Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
SIX YEARS AGO
I have a sixth sense.
It’s this little spark I get, somewhere deep in my gut. A flare sent up in the dark wilderness. A warning sign.
Like a deer in the woods can sense danger from the snapping of a single twig a hundred yards away, all it takes is one twisted facial expression, one broken-off laugh, and I can tell my family’s about to shatter.
It’s Christmas Day back in Kansas, a paltry snow falls outside, and my mother looks beautiful as she bends to pull the ham out of the oven—the one she bought at the store and is trying to convince everyone is homemade.
Her long, dark hair is coiled in a bun at her neck, she’s wearing the same diamond studs she’s pulled out for special occasions for decades, and she even put on a slash of crimson lipstick. She looks perfect.
Except for the faint red wine stain on the collar of the burgundy dress she wore to Mass. It wasn’t there this morning.
My stomach sinks.
This is what starts the ticking countdown in my head. I don’t know when, but I’m certain: Christmas dinner is not going to end well.
Mom only drinks on bad days.
The five of us gather around the oval dining table for dinner.
It’s dressed with a tablecloth and set with real, porcelain plates.
No paper in sight. We pass bowls and casserole dishes around, serving ourselves, as Mom pours another glass of wine.
I lost count of which she’s on—I’m too on edge, waiting for shit to hit the fan.
Did she fight with Dad? Patrick? Is something going on with River?
Dad smears butter on his roll and glances at Patrick. “How’s that new gig going down at the warehouse?”
I catch it immediately: the feathering in Patrick’s jaw as he cuts off his laugh.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Really, Dad?” Patrick scoffs.
“What?” Mom asks.
“Can we not do this now?” Patrick asks.
“Why don’t you want to talk about it, son? Oh, right.” Dad snaps his fingers. “I forgot. You got fired, didn’t you?”
“Fired?” Mom balks. “It’s been two weeks—”
Patrick’s silverware clatters on his plate. “Why’d you have to go and bring that up? Mom, I was going to tell you—”
Dad’s voice inches louder. “Would you like to tell your mother why you got fired?”
“Why do you have to be such a fucking prick—”
“C’mon, son. Say it. Let’s hear it. Tell your mother how you fucked up this time.”
Patrick is four years older than me, but he looks haggard, slumped down in his chair, his feathery hair a mess and dark circles cradling his eyes. His expression flattens as he mutters, “It was—”
“HE WAS HIGH!” Dad cheers. “On the job! Can you believe it? Coked out of his goddamn mind, from what I heard.” He snorts a jagged laugh and shoves a bite of stuffing in his mouth. “It’s really something, isn’t it?”
I hold my breath and don’t move a muscle. Next to me, River does the same.
On my other side, Mom starts to cry.
“It’s not what it—” Patrick reaches for something across the table, and his wine glass topples over, spilling dark red liquid across the table.
“Jesus Christ, Pat.” Dad’s arms fly wide, exasperated.
My shoulders pinch beneath the weight of the thickening air. I spring up, reach across the table with my napkin to sop the mess, desperate to stop this before it gets worse. “It’s fine, Dad—”
“No, Winnie. Don’t clean up your brother’s messes. He needs to learn to do that on his own,” Dad snarls. “Sit down.”
I wipe faster, pressing my thumb down hard to pull out as much of the stain as possible. If I can just fix this, then maybe—
“I said sit down, Winnie,” Dad repeats, sharper, more charged, and I freeze.
Clenching my teeth, I sit back down. There’s no saving it now.
Dad turns to Patrick, narrowed gaze cold as stone. “Clean it up.”
“Fuck you,” Patrick shoots back.
“That’s your mother’s good tablecloth. You know that? Huh? You the one who’s going to fucking ruin it—”
“Don’t bring me into this, Mark,” Mom says, her words fraying at the edges. She gulps her wine.
“—like you’ve ruined every other good thing in your life? Huh, son? Is that what you want? You must really like being a fuck up, don’t you?”
I stare down at the scrolling design on the handle of my fork, memorizing every curve, as my pulse thumps in my ears and no one dares say a word. It’s instinct, the way my body tenses, bracing for what comes next. What always comes next.
Patrick jerks his chair back with so much force, it falls back as he stands.
He kicks it, and it goes flying across the linoleum.
He hurls insult after insult back at our father, his guttural yells ricocheting off the walls.
Dad gets up too, shouts back at him, herds him toward the door, screaming at him to get out.
