Torn Away (12 page)

“But you hate him now,” I said, thinking,
How can you look at me without hating me, too?

Mom stopped rummaging and turned my chin to face her. “I hate what he did to us. But that’s not you. It never was,” she said. “It’s important for you to remember that. You may look like him, but you are your own wonderful person.”

“Who do I look like?” Marin had piped up. She pulled her ears out and puffed air into her cheeks, making a monkey face in the mirror. Mom and I both cracked up. Mom squeezed Marin’s cheeks, and the air came out with a farting sound, which made Marin laugh, too.

“You, girlfriend,” Mom said, playing with the back of Marin’s hair, “are the spitting image of your father. Who, by the way, is waiting on me, so I’d better finish up.”

The memory was so real. It was almost as if the picture on my phone had come to life. Tears clung to my lashes. My nose had started to run and I sniffed. I didn’t want to keep falling apart like this, but it seemed to keep happening without my even knowing it. Mom and Marin and I had fought so many times. That’s what happens when you’re family. We’d been ugly and called names. I’d stopped talking to Mom more times than I could count. I’d even told her I hated her.

But those weren’t the memories that assaulted me. The memories that came to me were worse—they were the ones
where we were sweet, understanding, patient, kind. They were the ones that made my heart ache, because I’d never have the chance to build another.

In some ways, those were the cruelest memories of all.

I backed out of the photo album and put my phone away. I couldn’t look at those pictures anymore. I wiped my cheeks on the backs of my hands, thinking I would get up and dig out Marin’s purse. I would draw a picture of her making the monkey face. I would write
Marin is the spitting image of her father.

But before I could move, the screen door opened and out came a pair of linty socks, topped with wrinkled blue jeans, the bottom cuffs all muddy, and a bare chest. Clay, clutching a beer can and belching loudly, stepped onto the porch. He let the door slam behind him and made a racket of pulling a folding lawn chair, one-handed, from behind a stack of stuff and clattering it to the floor across from the couch.

“So you’re Jersey,” he said, as nonchalantly as if he were small-talking some stranger in a bar rather than meeting his daughter for the first time in sixteen years.

I sat up straighter, feeling a desire to protect myself but unsure why or how. I was suddenly embarrassed to have my underwear spilled out all over the couch, and hoped I was sitting on most of it. I was also embarrassed to be caught crying and sniffed once more, hoping it wouldn’t show. Or that he’d be too hungover to notice.

“You’ve changed a lot,” he said, and I had to resist shooting back with
Well, go figure. I don’t look like an infant anymore!
“You look like your mother.”

“She always said I looked like you,” I mumbled, my thumb rubbing the kitten’s porcelain belly.

He laughed out loud, took a swig of his beer. “Did she now?” he said. “Well, go figure. Maybe you was mine after all. Crazy woman.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I wasn’t the only well she was drinkin’ from at the time, if you know what I mean. Let’s just say there have been doubts about your paternity.” He overenunciated the word: “pah-ter-nit-tee.”

I shifted on the couch, uncertain if I understood exactly what he was trying to say. That I wasn’t his daughter? That Mom had been sleeping around? That wasn’t the Mom I knew. She’d always said we’d been a family—Mom and Clay and I—that he’d walked out on a promise.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “She never said anything about any of that. She was too busy trying to keep her head above water—until she met Ronnie.”

He had been in the middle of taking a drink, then stopped and pointed at me with his can-holding hand, one eye squinting while he swallowed. “Now, that’s one bastard I’d like to kick the shit out of,” he said. “Sending you down here like you was some lost coat I forgot to bring home with me sixteen years ago. Just decides he’s gonna screw with me and mine because he don’t want to deal with you. So what’s the story there? You a pain in the ass or something?”

Even though on the inside I didn’t want to dignify his question with a response, I found my head shaking vehemently.
“No,” I said. “He…” But I didn’t know how to continue. I didn’t have any excuse for why Ronnie had done what he had. I was still so angry at him myself.

“He didn’t want you no more,” Clay finished for me, and as much as I hated to admit it, that was as close to the truth as he could have gotten. Ronnie didn’t want me anymore.

