9. It’s Friday
IT’S FRIDAY
I wake up earlier than I have in a while. I’m meeting Conner, and the nerves are already getting the best of me, crunching my insides with this sickly sweet stir.
As I pick out the clothes I’m going to wear today, Dad storms across the house and out the front door, slamming the door behind him. Before I leave the room, I wait until I hear the car screeching down the street.
When I have picked out my clothes, I grab the towel hanging on the hook on my door and make my way to the bathroom. I open the door, only to freeze when I see Mum. She’s in her nightgown, bruises across her arms and a bite mark dotting her shoulder.
In her right hand is numbing cream, and in her left is pain medication.
She pulls up her robe to hide the bruises, dips her head, and exits the bathroom without a word.
We are like strangers living in the same house. She’s scared to talk to me, and I have nothing nice to say to her.
She wouldn’t let Dad put his hands on me if she were sorry.
You protect your children.
I lean towards the mirror and touch the swelling red mark on my face. My eyes waver, watery around the edges, and a slip of a tear runs down my flushed cheek.
When was the last time Mum protected me? Hugged me? Cared for me? Told me she was sorry? We are strangers, and that hurts more than the swollen bruises all over my body.
I turn on the shower, and the water stays warm. Paying half of the electricity bill and the rest off in instalments stopped our hot water system from being completely shut off.
After I shower, I make my way into my room and dress.
There’s a mirror with a crack in the centre that spreads out like spiderwebs. I smooth the foundation across, concealing the red mark on my right cheek and near the corner of my eye.
When I am done and step out of my room, I look to Mum. She sits at the dining table, two letters in front of her. Her hands are in front of her face, and she sobs uncontrollably.
I read the letter in front of her and grimace.
The water bill is two weeks overdue, and the Wi-Fi bill is due now.
I seize both and stuff them into the front zipper compartment of my bag. Mum peeks up at me between the gaps in her fingers when I say, “I’ll pay for it.”
The air conditioner will have to wait. The water and Wi-Fi bills aren’t that expensive, but not having a working cooling system will be a setback as we near the hottest summer in a decade.
“I’ve got work tonight and won’t be home until later. Get some rest. It’s Friday.”
“Noya,” Mum calls my name when I reach for the door handle. “Thank you.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” I reply, my voice trembling. “I’m doing it to save myself.”
Closing the door behind me, I make my way across the yard.
Even though I know it’s getting hotter, I’m still wearing a long-sleeved shirt.
The bruise on my right arm is yellow and purple, but less painful today.
The fingerprint marks are also noticeable.
My lie would come undone if I walked around in a shirt.