Authors: Ellen Hopkins
Daddy pounces.
I never gave you
permission to ride to school with
anyone named Brittany, did I?
Her eyes are like lasers, beaming
the floor tiles.
No, Daddy…
She rushes
on,
But she just got her license, and…
No, Kaeleigh! Too late. Damage
done. Daddy raises his voice.
Just got her license? Are you
plain stupid? Do you
want
to die?
The rest is implicit:
Don’t you
remember a certain infamous day?
Kaeleigh crumbles. Her face,
only moments ago binge-florid,
blanches.
Oh Daddy, I’m sorry.
She threatens to collapse, and I
whisper in her ear. “Stay strong,
or you know what he’ll do.”
Tension begins to melt from
Daddy as the painkiller starts
to kick in.
Fix me something
to eat and we’ll discuss this
further.
As he speaks, his voice
sputters a little, slurs.
O-ok-ay?
Sure, Daddy.
Kaeleigh
rushes to the refrigerator.
What are you in the mood for?
Daddy sucks down his drink.
L-loaded question.
He crosses
the floor quickly, much faster
than I’d thought him capable
of, half falls against Kaeleigh,
who’s leaning into the fridge.
I smile. Whatever he had in
mind, punishment or “reward,”
it will not come tonight.
They Extricate Themselves
From the refrigerator.
Kaeleigh microwaves
some leftover stew.
I watch the two of them
stuff their faces, fix
Daddy one last drink.
Between the rich food,
stiff Turkey, and three
OxyContin, he’ll be fast
asleep in a few minutes.
Most of the evening’s drama
behind us, I slip off to
the bathroom. Kaeleigh’s
disgusting food binge
made me want to purge.
It’s more than a habit.
It’s a need. Experts even
call it a disease. However
you classify it, though,
it’s not about body image.
At least not for me. For me,
it’s all about maintaining
a modicum of control,
especially when everything
goes completely ape-shit.
Most People
Hate to vomit.
Can’t stand
the protest
of an upset
stomach,
the heave
of bile and
undigested food,
the carve of
acid in the
esophagus.
Okay, I don’t
like that
part much
myself. But
I do like
the cool of
porcelain on
my face,
the solid
of tile beneath
my butt.
Most of all,
I like my belly
emptied, even
temporarily,
of food. Of fat. Of pain.
Face Washed, Teeth Brushed
Puke free, I emerge from the bathroom,
into a house silent but for Daddy’s
impressive snores. Now that I’ve
evacuated my stomach, I can swallow
the Oxy I borrowed for myself.
Pop the pill, chase it with whiskey,
crawl into bed. Pray such seduction
brings dreamless sleep. Seems to take
a long time for the sleep aid to kick
in. As I wait, I feel good about aiding
Kaeleigh’s salvation tonight. Too
many times in the past, I’ve stood by,
powerless to interfere. They say
an ounce of prevention is worth a pound
of cure. There is no cure for Daddy.
Let’s hear it for prevention! Of course,
it’s not like you can always tell what Daddy
has in mind. I suppose there must be
triggers that bring him to Kaeleigh’s bedside.
If only they were more recognizable!
My body slides toward sleep, but my
brain, though fogging a bit at the edges,
is working overtime. The gathering
haze does not conceal memories
of another night. Kaeleigh was ten.
Mom Was Off on a Retreat
Like any of that spiritual mumbo
jumbo ever did her (or any of us)
one miniscule sliver of good.
Daddy had been back to Kaeleigh
for “lollipop licking” (my term) a few
times. She had a vague notion that it
was “wrong,” but she wasn’t sure
why, and didn’t know who to ask.
They’d probably just be jealous.
That warm summer night, she slept
in a thin white nightie, nothing more,
nothing at all under. The moon, full,
shimmered against the tan of her
exposed skin, and her hair whispered
over the pillow like a pale waterfall.
As usual, the smell of Wild Turkey
preceded Daddy. In the bright moonlight,
you could see Kaeleigh cringe in shallow
sleep. Daddy crept through the door,
to the side of her bed, stood looking down
for a very long time before stirring
her with a volley of kisses. Cheeks.
Forehead. Lips.
Oh, little girl. Do
you know how beautiful you are?
No one was ever as lovely as you,
not even your mother when she was
a child. I can’t believe you’re mine.
Kaeleigh roused at his words,
came into the moment, secure
in the aura of Daddy’s love.
She tried to sit up, but Daddy
pushed her gently back down
against the mattress.
Stay just
like that for Daddy. I want to
teach you something new.
He lifted her nightgown,
rolled it up over her belly, coaxed
her Thoroughbred legs apart.
She squirmed, a paltry protest.
Don’t move!
Daddy’s scarlet
face underlined his command.
I thought he might smack her.
But as quickly as his anger
flared, it dissipated, smoke.
Don’t be afraid. This won’t
hurt. You’ll like it. I promise.
He kissed the length of her torso,
down to the small, naked V.
It was only his mouth
that night. He didn’t even
ask her to touch him, prove
how much she loved him.
Afterward, she worried.
Didn’t he want her love
anymore? What had she done
wrong? And yet, he had taught her
something new. Something awful.
Worse,
Something wonderful.
Something every
girl should
know the
joy of,
though,
of course,
she shouldn’t
learn it from Daddy.
At ten, it isn’t exactly
easy to separate
good touch
from bad
touch,
proper
love from
improper love,
doting daddy from perv.
But Tonight Will Be Perv-Free
Hugged by my ostentatiously
thick mattress, falling fast, faster
toward blessed sleep, or in my
case, more likely the sleep of the
damned,
the space behind my eyes
is covered by a dark collage.
Bodies. Smiles. Leers. Faces.
Some familiar, some not, as
if
they are people I’ve yet to meet,
or maybe have already met
in another lifetime. One face
truly haunts me. I’m sure
I
knew her once upon a time.
Her hair is a rich mahogany,
her eyes vivid green, like those
of a wildcat. Where do I
know
her from? And why do I feel
such a connection, if I can’t
even recognize her face? I so
want to understand
the truth
of her, of “us.” Yes, wanting
and getting are two different
things. But intuition tells me
this puzzle needs to be solved.
Daddy’s Still Asleep
At seven a.m. Wonder if I should
wake him before I leave for school.
I’m guessing it’s a case of
damned
if I do, damned if I don’t. He’s
going to have a major headache,
though he probably won’t have
a decent clue why. Then again,
if
I let him oversleep, he’ll be
mad at me, too. It’s not like
a judge can just call in sick,
unless he’s on his deathbed.
I
will probably die before he does.
Dying, for Daddy, would be
the ultimate defeat. But death
doesn’t scare me. To
know
exactly when I might
expect it, up close and in
my face, would actually be
a comfort. Because to tell
the truth,
most of the time dying
seems pretty much like
my only means of escape.
Not Right Now, Though
Not with the election looming.
No use ruining that for Mom.
Although maybe if something
bad happened to me, something
bad enough to make me die,
she’d win the sympathy vote.
Never mind. She’d probably
be too distracted with the funeral
and the burial and the incredible
after-the-graveyard party and…
Pht-pht-pht.
Rewind that old
film to another funeral. Ugh.
Don’t want to go there. Don’t
want to see that coffin, or go
to the post-service pot luck.
I huddled alone in one corner,
trying desperately to ignore
the gut-churning potpourri