Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Tristan
“You got crushed up there,” Nate says with worry, handing me a towel in the locker room as I clean my opponent’s blood and mine off my chest. I needed to fight. Did and won. Now I feel much calmer. Task done.
“I still won.”
“You know the goal in life is to stay alive, right?”
“I needed to let some steam off.”
“Why?”
I evade his questioning, black hair and pink lips taking possession of my mind. “I need whatever this is to get out of me before I hurt someone.”
I can’t be like my father. Violence cannot become my second name.
“You would never hurt the people you care about. You know that, right? That’s not you.”
“I don’t know…” I trail off, but I never want to find out. Can violence be generational? If so, I am getting it out here, where it is celebrated.
“I can’t imagine the look on our colleagues’ faces tomorrow.”
“At least they’ll know their boss can fight.
” Nate shakes his head, his life much more boxed up and calm since he is the only one raising Maddie, doing the whole nighttime routine and so on, and he is right about it.
He has too much to lose to be reckless. He leaves the locker room as I look at myself in the small rectangular mirror on the wall, only wide enough to fit my eyes.
Why do I feel like I now have too much to lose too?
And why is it the first time I have ever felt that?
Ella
The ring of Mara’s bell wakes me—seven a.m. The sun has only begun to peek through the curtains when I hear the handle turn.
“Wakey, wakey, Lazy Birdy,” she chants, her bright veneers already shining above a cream suit, a silk scarf, and perfectly done makeup.
Mara could fill the seat of a wedding guest on the spot.
My eyes open with difficulty, the trenches of the night having kept me battling unanswered questions, dragging me away from the comfort of sleep.
“Come on, Ella, I don’t have all day.” She barges in and opens the curtains in one motion, light burning my eyes as I press the back of my hand over them.
“Valeria needs a dress ironed, Emily wants to bring cookies to the office, so there’s that to do too, and also, um, your dad asked you to be present for the doctor’s appointment. ”
“Why not you?” I sign, knowing she can fully understand me.
Silence greets me before she snaps, “I have work to do. Wake up and take a shower, you stink.” She storms out, mumbling about the middle of the night and God knows where and God knows who.
I cover my ears with my palms, creating the shield I have learned to summon each time her venom drops too close to home.
Today is Saturday, no night shift, but Mara has never grown accustomed to the concept of a rest day.
I mean, she has for her beloved girls, insisting they take self-care days, which means spending hours at the spa being rubbed in mud, cream, and things I could not even begin to fathom since I have never had the opportunity to try.
I slide into a pair of straight jeans, the waist loosening by the day as work keeps consuming my resources.
Sometimes I dream of never waking up, my body too tired to rise, resting at last.
“Ella!” Mara yells from downstairs. Hurry, always hurry. Splashing water on my face in my tiny, but still mine, bathroom, I brush my hair and wish I had those beautiful oils the girls use. If I did, they would smell it immediately like hyenas.
Pressing softly on my lashes with my fingertips, I try giving them the faintest curl, then add a bit of cream to my face.
The cream works for my hands, body, and face.
It was cheap and lasts forever, so I suppose it will do for now.
The only luxury I allow myself is a bit of perfume.
Well, not technically perfume, since it is more of a lotion I found in a drugstore, and I am fairly certain the thing is expired by now, but it is the closest I will ever get to perfume, so I rub a little beneath my ear and let it do the trick.
I read in a book that women used to rub butter on their hands during the war to add moisture.
Is it pathetic that I am tempted to do the same?
I pat my cheeks, pinching them lightly to add color, or at least the attempt of a blush.
A clean white long-sleeved T-shirt, fresh socks, and I am ready.
My mother’s necklace, encapsulating a picture of the three of us, is tucked safely between my collarbones.
Close to my heart.
I make my way downstairs, wishing I could lock my door and preserve the last piece of land that belongs only to me.
The girls are running around like headless chickens this morning, as they do almost every morning, rushing to find their bags, keys, and phone chargers while applying lipstick and eating birdseed, or whatever is trending according to them.
Last week it was collagen sticks, brown rectangles Valeria made me swear not to touch.
