Thirteen #3
I squeeze my eyes shut to relieve the pressure building behind them. Dad left us! Left me. He doesn’t deserve the catharsis of tears. He’s earned his guilt. “I was six! Of course, I needed you!”
Mom wails, desperate to be the victim as always. “Angel is all alone now! You should have been there for him after I died! It’s your fault he’s in so much pain.”
Salt stings my lips as hot tears roll down my cheeks. “I missed you every damn day. And you cared about Angel, not me?”
“Self-centered as always, Little Miss Lucifer.” Mom’s voice turns nasty, cruel, and my heart aches before I manage to tune her out, just as easily—just as painfully—as I always have. “Angel is worth a thousand of you!”
“Please, stop,” I whisper, knowing it’s pointless. Mom never stops. Not once she gets going. My heart long ago hardened under Mom’s disdain, even while I carved out the pieces that loved her and craved her love in return.
But Dad? What had Dad ever done to hurt me besides leave? I always told myself that if I were him, I’d leave Mom, too.
I never wanted to know this, that Dad chose Angel, too. I wish I could go back in time, go on pretending that escaping Mom was worth the pain of losing his kids. Tell myself that he was Tied to me when he died, and had just moved on. I wish I could still believe the lies I told myself.
But no, he didn’t just leave Mom. He left me. He cared about Angel enough to be Tied to him. To stay Tied to my fucking brother for twenty-five fucking years.
Curling around myself, I retreat behind Esther, as if she’ll protect me.
But no, there’s nothing she can do, besides glare at Angel as he digs his own grave deeper and deeper.
No matter how far from them I go, there’s no escaping the sight of our parents on either side of him.
There’s no escaping the verbal abuse dredging up every awful memory I thought I’d repressed. There’s no escaping the facts.
Dad just left me.
“He was a baby, Luce,” Dad tries to explain, when Mom finally loses enough steam to start blubbering instead of hollering. “I didn’t pick him over you—she was keeping you both away from me. This was the only way I could see my son.”
“And I was your daughter! I was six! You must have seen how alone I was if Angel was pulling you everywhere.” My voice is hoarse, barely intelligible over the sobs wracking my chest. “You must have seen how she treated me. How Angel treated me.” Turning on my heel, I rush toward the door, only to be yanked right back to Esther, my chest aching.
“I need to leave. I have to get out.” But I can’t, because Esther is stubbornly glaring at Angel as he talks himself into a misogynistic corner.
I stare at her helplessly. Why isn’t she leaving? Can’t she feel my panic?
“And now he’s all alone! Oh, my precious son! Not even his horrible sister is left to care for him!” Mom has worked herself into one of her hysterics, reminding herself of all the imagined insults and slights she believes me to be guilty of.
Dad doesn’t respond as he flickers out of sight. Only a pale line shows his retreat behind Angel’s shoulder, as my brother’s rant about women in general becomes pointed and sharp and hateful about me, in particular.
“Esther, please,” I beg. Grounding myself as much as I can, I bury my face in the crook of her shoulder, whispering against her tattoo. Pain be damned, staying here is worse. “We need to go. Please, get me out of here!”
“That’s it. We’re done.” To my relief, Esther stands. My jaw drops as she pours her seltzer over Angel’s head. Her face is hard as Angel sputters into shocked silence, the fizzing liquid pouring down his face. “Learn some respect before you speak Lucy’s name again.”
“Thank you,” I whisper over and over again, hovering on her heels as she tosses some cash on the table and gathers her things.
Not just for leaving, as desperately needed as that is.
But no one has ever stood up for me before.
Not like that. Not against Angel or my mother.
Esther didn’t even know me, not truly, and yet she is defending me against the people who hated me most. And all I can do is hover close to her and thank her, which she’ll never hear.
Esther pauses as she hefts her backpack off the floor. “Here,” she mutters, setting the small stack of photographs on the table. On top is the photo of me and Dad, holding an infant Angel. “Not that you deserve these, but they were with Lucy’s things.”
Mom swoops back to encircle Angel in her arms. Apparently, the burn of Life is worth holding her precious son. “See what that horrible woman did to you? You should have known any friend of Lucifer’s would treat you like this! No one will ever be good enough for you!”
Relief washes over me as I’m pulled along with Esther up the stairs, leaving Angel alone in this Hell. When I glance back, he stares at the photos on the table, stunned silent and dripping in seltzer with two ghosts fighting over his soul.
My brother has no idea how loved he is.