Swiftly, my father moves to her side, yanking her chair out with her in it in one smooth move, and she glides across the flowered linoleum.
I’m afraid the wood’s going to splinter in his hands as he grips the arms of her chair. “One more time, Katrina.” His massive palms move to her chin, where he tightens his hold, moving her head back and forth with his forefingers. “Who is coming over here behind my back?”
“No one,” she whispers. She is weeping, and her blue eyes are filled with terror.
Scared in a way I couldn’t comprehend then, I let a stream of urine run down my leg.
“Daddy,” I yell, “leave Mommy alone!”
I forgot my manners, so I try again, the tension in the room thick. “Please, Daddy, please.”
He doesn’t turn to look at me, his eyes still locked on hers. “It’s okay, Lovebug, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But Mommy . . .”
“Mommy’s been bad, and just like you, she has to pay when she messes up.” He pinches her chin forcefully. “Isn’t that right, Katrina?”
“No . . . this is crazy.” She shrieks, “Stop it!”
“Who is the man, Katrina?”
“Please don’t do this, please.” Tears run down her cheeks, unchecked. “Not in front of her.” Brusquely, he swipes them with his calloused palm, dragging a thumb over her ruddy complexion.
“Who is it?”
All she can do is shake her head, over and over, darting her eyes around the room for help that’s not going to come. Focused on the telephone, she tilts her head at me to call for help.
“Don’t you move, ’Bug,” my father says over his shoulder to me.
His hand smacks her hard across the cheek. “I asked a question, Kat.”
The maddening pause feels like forever, but it’s probably only a couple of seconds. As they stare at each other, she waits him out. He doesn’t release his hold on her, instead clenching a fist around her blonde hair. As he yanks it violently, she finally mouths, “Robert.”
“Robert, as in Robbie, our landlord?” His jaw goes slack at the same time his hands do, and he drops them to his side. “That why you’re able to buy weed and not spend all my money on rent?”
She doesn’t respond.
A second later, he pulls back and strikes her with an open fist.
Over and over, he hits her.
I see flashes of red, and it’s a combination of his rage and her blood.
Crying, I knock my chair over, tugging with my small hands on his flannel-clad arms. I catch the back of his palm, flying across the kitchen.
I crawl under the table, sobbing, and with my hands over my ears, I scream bloody murder. Ignoring both of our pleas, he reaches forward, clutching her around the neck, squeezing, like he’s trying to expel the life out of her. She must realize his evil intentions at the same time, and I watch as her pupils dilate, the blood vessels enlarging in what’s left of her battered face.
As he is choking her, I watch her eyes become cloudy, and futilely I hit his back over and over, uselessly trying to keep a raging bull from his target, until finally she slumps over, sliding to the floor. Eyes closed, body lifeless.
I believe she’s dead, though in reality she’s unconscious.
And it’s all my fault.
A bony elbow uproots me from my thoughts, and I turn to confront the person. An elderly woman is smiling at me, not unkindly. “Honey, I’ve seen you on this bus before, and you always get out here.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, grabbing my backpack. “You’re absolutely right.”
After my conversation with Diane, it’s become more apparent to me than ever that I have to fix things with Charlotte, even if it means laying myself at her feet.
How bad can it be? I ask myself.
Bad, I think bitterly. She’s the reason your life has turned out this way.
CHAPTER 20
Charlotte
In the afternoon, I finish one of the only on-campus classes I teach, my eyes burning. Rubbing them, I wonder if this is an early sign of pregnancy. I can barely keep my lids open. As I pull into the garage, a nap sounds like a welcome idea.
That and taking a pregnancy test.
It’s time, Char. Stop putting it off.
Shifting my eyes to the corner of the garage, I notice the box, the one containing pictures of Noah and me. Stop punishing him for Lauren, I tell myself.
I retrieve it and the wedding band from my jewelry box and then slide it back on my ring finger, where it belongs.
After putting one of the framed pictures back on the wall, this one of Noah in his tuxedo, I step away from it, admiring how dapper he looked getting married.
Eight years ago . . . unbelievable.
I twist the wedding band as I smile at the photo, in which he’s showing his toothy grin and lopsided bow tie and acting as if he’s holding on to a hefty secret that only he’s privy to.
He’ll be home soon, I remind myself, and I won’t feel so out of sorts. Everything will go back to normal.
The bag from last night beckons me from the kitchen counter. I unwrap the plastic on one of the boxes and come face to face with one of the pregnancy tests. I head into the bathroom with it when the doorbell rings.
It chimes again, and I sigh, resting the unused test on the bathroom counter.
Last week, I ordered a few unisex items from a department store, but it seems awfully fast for the shipment to have arrived, since it was on back order. Maybe it’s a sign you’re really pregnant. I clap eagerly.
I stare at the bathroom door, debating if I should answer the doorbell or take the pregnancy test first. I’ve waited long enough, and if it’s a package, they’ll leave it on the doorstep.
Instead, I whisper, “Who is it?” softly enough that not even I can hear, and certainly no one outside could. Plus, the television’s providing the usual background noise and comfort.
“It’s me, Elle.” Another rap on the door, this time harder. “Charlotte, are you home?”
Slowly, I move the heavy drapes from the picture window and stare out at her. People watching, especially when they least expect it, is a favorite pastime of mine.
I watch her demeanor—hair still fairly intact, oversize sweatshirt and leggings, dirty sneakers, and a determined look on her face, her shoulders pulled back instead of in their usual hunched position.
After I unlock the dead bolt and open the door, our eyes meet through the screen.
“Can I talk to you?”
“I know I shouldn’t have gotten so upset last night in the parking lot—”
“I deserved it. You don’t know me.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” I stroke my chin. “You can come in, but I think it’s best we remain friendly, but with distance.”
Her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
Motioning Elle through the screen door, I give her a wide berth. Her presence isn’t as imposing as it was the first time I encountered her, but I still need space.
I point to the living room. “Have a seat, make yourself comfortable.”
Attempting a joke, she says, “This time, I’ll even make sure to take off my shoes.”
While she unlaces her sneakers, I take my usual spot in the middle of the couch, while she settles into the side chair.