Clay looked out into the backyard, shaking his head ruefully. “So the way I see it,” he said, “you gonna be a senior next year. And then you got your own life to get on with. I can live with puttin’ you up for a year, I s’pose, as long as there ain’t no shit going on. No babies, no drugs, none of that shit. But after you graduate, I reckon it’s time for you to go. I ain’t lookin’ for no long-term reunion here, and neither is anyone else in this house.” He took another drink, then crushed the can in his fist, burping under his breath. “And you need to understand, them two girls of mine are number one for me, okay? You ain’t never gonna be on the same level as them. And I’m sorry if that’s hard to hear, but it’s just the way it is. I’m bein’ honest with ya, just in case you got some big ideas about fairness. Fairness left the building sixteen years ago. Like Elvis.” He chuckled at his own joke. “I feel sorry for ya and everything, because what went down wasn’t your fault, but you gotta know there’s such a thing as too little too late.”

The door swung open and Tonette clomped through it, her toes hanging over a pair of turquoise-colored wedge heels. Her hair was damp, as if she’d showered recently, and her boobs were hanging out of a tight T-shirt with a glittery skull emblazoned across the front.

She looked at Clay and me with amusement in her eyes and handed Clay another beer, then popped one for herself.

“You’re chubbier than I pictured you,” she said. She gazed at me as I felt my face turn red, and then laughed as if it were the funniest thing she’d ever said, her lips wet with beer and lip gloss.

“I’m not fat,” I said, trying not to sound as snippy as I felt. I turned my gaze back down to my hands, rubbing the smooth stomach of the kitten with both thumbs now.

“Don’t get all boo-hoo about it,” she said. “We can’t all be supermodels. Besides, Clay says your mama was kinda beefy, so it makes sense.”

I glared at her.

Clay noticed the kitten in my hand. “What you got there?” he asked, and my first inclination was to hide it. I balled it up in my fist, covering it, which was dumb, since he obviously knew it was there.

He held out his hand. Slowly, I leaned over and handed it to him, waiting for recognition to register on his face.

He turned the kitten over and looked at it. “Six?” he said. “What’s that mean?”

“Six years old,” I said, not understanding how he could not know.

He snorted again and placed the kitten in Tonette’s outstretched hand. “You six years old now?” he asked.

“It’s the only one I could find. The others were all shattered,” I said.

“Other what?”

“Cats, stupid,” Tonette said, thumping his biceps with the hand that was still holding my kitten. “She musta had a collection.” She handed the kitten back to me.

“I did,” I said. Confusion etched itself across my heart. “You sent them to me on my birthday every year.”

Clay raised one eyebrow. “I did?”

Tonette looked from him to me and back again, frowning like if he had been sending me gifts for my birthday, it had been a personal betrayal against her. “You did?” she echoed.

“No, I didn’t,” he said, to her rather than to me.

For a moment, I thought maybe he was putting on an act to keep Tonette from getting mad. Maybe he’d had to send them on the sly so Tonette wouldn’t know about them, and to admit to it now would mean admitting to sixteen years’ worth of betrayal. I sat there uncomfortably, afraid to say any more.

“I didn’t send you those,” he said, pointing at the kitten. “Your mama probably gave them to you and just said I did.”

“But I got them in the mail,” I said. “I opened them up myself. In front of Mom.”

“Maybe they come from a secret admirer,” he said, “ ’cause they sure as hell didn’t come from me. Hell, maybe they came from your real dad.”

“You are my real dad,” I muttered, but doubt began to needle at me. Could Clay have been right about my mom? Did she have… others? Did I belong to one of them?

Of course not, I told myself. Why would I believe anything that came out of this liar’s mouth, especially when it came to Mom? He didn’t know her.

Or at least one of us didn’t.

“Well, whoever give it to you, you better put it away tight. If Terry’s boys get hold of it, they’ll use it for batting practice,” Tonette said.

Again, I tucked the kitten into my palm, which was sweaty now. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

The screen door opened again and Terry poked her head out. She had the baby on one hip, his T-shirt adhered to his chest with drool, a Cheerio stuck to his chin.

“You comin’ or what?” she asked me.

I stood up and started cramming my things into my backpack, zipping the kitten into a small pocket in the front, hoping it would be safe there.

“Back off, Terry, can’t you see I’m bonding with my long-lost daughter here?” Clay shot at her, and then he and Tonette both cracked up, Tonette’s belly bouncing against the fabric of her shirt, both of them swigging beer.

I swung my backpack full of clothes over one shoulder and headed toward my aunt, leaving Tonette and Clay on the porch, glad to be taking my valuables with me.

I had a feeling Terry’s boys were the least of my worries here.

