Her face was battered, bruised, and drenched with a
mixture of sweat and tears, as she was thrown to the hard tile floor. She
instinctively contorted her body into the fetal position to protect herself
from further abuse. Her attacker, my father, began pacing back and forth
yelling out expletives. He too was sodden, though there were no tears, just
sweat. He looked foreign to me, like a wild animal, and his breath reeked of
alcohol. This wasn’t the first time he had done this, every time he drank this
stuff, this poison, this magic elixir, he was transformed into an treacherous
monster. After he’d calmed down, he lumbered away to their bedroom and
collapsed on the bed. My mother lay in a heap on the floor, trembling. I made
my way over to her, knelt down, and we helped her up.
It wasn’t always like this, there was once a time when we
were the picture perfect family, like the ones in old TV shows. My dad,
Stephen, had been a jock in college, joining both the baseball and track team.
After graduating, he started his career as a defense attorney. My mother,
Olivia, studied the culinary arts in school and later opened her own cake shop,
“Sugar and Spice.” So, coming from two very successful parents, I had the
luxury of attending the Kindlewood Academy, the most prestigious and expensive
junior high school in Rochester Hills, Michigan.
In retrospect, I realize that our perfect family was a
mere blanket covering our real problems. I didn’t find out that my dad had been
physically abusing my mother until I reached the eighth grade. By this time, we
had moved into our new house in a secluded neighborhood on the outskirts of
town. My mother came to my school to pick me up from my Friday track meet.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about this, but something made me uneasy
as I slid into the passenger seat of her Charger. Normally she’d be bombarding
me with typical motherly questions like, “How was your day,” “Did you win any
races,” and “Do you have any homework?” Instead she remained completely silent.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked, studying her face in the
dark car for even the slightest clue to why she was so quiet tonight. No
answer.
“I think we should go out to eat. Maybe Denny’s?” I was
getting worried now.
“That’s fine,” she croaked in a low voice as though she
hadn’t spoken in days.
“What’s wrong mom?”
“Nothing Zeke,” she said, trying to mask her feelings
with a cheerful voice. I knew otherwise though. My mom and I were inseparable.
If there was anything remotely close to a “cool parent” then she was it. I was
always comfortable confiding in her. My father, on the other hand, was hard to
talk to. He was short fused and so wrapped up in his own little world that he
barely had time for us.
“Why are you wearing shades?” I asked, still sifting for
information, “It’s dark out.”
As
we pulled into the Denny’s parking lot, I was able to get a better glimpse of
my mom. Her face was streaked with tears. My heart sank.
“Mom,” I gasped, “what happened?” The only time I’d seen
her cry was at my grandmother’s funeral. I found myself trying to force my own
tears back.
“It was my fault, I
forgot to pack his lunch,” she cried. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I
wanted so desperately for her to be kidding. My dad wouldn’t dare hit her.
Sure, they had arguments, but what couple didn’t?
“He hit you?!” She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer for she
was weeping uncontrollably. She removed her shades from her face instead. I was
horrified. Her left eye was bloodshot and swelled so much that it was almost
closed. And there was a bandage on her left cheek. The level of anger I felt at
this point was inconceivable. My denial of the situation was quickly
eradicated.
“We can’t stay,” I reasoned, “We have to leave.” It
didn’t take any persuasion for her to agree. She’d probably been thinking the
same thing. We left the parking lot without eating and headed for the Comfort
Inn to spend the night. We would go back and get our things in the morning
while he was at work. Our plan seemed fool-proof. We checked in using cash so
that he couldn’t trace the credit card and parked the car across the street at
an abandoned car wash. Little did we know, the car was traceable through the On
Star service. I ordered room service while my mom lounged on her bed planning
our next day.
There was a knock at the door. I peered through the
peephole. There was a portly lady with wispy gray hair and a cart standing
outside. I opened the door and received our dinner, tipped her, and shut the door.
I started toward the small table in our room, but there was another knock. I
figured that the old lady had forgotten to give us something. As soon as I
opened the door, I was thrust to the floor with great force, food spilling
everywhere. It was my dad. Then he directed his attention on my mother, who had
backed herself in the corner of the room.
“I told you, you aren’t leaving me,” he growled in hushed
rage. He took two steps toward her and I did the only thing I could think to
do. I lunged myself at him, throwing punches wildly. I knew I was no match for
him, but I had to try. He punched me in my stomach and I fell backwards hitting
my head on the dresser on the way down. A searing pain formed in the back of my
head and consumed my whole body. I could just barely make out my dad’s figure
closing in on my mom then the room began spinning and soon everything went
black.
I awoke at home in my bed. Was that all a dream? I
attempted to get out of bed but was stopped short as I felt the familiar
throbbing pain in my head. I was bedridden for the next two days. My mom would
come in every now and then to make sure I was fine and, when my dad was away,
plan a better escape. We had become prisoners in our own home. Our plan was to
pack just one bag each. When he left for work we would make our move. We’d run
to the roadside where there’d be a cab waiting for us, withdraw $10,000 dollars
from the bank and get as far out of town as possible. My mom’s employees would
take care of the shop.
When my head was healed we put our plan into action. We
had our suitcases packed and hidden in the closet in the guest room. There was
just one problem; he wasn’t going to work. He had taken his vacation this week.
As soon as he woke up, he began drinking. This is how we ended up in this
situation.
After he had collapsed on the bed in his room, I helped
my mom up and we waited about ten minutes for him to start snoring. I gathered
our bags and my mom called the cab. We were going to make it.
Suddenly,
his phone started to ring. It had to be the loudest ringtone I’d ever heard. He
tossed and turned and eventually sat up in bed and answered. My mother quickly
yanked the luggage away from me and concealed them behind the curtains in the
living room just as he walked out of the room.
He
was heading toward the fridge again. My mother and I traded nervous stares for
both of us knew that the cab would be coming any second now. Five minutes
passed and he remained sitting on the couch watching television. Then, for some
reason, he stood up and went toward the widow. I held my breath. He saw them.
“You’re
trying to leave me?” he yelled in his slurred, drunken speech. He was furious.
With all his might, he threw the suitcases across the room and then went for my
mom. He caught her by her neck and began choking her. I ran over and kicked,
punched, and pulled at him but he would not let go. I looked around frantically
for a weapon. I grabbed his bat out of the display case with the rest of the
paraphernalia from his glory days and with all of my energy swung it at him.
The
bat broke upon impact and he released my mom, who instantly gasped for air. The
blow to the head had killed him. We were free. I collapsed to the floor and
cried with my mother.
