hatred of him as your guide?
I think it’s a little more complicated than that. ”
Rage spikes through me. I’m trying to keep her safe, and she dares make demands of me.
I didn’t choose any of this. I didn’t even know about her until two weeks ago.
Much less the child. And I am trying to give the child everything that I can.
While she is advocating that I give my flesh and blood away.
And what would it mean to her? She’s the mercenary who agreed to this.
Who signed on to get paid to have a baby for somebody else.
Rage pours through me. I stand up. “Back to your room.”
“What? No. You don’t get to send me away just because you don’t like what I have to say. If you’re convicted, maybe you should own it.”
“Convicted. Let me ask you, has anyone ever told you that your mouth is quite dangerous?”
“All the time. Usually by very small men.”
I don’t care about that. She can insult me all she wants. I know what I am. Small is not a concern. But what I will not abide is her ham-fisted attempt at controlling me. It reminds me far too much of the sort of thing my father thought that he could get away with.
I charge toward her, grabbing her arm.
“You need to learn to use your words.”
I pick her up. It’s an effective method with her, I find, even if it does make her angry. I like her anger. I like her spirit.
“Hey!”
Yet again, she’s yelling and protesting. But I don’t care. I will keep her safe, but I don’t have to give her what she wants. The dark urge inside of me to punish her for what’s just done shocks me. But it was something…
For a moment I am so captivated by her. By the truth that she’s carrying my child. And then she does this.
My fury is blinding, but it’s not only directed at her. It’s at myself. At the way I’m responding. At the way she’s getting her point proven even as I take her up the stairs.
I carry her into the bedroom, and deposit her on the bed as I’d done before.
“No!”
“I don’t want to deal with you. And that means I won’t.
So congratulations, you took the olive branch, and you broke it.
And now you will be dealing with my men instead of me.
They will bring you meals, three a day. I am not a monster, and you will enjoy a very good imprisonment here in this rather comfortable cell. ”
“I said no!”
She flies off the bed, and at me, scratching and scraping like a furious kitten. “You can’t leave me in here.”
I peel her off of me, and set her back on her feet.
“I am leaving you here.”
“No!” And then her eyes filled with tears, some spilling down her pale cheeks, her expression contorting into one of abject terror.
“Please. Please don’t. Please. I can’t stand to be locked in a room like this.
I’m not going to survive. I’ll… I’ll lose my mind. I don’t know what’ll happen. I don’t…”
She was doing it again. Acting as if I’m something to be manipulated. When I am not. Not in the least. “You are quite finished.”
“My parents used to do this to me. When they would want to get high. When they would…when they would go on benders.” Her face was tear streaked, her expression one of pure desperation.
“They used to leave me locked in my room for days. With a sippy cup and nothing else. They used to leave me there. And it would feel like weeks and weeks, and I never knew when it was going to end, or if they were ever going to let me out again. And you just can’t do this to me. ”
I look at her, and I know that she’s not lying.
I know that she’s afraid. Because her fear is visible.
It’s not like any response I’ve seen from her since I first showed up at her apartment yesterday.
She’s genuinely unraveling. And as angry as I am about her performance downstairs, I can’t do this to her. It wouldn’t be good for the baby.
“I will not lock the door. But if you leave this room, you may go to the kitchen, the dining room or the library. I will not have you wandering around outside.”
She nods, her expression still fear filled. “Sleep well.”
I can feel that she’s looking for something to say. Some rejoinder that will help her save her pride. That’s when I decide to leave her there. Which is perhaps unkind. But I’ve never claimed to be kind. And she will learn her lesson.
I might not be my father, but I am not a man to be trifled with.