46. Cassidy
FORTY-SIX
CASSIDY
I was eight the first time I learned love could kill someone.
It was after dinner when the yelling started, and now I’m surrounded in the darkness of the coat closet, pressed against the wooden wall.
Outside the door, Dad’s boots thunder on the floor.
Each step rattles the closet walls, like the house itself might tear apart.
Mom’s cries are tiny, muffled whimpers bleeding under the crack.
I clamp my hands over my mouth, but I can’t drown out her fear.
The closet is small. It used to be my fort, now it feels like a cage. My knees go numb. Fear tastes like pennies on my tongue.
I press my back even further against the wall.
“Get up! What are you, stupid?” Then there’s a heavy crash.
My stomach twists and I gag as my foot moves into something wet. I glance down . . . it’s red. The substance pooling underneath the door now, is red .
The closet door flies open, a sliver of daylight cuts the darkness.
I press myself into the corner. Mom is on the floor in front of me, chest rising and falling too fast. Dad kneels over her, one hand pressed to her throat, knuckles white.
The other hand is gripping her by the shoulders, forcing her down.
He’s wearing his dark blue uniform but it’s stained now. Mom’s purse contents are spilled across the carpet—her lipstick-smeared wallet, cracked phone, and her car keys.
His face is twisted; he’s crying. I don’t understand how someone so cruel could cry afterward. His tears splash onto the floor. He looks guilty, sad. Furious at himself, maybe. I used to think he was a hero. He brought home flowers, taught me how to ride a bike. I wanted to be just like him.
He mutters my name. “Cassidy . . .” He licks his lips and tries to straighten his uniform. He wipes the tears away roughly on his sleeve.
Mom’s eyes are closed. She hasn’t moved. A faint sound escapes her, tiny and wheezing. I crawl forward a little, on my knees, closer to her. Maybe I can help.
“Mom?” I reach out and touch her arm. It’s warm and sticky. She doesn’t answer. I cup her face—sweaty and pale. “Mom, wake up.”
Tears fall down her cheek and I stroke her hair the way she used to do mine. It’s wet now, matted with red but I can still see the gold under the grime. A strand falls on my hand.
Dad is holding something silver—a kitchen knife.
He turns around and his foot splashes in the red pool on the floor. I blink and the whole room tilts. My brain is screaming.
He drops to his knees again beside Mom, cradling her head in his lap. “Please, please . . .” he sobs. He presses the cloth to her chest, trying to plug the hole in her chest.
All those times Mom told me to be brave, and kissed Dad’s bruises, she said love would fix everything. Was it always like this ?
My knees buckle and I curl into myself.
I try to remember a good version of him.
I find it, but it doesn’t last. Dad teaches me to tie my shoes in the yard as Mom watches, smiling.
He had come home early that day with flowers.
They kissed each other on the lawn as the sun came up.
Warmth bleeds into the dark, then the flash of reality slams it away.
I blink tears. “Dad?” He looks at me, stunned, and his face falls. It’s almost as if I just walked in from a dream. There’s fear in his eyes now.
“Cassidy . . .”
My voice cracks. “Mom’s hurt.” No, she’s dying. Dad’s shoulders shake and he squeezes Mom’s hand.
He pulls Mom into his arms, and she lies limp in his lap. There’s a yellowed light in the room—the morning sun refusing to come out.
He leans his head on her chest. “I love you,” he croaks, over and over as her chest stops rising. My hand curls around hers.
Her heartbeat is gone.
No one notices I’m still here. Dad’s tears soak into her dress and onto my hand.
Dad’s body relaxes suddenly, as if he’s just noticed he’s been holding his breath.
Then he stands up, his back is to me as he looks at our messy carpet.
The morning sun casts rays across his back, turning his uniform to burning gold.
He reaches up and rubs his face, like he’s shoving the moment away.
Mom is slumped in his arms. Her head rests on his shoulder. He closes her eyes gently, as if she were sleeping, then he kisses her forehead. Everything around me is still.
He kisses her forehead.
Like nothing bad happened.
Like she’s just asleep and we’re all gonna wake up soon and eat breakfast .
But I know better.
My hand is still sticky with her blood.
He’s crying.
Big, gross, ugly sobs, like he’s hurting worse than anybody. Like he’s the one who got hurt.
But he’s the one who made her stop breathing.
He’s the one who yelled. He’s the one who hit. He’s the one who always broke stuff and scared her quiet. He’s the one with the knife.
He says, “I didn’t mean to.”
He says, “She pushed me too far.”
He says, “I loved her.”
But I don’t think love is supposed to look like this.
I just sit there on the floor, next to her, knees tucked up, hoodie sleeves pulled down over my hands. My lip hurts from biting it, and I taste blood in the back of my mouth, but I don’t wipe it. I just sit there and shake.
The light coming through the window is all yellow and ugly. It makes the room feel sick. The couch is tipped over, and there’s a broken plate in the corner. The table’s got red on it now. There’s red on the walls, too.
I don’t move.
I don’t even blink.
He starts saying her name over and over. Not loud, just like . . . like it’s stuck in his throat.
“Marie . . . Marie . . . baby, come on . . .”
She doesn’t answer. She can’t.
She’s not here anymore.
And still he holds her, like hugging her is gonna fix it.
I crawl backward, away from them, as my shoes squeak on the floor. My hand touches something warm and wet and I almost throw up, but I don’t. I don’t cry either.
I don’t do anything.
I just go back in the closet.
Same one as before .
I pull the door almost shut and sit there in the dark. I don’t wanna see him anymore. I don’t wanna see anything.
I wrap my arms around my knees and rock a little. Not fast, just enough so I know I’m still here.
I stay like that for a long time. I don’t know how long.
Then lights flash through the cracks in the door—red and blue, like Christmas but wrong. I hear boots, talking, a lady yelling, a man on the radio. The whole house sounds different now. Not quiet anymore. Not safe either.
The door opens, and a lady with blonde hair crouches down in front of me. She’s wearing a badge and a blue jacket. Her mouth is tight, like she wants to cry but she’s not allowed to.
“Cassidy?” she says.
I nod a little. My voice doesn’t work.
She holds out her hand. I don’t take it at first, then I do.
Her fingers are warm, soft. She smells like laundry and mint gum. Not beer. Not sweat. Not blood.
She pulls me out of the closet and wraps a blanket around me.
I don’t want it, but I let her.
I peek over her shoulder.
They’re putting Mom in a black bag.
Dad’s in handcuffs.
He’s crying still, head down, shoulders all hunched like he’s the one who lost something.
I don’t understand how someone who’s mean can be sad. I don’t understand how he can say he loved her after what he did.
I think maybe love is supposed to hurt.
I think maybe if you really love someone, you break them.
The lady kneels in front of me again and tucks the blanket under my chin. She talks softly, like I’m made of glass.
“You’re safe now,” she says .
I don’t believe her.
But I smile anyway.
That’s what Mom always did when things were bad.
Smiled like everything was fine.
So I do too.