Tears roll silently down her chin, puddling around her as she sits crunched in a ball towards the back of the closet. The clothes no longer swing from her jostling into the corner at the first sign of chaos, but the fabric helps muffle the rage fill screams coming from the other room. Her mom’s voice, distorted with emotion and barriers, could still be understood clearly.
She wondered if the neighbors could hear her mom’s bellow “GET OUT” at her stepdad, or the echoing thud of furniture hitting the floor. Perhaps it wasn’t an echo, but a second and third object hurled at him to convince him to leave.
Would the neighbors call the police again?
At seven years old, she was conflicted: Police were supposed to help people and protect them from bad guys. But if the police came, again, who is the bad guy and who would they be protecting? Is it her mom, wailing, sobbing, and striking out to make him leave? Is her stepdad the bad guy for whatever he did for them to get to this point, again? Are the police the bad guys for getting the people she loves in trouble? The neighbors for not minding their business? Her? Because she knows she was stubborn about eating dinner tonight and wore on her mom’s thinning patience.
She was conflicted, wanting the chaos and screaming to stop but not wanting it to be because the police showed up to separate her family. So, she cried in the closet waiting until the familiar pounding on the door announcing the intervention or her mom wore herself out and the anger was spent.
Her own exhaustion kept her from even inching out of her crouched position, muscles growing stiff, but not enough to drift into sleep on the closet floor, the tears drying in crusty trails on her face. Eventually a slam of the door and roaring of an engine signaled the end of the battle raging within the home: her stepdad left. But instead of bringing peace to her mom or a calmness to the home, her screams turned to wails, profanity turned to sobs.
Exhaustion turned to relief. The danger was over. The police wouldn’t come and no one would have to know. Her mom wouldn’t get in trouble.
Without even crawling from her hiding spot, she knew, her mom had stopped throwing furniture and started throwing back shots of the vodka she kept hidden under the bathroom sink. In the morning, her mom would be too sick to drive her to school. But that was okay, she knew how to make her lunch and get to the bus stop on her own. She’d make sure there was water on the counter for when her mom would wake up. By the time she got home from school, everything would be normal again. Okay again. Then, in a few days her stepdad would return; they’d apologize but then pretend like nothing happened.
By the time she’d go visit her dad in a few weeks, it’d almost be easy dodge his questions about how she liked the new house, school, and her stepdad. She’d be able to recall the positive aspects of her mom’s remarriage and their new life. She’d hold her breath all week worried she’d say the wrong thing and her dad would discover how topsy turvy things had become at home. She didn’t want to betray her mom. She didn’t want her to get into trouble. Her mom wasn’t the bad guy.
Jess Lill