“I feel for your mama,” Terry said, holding a pair of jean shorts—mom shorts—up for inspection. She was standing in front of her open closet and tossing shirts and shorts to where I sat on the bed. I definitely wasn’t going to be in style, but at least I’d be able to change my clothes. Finally. “Taking care of kids by yourself is no picnic. The idea of something happening to me and leaving the boys alone with no mama is one of my biggest fears.”

I tilted my face down. I wondered if that was one of Mom’s fears, too. Had she ever been able to guess that, if something were to happen to her, Ronnie wouldn’t be there for me?

“I guess at least you got Clay, for whatever that’s worth,” Terry said, shrugging.

“Clay says he’s not my real father,” I blurted.

She waved her hand at me. “Don’t listen to him. That’s what he says when he tries to make himself feel better about
how everything went down. It’s the party line around here. Your grandfather is fond of reminding Clay that it’s possible he’s not. But that’s just who Harold is. Never believes anything for sure until he sees it himself. He’s the skeptical type. Of course Clay’s your father.”

“And if he isn’t?” I asked, taking a tank top that Terry was holding up against my torso.

“Well, at least you got a place to stay,” she said.

But would that be enough? Because at the moment it felt like it could never be enough. People needed more than a place to stay, more than a porch to sleep on. They needed a home, right? They needed love.

“I miss my mom,” I said, barely able to croak out the words. I missed her so much, and saying it aloud only made it feel like a piece of me had fallen away. “I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

She gave me a sympathetic look. “We got to be pretty good friends when she was married to Clay,” she said. “You know that?” I shook my head and she nodded, tossing a T-shirt at me. “I never understood how someone like her got mixed up with someone like him in the first place. She was sweet. And real smart.”

She tossed a few more items across the bed and told me to try them on in the bathroom, to bring back the things that didn’t fit. But I didn’t want to leave. For the first time since Kolby went to Milton, I felt like I had an ally, someone who cared.

“Will you take me to her funeral?” I asked before my brain could catch up with my mouth.

She looked surprised. “They didn’t have the funerals yet?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I tried to call my stepdad last night to find out when they are, though. When I know for sure, will you take me?”

She chewed on her lip and looked over at Jimmy’s crib, as if the thought of driving three hours north to Elizabeth was frightening for her. As if it would somehow be bad for Jimmy. But after a few seconds, she nodded.

“I’ll have to make sure Mother will watch Nathan and Kyle,” she said, almost to herself. “But, yeah. I will. You should get a chance to say good-bye at least. It’s not right that he sent you here without that much.”

I had to restrain myself from throwing my arms around her. I practically floated out of the room. I tried on everything, not even caring that most of her clothes looked so out of style I would have been mortified to wear them in front of my friends.

I gathered all my new clothes and headed down to the basement, where the rickety washer and dryer gathered cobwebs in the far corner.

I’d never been fond of basements, and being stuck in one by myself when the deadliest tornado in forty years ripped through my house didn’t help matters much at all. But I was still on a high from my conversation with Terry, and besides, the basement was preferable to the rest of the house, where I might run across Grandmother Billie, who mostly sat in front of the TV all day eating popcorn from a green plastic bowl, or
Clay and Tonette, who alternately clanked around under the hood of an old car in the driveway and fought in the kitchen.

I was almost done folding my small load of laundry when I heard Nathan and Kyle burst into the house on a wave of fighting, followed by the whiny, animated voices of my half sisters. I listened for a while, trying to make out conversations, folding more and more slowly as I neared the bottom of the dryer. I stacked everything in the laundry basket and was about to carry it upstairs when suddenly the single lightbulb flickered out.

At first I froze, the basket pressed against my hip. Almost immediately, I felt panic rise in me, the sound of tornado sirens echoing against the walls of my brain. I could hear wind batting against the smudged, filthy windows and flinched, expecting the next gust, or the one after that, to be the one that sent glass flying or sent the roof flying or sent me flying.

I took a deep breath and swallowed, trying not to let my imagination get away with me, trying not to let my heart jump into my throat, trying not to panic. After all, it’s not like a light going out in the basement is a big deal. Happens all the time. Not every dim basement means a tornado is coming.

I set the basket down and headed for the stairs, my hands out in front of me. I’d go upstairs and ask Grandmother Billie where she kept the lightbulbs. I’d replace it myself, so next time I had to do laundry I’d know it was fresh. She’d probably be thrilled to give me an extra chore.

