Drowning Instinct(13)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

Without taking his eyes off my mother, Psycho-Dad said, ―Go back upstairs, Jenna.‖

―But, but . . . Dad,‖ I said. ― Mom.‖

―I said, go upstairs.‖ Dad‘s blood dripped in big, ruby teardrops onto the cream tile.

―What part of that did you not understand?‖

I didn‘t budge, although the patchwork of new and old flesh on my belly and back tugged and fisted. I thought, fleetingly, of calling 9-1-1—but to tell them what, exactly? My psychotic father killed the kitchen wall? ―Mom, do you want me to . . . I mean, should I st—?‖

―No. Go on, Jenna.‖ Her voice was flat, eerie, almost dead. ―I‘ll be fine. Be a good girl and go to your room.‖

If I went—if I did what they said—this was more pretend, like the ward and school, too. Pretend you haven‘t heard this, Jenna. Go listen to your music, Jenna. Tell yourself a nice story, Jenna, and everything will be just fine.

Tell yourself you‘re dead, the way Matt does, so the past can‘t hurt you.

Well, Bob, I wish I could say I dialed 9-1-1. I wish I could say that I stood as a human shield and told my father that if he needed to hit anyone, he could start with me.

Matt might have done that. He certainly tried to protect me, even if that hadn‘t always worked out.

I wish there was some other story I could tell you, Bob. But you wanted the truth, remember?

So, here it is: I was a very good girl and did as I was told.

12: a

Five minutes after I heard the garage door chug up and then down, there came the dull thud of cupboards and then the bony clatter of ice against glass. I knew what was going on. Any second now, Mom would drag out the Stoli hidden behind the jumbo-sized box of Cascade and pound back the first slug of her evening. It was always like this when she and Dad fought, and since they fought at least twice every weekend, my mom went through a lot of Stoli.

A few moments later, the television began to mutter. Food Network, probably.

When Mom got started with the Stoli, she confused watching other people make food with actual cooking.

I crept downstairs an hour later. Mom was passed out on the couch, a washcloth over her eyes. Paula Deen was spazzing about peach cobbler. I covered Mom with an old comforter she‘d crocheted when she was pregnant with me.

Ever study someone who‘s sleeping, Bob? I mean, really looked at them? Maybe your wife? In movies and books, lovers do that all the time. There was this one television show from way back—science fiction, Bob, so my guess is you being so black and white, it never crossed your radar—where this alien race has this ritual. Each partner spends the whole night awake while the other sleeps because that‘s when everything artificial falls away. What you see then is what‘s behind the mask: their true face.

Which begs the question, Bob: when you stared down at me after the fire, what did you see?

Who?

b

And speaking of masks, let me tell you a secret, Bobby-o.

When I was little, I played dress-up. Not just Ariel. I used to sneak into my mother‘s closet and slip into silken dresses that smelled like spicy roses and wobble in high heels.

When I was little, I sat at my mother‘s vanity, an antique with five mirrors, so there were many me‘s, each in her own world. Each me brushed her hair with our mother‘s heavy silver brush. We drew in lips and eyes and colored our cheeks with our mother‘s makeup.

Each me was different from the other and yet the same, like the angles of a triangle or the facets of a diamond.

When I was little, our family gathered for pictures. We smiled. We touched each other. None of that was a lie yet.

There‘s this great Coppola film, Bob, The Conversation, where the real story lies in nuance: how who you are and what you‘re prepared to hear influences your perception of what‘s actually said. There‘s this one scene where this woman stares down at this drunk and then says something about how this poor guy was once someone‘s baby. Once up a time, someone loved him; he was cherished, but now he was just a used-up lush.

That‘s us, Bob. I look at those pictures and remember I was my parents‘ baby girl.

Matt wasn‘t gone yet, and we were a family.

What I remember of them, Bob, is love.

Asleep, my mom‘s mask was gone, and there was the ghost of a pretty girl who‘d been brave enough to read her poetry to a young and handsome Harvard surgery resident while they picnicked on a beach by the clear blue sea.

And I remember, Bob, how when I was little?

My mother was a queen and I wanted to be just like her.

Only here I was, almost all grown up and still just me, with a mom who got shit-faced six nights out of seven and a psychotic ass**le of a dad. Matt was the only pure one left, and he was gone.

c

After I tucked my mom in, I made myself a PB&J with the dullest butter knife I could find and ate over the sink. Then I loaded my dirty plate and Mom‘s empty vodka glass into the dishwasher. If I had any guts, I‘d have pitched the Stoli, but we both know better, Bob.

Instead, I slotted the bottle into its hiding place. I turned off Paula, and then I went to bed.

13: a

Almost a month later, I watched from my hiding place in the library as Danielle and the other girls on the cross-country team did speed drills. Danielle led, her blonde ponytail streaming like a mane, but that wasn‘t saying much. She might be fast but only because the other girls ran on their knuckles. Danielle‘s form was crap: a human pogo stick with way too much up and down instead of glide and push, glide and push and stretch. If you‘re a runner, Bob, you‘ll know what I mean. All her energy was going into lift, not speed. Mr.

Anderson stood with a stopwatch in one hand, and when Danielle passed, he said something, which seemed to piss her off because she peeled out of formation, hands on hips, and scowled as she scuffed grass.

I glanced at my watch. Her time for the two hundred was in the toilet, five seconds slower than just the week before. I looked up again in time to see Mr. Anderson blow his whistle and then motion for the other girls to finish up and gather round. Danielle was doing her Drama Queen sulk on the bleachers. Maybe she‘d gotten into Mr. Anderson‘s face one too many times and he‘d made her sit out the rest of practice. About time. I‘d watch her cop an attitude—in class, on the track—and marveled that he kept her on. The guy had the patience of a saint.

Either that or he liked the abuse.

b

School had settled down. My classes were easy; my favorite was chemistry (big surprise); I got along with . . . okay, okay, I avoided most people.

Except Danielle.