by Sylvia M. DeSantis

2nd Place Winner, 2008 Essay Competition

      The front door slams. I stay tense until fading footsteps lead to the bang of a car door. I release my breath when the motor catches. Still, maybe he’s forgotten something…no, he’s pulling away. My shoulders sag and my stomach unclenches. He’s gone. I tiptoe to his recliner and climb up carefully, trying not to spill my soda, careful to avoid the hideous green chair’s ripped arm. Innocent-looking white fluff bulges from the tear, secretly camouflaging jagged metal staples that have torn my leg before. I rip open the bag of cheese curls, relax into the assault of the bright orange smell, and begin eating. On Friday nights I sit in his chair because I’ve earned the right. I mute the TV and wait, just in case, but all I hear is soft quiet and my own beating heart. This must be how normal families live. He’s gone for the whole night. I breathe.

            I know it’s been tough for him because he’s a veteran. My father served in some war a long time ago, one that’s long forgotten and out of style. Although it’s been decades since he returned, he still uses words he found there. When he gets mad, they rise up and tumble out of his mouth like a body coming back from the dead. When my father’s voice booms gook, moo moo and nigger throughout the house, my mother judiciously points out to me that ugly words shouldn’t be repeated. As if I’d say them anyway—they taste like dirt in my mouth. Mom makes excuses, says he went through a lot and doesn’t know any better. I nod as though I understand, but I really just think he’s crazy.

            He’ll eventually crawl out from under the bed, but only if she pleads for a long time. He holds his head. Moaning, he cries of the time he stopped an ambush by killing enemy soldiers pretending to be dead. Sharp-witted North Korean soldiers quickly learned that playing dead provided excellent opportunity to mow down clueless GIs passing by without a second glance, whistling a tune, reminiscing of home cooking and pretty girls left behind.

            I killed them, he cries, all of them, one after another! Suddenly, his eyes turn liquid and I’m looking at a young man, utterly terrified, not yet 23-years-old. Babies! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…I even killed babies! He then twists his arms high, throwing away his imaginary gun. The litany of horror feels never-ending. There’s more, but I stop listening. Moving carefully, I avoid the squeaky third step and tiptoe back to bed, pulling the covers up to my ears before I let myself wonder about those babies and if they had names.

            Mom braces herself against the familiar stories, again and again, letting my father sob. The whole thing makes her sick but she pretends to be fine. He chokes on his cries like a child and she rocks him, careful not to rub the fresh bruises on her arms. Later, she’ll call her sister and wonder how he can remember all that horror and still be human. I can’t believe she doesn’t know. He can’t. Somehow, his abuse isn’t enough to convince her. Love and marriage, I learn, involve screams, tortuous abuse, and washing dust bunnies from disheveled clothing that’s been worn under the bed. In the movies love is soft and whisper quiet, like sleeping kittens, or passionately vivid, like a storm-tossed sky full of sharp, tangy ozone. Nowhere do I see black eyes or smashed dishes. I am so confused.

            The sound is high and loud, like some baby animal being killed. I’m paralyzed in my bed. I’m so scared I pee myself. It takes me a minute to understand.

            My mother is screaming.

            The crack of breaking furniture and shattering glass rattle the house but then I hear another sound—footsteps. They beat a steady rhythm towards my bedroom door, reminding me of thunder. In school, they tell us to count. Count between the lightning strikes and the thunder to see how far away the storm is. To figure out if it’s coming. To find safety so the lightning doesn’t strike you. I feel crazy, insane. The thunder comes closer. I want to count, to be a good girl, but I can’t remember how. This is it. I am going to die.

            No, she’s in the doorway instead. Pale. Shaking. Scratching at the light switch with one hand, clutching a laundry basket with the other. The light spreads a watery stain across the room.

            “I thought I’d fold some clothes.” Her face is already turning colors. A pale, sky blue surrounds one eye like a demonic halo while an angry red welt cuts across her papery cheek. It’s the middle of the night and the whole world feels dead.

            “Mommy…” I whisper. I want to tell her the secret: to count. If we count, we’ll be safe. “Mommy,“ I try again, but then he’s in the doorway behind her.

Eyes crazy. Breath wild. Fists clenched.

            So I sit in his chair. Gorging on salty-plastic cheese curls and too-sweet soda, I sit in his chair and make myself forget. The relief at hearing the car door and knowing he’s driving away feels so incredible, I celebrate, cramming food into my mouth until I’m utterly exhausted, until one more mouthful will make me sick. I can’t stop. The sensation astounds me with its confusing goodness. I don’t even know this girl. I no longer taste. I eat until there’s nothing left of me.

            Mom sits on the couch, watching TV, watching me desperately try to fill the gaping hole made from the slow burn of hate and fear. I’m so full: of his fury, of my fear, of emptiness.

            The fear, the hunger, the shame, the gaping hole…is me. Me.

            Tonight, Friday, as he leaves for his weekly poker game, I choose food. I sit in his green chair, enveloped in his smell, and stuff myself. As I get older, I’ll choose other things. On good days, I gather books as my arsenal and I read myself out of the pain. The librarian smiles and thinks she knows who I am. She never sees the little girl inside, counting. On bad days I wait for the thunder and give pieces of myself away to people who flick their lizard eyes at me and know how hungry I am. I know they understand by the way they devour me. We’re all so hungry.

            But not tonight. Right now, I’m full. I’m in his cracked green chair, the wishing chair. I wish he was gone and he is. Gone. Maybe just until tomorrow, but still.

The knowing tastes delicious.