Chapter Three
Ryden
Eighteen Years Ago
“Happy birthday to you.”
I smiled up at my mom who mirrored my own grin. She was always smiling, even when the ground was cracking.
Corban had heavy steps.
[Why was he always around?
[Why did he stay?]
“You have such a pretty voice, Mom.”
“That she does, son.” Corban’s firm hand gripped my collarbone. “That she does.”
I’m not your son, I wanted to say. I’ve never been your son. My dad was more of a man than you will ever be.
I wanted to say it.
I didn’t say it.
If I said it, something bad would have happened.
Now Mom’s smile was brittle.
I don’t think Corban noticed the small shift in the upper corner of her mouth, or the way her forehead creased when she lifted her eyebrows.
I think he just saw a smile.
[How can a bad man tell the difference?]
“I got you something, darling,” she said, handing me a square box wrapped in silver paper.
“I’d hope so, Clara. It’s the kid’s birthday.”
He didn’t get me anything. He just loved to talk. Loved to boss her around. Loved to hurt her.
“Go on, Ryden. Open it.”
I followed Mom’s wishes, ignoring Corban’s presence to the best of my abilities and lifted the lid.
“A guitar pick?” I beamed, cradling the tiny triangle in my hands.
“About time you did something other than read comics. Trash,” Corban cursed, “trash for the brain. Trash.”
My mom and I shared a look, disregarding Corban’s stupid tone and stupid face.
“I already placed the guitar in your room, baby. Do you want to go see it?”
“I do.” Weaving the guitar pick through my fingers, I zeroed in on the white bird in the center of the purple gloss. “What is this, Mom?”
Her hand was over mine within seconds, comforting me like a crest of protection.
“It’s a dove, darling. Doves make me think of you.”
“Why?”
“Well, doves signify peace and love.” She smiled at this. “Hope, baby. You’re my dove. You will always be my dove. And I pray that for the rest of your life, a dove will watch over you.”
My face soured. “But… you can be my dove, too. You will always watch over me, right?”
“I need a beer.” Corban spat, snagging two bottles from the cooler, leaving the cover unturned.
Like clockwork, Mom went and closed it, nudging me out of my seat. “Go on, Ry. Go up to your room and check out the guitar.”
“Are you not coming with me?”
“Not now, baby. I have to talk to your da – Corban. I have to talk to Corban.”
She’s slipped up and called that beast my father before. Maybe she thought I was too young to understand that cancer took him away. Maybe she thought she could replace the memory of him. But my dad used to play trucks with me.
Corban didn’t like trucks.
Every step I climbed, I glanced back to see Mom at the base of the staircase. She was smiling.
[Always smiling.]
Her hair was pinned to the side, green eyes sad. Smiling and sad. Smiling and sad.
Always smiling… but sad.
As soon as my door closed, I heard them yelling. Corban, mostly. He liked to yell.
Mom usually kept him under control when I was around, but I saw her bruises the next day. Puffy eyes. Swollen fingers.
“How much money d’you spend on that guitar?” I heard him huff.
She mumbled something, something quiet and small. But I knew she was still smiling.
My mom was good at that.
The guitar. The guitar. That’s why I was up here. That’s why I wasn’t downstairs to see them fighting.
Always fighting.
My room was small and blue, posters of The Beatles and Van Halen folding off the walls, but something else joined the crew of relics.
A red guitar was placed in the center of my carpet, leaning against its very own stand.
It was the coolest thing I had ever seen.
Attached to it was a white strap with a sticky note:
To my Dove.
Happy eleventh birthday, darling.
I booked us a few private lessons with Rickey down the street.
Treat Harley as well as you treat me.
Mom xx
Harley. My very own guitar.
Mine to play, mine to strum, mine… until the end.
I cradled Harley in my arms, promising aloud, “I will take care of you.”
[It will be over a decade until Harley was well worn and loved, battered with scratches and chipped paint. Ryden didn’t know this at the time. He was just a kid who loved his guitar, who loved his mother.]
A distant crash sounded from downstairs, forcing my eyes away from my birthday gift to the cruel reality.
I knew it was Mom.
It was never Corban.
When I reached the ground floor, the front entrance was in ruin, the door wide open. Shattered plant pots scattered the hallway. Mom crouched over her knees, picking up the broken pieces.
[Which pieces were broken? The plants? The pots? Her?]
“Oh, baby… you – you shouldn’t see this,” she whispered.
“I see it.” I replied. “I always see it.”
She rubbed a shaky hand over her wet nose, a nose crooked and bent. Permanently.
“What do you see, Ryden?”
“He swats you and yells and tears the house down.”
“He… love, he doesn’t tear the house down.” She tried to smile, but for the first time, it fell down. Like a wilted willow. “We have a roof over our heads.”
“I don’t want a roof if you keep getting hurt.”
She didn’t think I noticed. She never thought I noticed. Maybe she thought I was too young.
Was I too young to hold my dad’s hand when he paid for my chocolate dipped ice cream cones? And held that same hand when he shut his eyes forever on the hospital bed?
No, I was six.
Was I too young when Ernest, Mom’s first boyfriend, stole a wad of rolled up bills from her wallet every Tuesday night?
“He likes to play poker,” Mom said.
That’s when she learned how to trick people with her smile.
But not me.
I was eight.
Just a few months later, I was old enough to understand that the dents in the wall weren’t from earthquakes or tornadoes, they were from human fists.
Corban’s fists.
I was old enough to understand that shattered glass wasn’t a pattern in our flooring, but decorated it every other night. Sometimes with fruit punch stains…
No one drank fruit punch.
I was ten, and now I am eleven.
I will be twelve.
And still, no one in this house has ever liked fruit punch.