But when I got to the top of the stairs, the door wouldn’t open.

“Hello?” I said. I tried the handle again. It turned, but the door didn’t budge. “Hello?” I repeated, louder, and then knocked on the door. I thought I heard movement on the other side. Or was that the muffled chug of a storm coming?

I groped around on the walls for the light switch but couldn’t find it, then remembered that the switch was on the kitchen wall outside the basement door. The lightbulb hadn’t gone out; someone had turned it out.

“Hello?” I said again, this time my voice close to a yell. I felt electricity in the air, and a cottony feeling in my ears, as if they were going to pop. I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination, but I didn’t care—in my mind, I was right back in the eye of a storm that would surely destroy me. I pounded on the door. “Is someone there?”

This time, I was sure I heard someone on the other side. Giggling. I turned the handle and pushed again, then pushed harder. The door started to open, then squeezed shut, as if someone was putting their weight against it.

“Lexi? Meg? Come on, let me out!” I yelled. My heart raced as my eyes refused to adjust to the darkness. What if it wasn’t one of them, but was a chair or something wedged under the doorknob? “Let me out!” I yelled again.

I turned the knob and pushed harder. The door popped open about an inch and then slammed shut again. Sirens blared in my head, swooping up and down, up and down, making me dizzy and nauseous. “Let me out!”

The sun ducked behind a cloud and the basement darkened, even as my eyes tried to adjust. Panic made my skin
tingle. I put my shoulder against the door and shoved with all my might, and it finally gave, kitchen light bathing my face. The door swung open with such force the doorknob embedded itself in the wall, the crash reverberating through the house.

Lexi stood by the stove, her hand over her mouth. She looked like she’d been laughing but was now staring at me as I stood at the top of the basement stairs, breathless, my arms stretched out at my sides. Meg, standing nearby, looked incredulous, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide.

Lexi and I stared at each other for a moment. And then everyone in the house, it seemed, dropped what they were doing and came running. Tonette got there first, with Clay right behind her.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded of Lexi, but Lexi simply pointed at me, one hand still hovering over her mouth. He turned to me, his face red with anger. “What’s going on here?”

“They wouldn’t let me out,” I said, my voice sounding shrill and whiny. “They turned out the light.”

Grandmother Billie rushed in and stood between us, looking back and forth as if ready to punish but unsure who to dole out the punishment to, followed by Harold, who immediately went to the door. He pulled it away from the wall.

“Hole in the damn wall,” he said, and Billie hurried over to see the damage. “Right through the damn wallpaper.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “I was scared. It was dark down there.”

Tonette rolled her eyes. “You’re scared of the dark? What are you, five?”

“No,” I said. “The tornado…”

“Oh, here we go with the tornado stuff. Fan-freakin-tastic, Clay,” Tonette said, “your kid’s got baggage.”

“Why are you yelling at me?” he said, his voice high, his shoulders shrugged, and his hands spread out.

“I’m sorry,” I said to my father, who was glaring at me. “It was their fault for shutting me down there.”

“We were playing a trick is all,” Lexi said, and her innocent act made me sick to my stomach.

Clay looked from Lexi to me and back again, his hands balled at his sides. He breathed slowly through flared nostrils.

“You gonna hafta fix this wall now, Clay,” Grandfather Harold said, and I withered under the glare I could feel coming from him and Grandmother Billie. Grandfather Harold surveyed the kitchen. “Gonna have to replace the wallpaper in the whole damn room, I guess.”

“Always something in this place,” my grandmother said, and scurried off, as if the tension in the room was too much for her.

Finally, Clay pursed his lips so tight they became white. He turned his face up to the ceiling and cursed. “Sonofabitch!” He seemed to struggle against indecision for a few seconds, his body twitching to go one way and then another, and then he let loose and stomped away.

I hated that Lexi and Meg were watching me cower under Clay’s rage. But when I turned my eyes to them, they almost looked frightened, too. I wondered if they’d had to endure moments like this themselves. I wondered if that was why they
were so relentlessly trying to draw me into some sort of fight. Did they really hate me, or did they want to use me to deflect Clay’s attention off them?

“Nice going, orphan,” Meg said with a smirk.

I didn’t bother to answer, just left, forgetting about my laundry, which was still down in the basement. Forgetting about Meg and Lexi and the hole in the wall and my grandfather, who still stood, pressing his dry, blunt fingertips against it. Forgetting about everything but getting away.