River takes off down the hallway. Patrick rips an ornament off the tree, sending it flying like a grenade.
I flinch as it pops against the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces.
Mom snatches her empty wine glass off the table and makes for the kitchen. I follow.
This is our standard choreography. While Dad and Patrick snarl at each other’s throats and River locks himself in his bedroom, I’m the one left to pick up our mother’s broken pieces.
She’s standing at the sink, refilling her glass, crimson liquid nearly kissing the rim. She peers at me out of the corner of her eye. “I’m fine, Winnie. I’m fine.”
“I was just—”
“You have a problem with this?” she snaps, jerking her wine up. It sloshes over the top, splattering on the linoleum floor. “Shit. Another fucking mess.”
“No, Mom,” I say softly, moving to grab a rag.
“Leave it.” She takes a swig. “I do so much for this family, and no one cares—”
“Of course we care—”
“They had to go and ruin it. Fucking ruin it! Ruin everything! This beautiful dinner. All that work. All that time. And for what? Why do I do any of it?”
“They didn’t ruin it, okay?” I say gently. “Dinner’s still on the table. Let’s go sit back down—”
“Your father doesn’t love me anymore. If he did, he wouldn’t pull that shit.”
“He always gets like this—”
“None of you give a shit about me.” She tips her glass back and drinks.
“No. We all love you, Mom.” I take her hand, but she doesn’t look at me. “Let Dad and Pat cool off. The three of us can still eat. This doesn’t have to ruin anything.”
She jerks her hand back, eyes thinning like the blade of a knife. “Don’t coddle me, Winnie Jean. You think I need you to take care of me?” She huffs a dry laugh. “If I did, I’d be screwed now, wouldn’t I? How’s college, darlin’?”
I stay silent because we’ve done this dance enough times that I know there’s nothing I can say that she won’t twist. When she gets like this—when they all get like this—it feels like I stop existing.
I end where all this ugly hurt begins. What I want, what I think, doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is diffusing the bomb.
“I asked you a question,” she spits.
“It’s good, Mom.” I blink rapidly, a lump swelling in my throat. “It’s good.”
“Good.” She takes another long pull from her wine, draining it, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Lipstick smears across her knuckles. Tears glisten in her eyes when she turns to me, her expression splintered in two. “You love me, Winnie, don’t you?”
“Yeah, Mom,” I say, voice breaking. “Of course I love you.”
It’s all I say because it’s all there’s room for in this house.
Every other square inch has already been consumed by the incessant conflicts between Patrick and our dad, by my mother and her mood swings, the way she falls apart when she drinks and needs me to clean up the mess.
I clench everything I can’t share between my teeth—my worry, my shame, my frustration, my rage, my heartbreak—and I swallow it.
This place makes me feel so small now.
Maybe it always has. Maybe getting out of here, seeing it doesn’t have to be this way, has made it clearer to understand.
Mom abandons her glass and carries the bottle to the couch; she watches Miracle On 34th Street twice, lost in a daze.
Patrick’s gone. River’s locked in his bedroom.
Dad’s in the garage, downing a beer. I sweep the shimmering glass from the broken ornaments, tuck all the untouched food away in the fridge, and clean the wine off the kitchen floor.
The next morning, no one says a damn thing about any of it.
I can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep shrinking myself to fit. Can’t stomach watching my family destroy themselves and pretend like everything’s fine.
Winter Break isn’t even halfway over, but I can’t stay here any longer.
River is still in his Toy Story pajamas when I hug him goodbye, after my bags are packed and in the car.
I don’t bother with the rest of my family—it’s not worth risking another fight.
I put the crumbling rambler in my rearview mirror as quickly as possible, tires chasing down the damp country road.
Even the snow didn’t bother sticking around this place.
The girl I was, when I used to stand barefoot in the gravel driveway looking out over nothing but fields as far as the eye could see, haunts me all the way back to Dallas.
Campus is a ghost town when I return.
Not that I care. Charlie is the only person I want to see. He’s been so busy with family plans, I’ve hardly heard from him all week. He’s the first person I text once I settle back in my dorm.
Me
No one told me campus would be apocalyptic this week. I had to scavenge for supplies today. Now all I need is a crossbow.
Flower Boy
You should be fine. Most of the zombies are skiing in Breckenridge or Aspen this week anyways. Bunch of snobs.
One perk of going to a small, private university is the healthy endowment, stretching far enough to fill the gaps my federal financial aid doesn’t. One huge, annoying downside is a student body that vacations in places like Breckenridge.
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