If only she knew. The only food I am allowed to touch is on one shelf in the kitchen, filled with beige foods I buy to keep myself full for as long as possible without collapsing.
I try to keep it as balanced as I can, but even I know it is not enough.
I should eat more protein, fresh fruit, and vegetables, but they're expensive.
And God forbid I take anything from the fridge; it is as if Mara had a camera inside, reporting to her by the hour.
On days when nothing feels worth living anymore, I treat myself to a muffin or berries, closing my eyes to savor the taste, the luxury, holding it longer in my mouth to make the pleasure last. I could buy more, but it would put a dent in my savings, and my goal is to save enough to cover next year and Dad’s stairlift. So cravings will have to wait.
Resisting their sense of urgency, I slip discreetly into my father’s bedroom.
The door is half open, and I hear voices inside.
The nurse is on time for a change. I do not understand why Mara does not choose more diligent people.
Dad deserves better care than nurses who leave trays of food on his lap and go about their day, leaving him to wait for me to remove them, sometimes hours later.
Even if it is not polite, I eavesdrop for a few seconds before entering.
“Right, and the left arm. Thank you, sir. Perfect.”
“Tell me about…about a movie you saw lately.”
“Oh, I don’t have much time for that, but let me think.
” A small smile tugs at my lips. Every person who enters his room is his ticket to the outside of these four walls.
I need to take him on more neighborhood strolls.
I try my best to do it every time I have more than ten minutes of a break, but most of the time he is asleep when I do.
When I can, putting Dad in his wheelchair and strapping him in all by myself consumes every last bit of my reserves.
Still, I do it. Because he deserves to feel the sun on his skin, and it is my responsibility to make that happen.
When I am held back by tasks, I cry in silence, rubbing floors, cleaning sheets, making their beds, wishing we were together, like we used to.
But since he also thinks I am studying at university every day of the week, lunchtime is almost the only acceptable moment to keep the facade intact.
One day, I will have enough money to pay for more help and a better wheelchair.
I will take him on strolls all the time.
Show him the city. Maybe even go to a café, or travel.
The thought seems too big to ever be true, but I still believe in it because I need dreams. I need reasons to keep going and not hammer my forehead into a wall.
“Ella,” Dad’s voice says with a faint shake. “Look, Portia. Look how…” He coughs. “Look how pretty she is. The prettiest.”
“She is, sir. Pretty as a pearl,” Portia says with a smile, dressed in her green blouse.
“You all right, Miss Ella?” I nod, coming to the opposite side of the bed and taking Dad’s hand in mine.
He is already dressed and washed. There is a pen and a notebook on his bedside table, and I sign to Dad so he can translate for her.
“Dad, can you tell her to be careful with the tray next time? She forgot to remove it last time, and…” Dad shakes his head.
“All is good, Ella. All is good,” he repeats.
I clench my molars, my skin sizzling with his acceptance of mistreatment, a softness that has grown in him since he was assigned to bed rest. I understand that he is trying to compromise, to buy peace because he does not have much control anymore, but still.
His lips form, “Don’t,” discreetly, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
“How are the studies this year?” he asks. “Still in those classics?”
“Yes,” I mouth silently.
“Careful what you tell her,” Dad says to Portia, his voice thin but warm. “She’s going to become one of those great writers one day, you’ll see. You’ll see.” He points toward the ceiling, and the lie spreads across my forehead like a tattoo, shame watching me from the corner of the room.
“I have no doubt, sir,” Portia says with a smile. I kiss Dad’s cheek, then sign, “I’m going to get breakfast. Do you need anything?”
“No, I’m all right, honey. You go. Come on, have fun with your sisters. Let me guess, shopping together today?”
I sign, “Something like that.”
I nod to the nurse, hoping my eyes carry the silent threat of taking good care of my dad, but I have always been told that my big brown pupils look like innocence itself, so I am guessing my attempt fails.
Glancing at them one last time, I close the door, reminding myself of his appointment in the afternoon.
I will also need to ask the doctor if we should change Dad’s medication and see whether we can do something about the arthritis in his thumb that I have noticed and—