K. Randis - Spilled Milk

I nodded into the phone as tears gushed down the sides of my face. Realizing he couldn’t see me, I told him I thought it would be nice and hung up. I leaned forward and covered my face with my hands.

In a moment of weakness the only logical choice was to end my life. Where would that leave my siblings though? No one would protect them like I could. He would probably prey on Kat next, no doubt. What about Ethan? I shook my head. It would never happen, I would never let it.

I walked the cup into the bathroom and opened the lid of the toilet. I smiled as the colors swirled around and disappeared. Things were going to change.

Paul and I spent a few hours catching up and laying around. I forgot how much I missed looking into his eyes and letting him make fun of me for my braces or tickling me until I couldn’t breathe. We were both overly sarcastic with each other and everything with him just felt so easy. It was late when Gina told me she’d drive me home. “Stop calling me Mrs. Moretti. It’s Gina, call me Gina.”

Gina figured out the longest possible route to get me home. I stretched out in the front seat and listened while she talked about her childhood in Staten Island and how she moved to the Poconos to give Paul and Joseph a better life. My parents had done the same thing, moving us from Long Island, but the perks of being isolated from everyone we knew only recently became apparent to me.

I loved the way Gina dressed, like a business woman straight off the streets of New York City, but with the charm of a housewife. I never knew her to frown, or be sad, or show any emotion besides the bubbly character that she was. I accompanied her to almost every hair and nail appointment she made. I was starting to think it was less because she needed my opinion and more because she wanted a stand in daughter to do girly things with her.

Either way, she absorbed everything and anything I ever said with complete acceptance and I valued her opinion and her company more than anything. There was never any doubt in her mind when I told her of my dreams to be a writer one day or to go to medical school. She reminded me of my grandma in that way. “You’re smart, beautiful, and talented. You absolutely can do anything,” she’d say.

Gina was also the first person to actually take note of the way I addressed my dad and the things going on in my family. She had a sixth sense about knowing when something was bothering me, but she would only call me out on it when we had our long car rides home. She was discreet like that.

“I told my Mom that I wanted to talk to a counselor, like you said. She told me we couldn’t afford it.” I slowly started filling Gina in on things going on in my house. Small things. The yelling, the tension, sometimes the electric going off.

She started to do some observations of her own when she brought me home. She told me there are people out there whose job is to listen to children when they need someone to talk to. They have confidentiality rules that the law holds them to, so no matter what I said they would never tell my parents or anyone else if I didn’t want them to. If we had insurance, sometimes it would even be free. The idea sounded too good to be true.

“So I told my mom about how insurance can cover the costs so we wouldn’t have to pay, and she said there would still be a small co-pay when we would visit. She couldn’t afford that either.”

“I thought she might say something like that.” Gina sighed and shook her head. “So I started looking around. Did you know most counties have free counseling services for people who have domestic or sexual violence issues in their house?”

I stiffened. “Uh, no, but what’s domestic violence?” I was pretty sure I knew what sexual violence was. I wasn’t too sure of the other word.

“I think maybe some of the things your dad does is domestic violence. It’s when someone abuses the people they should love. Abuse can mean threatening someone, hitting them, or controlling them by making them feel worthless.” She tapped the steering wheel with her fingers.

“How do you know about all that?”

“I had a girlfriend in college who was in a very abusive relationship. She told me all kinds of things. She got the help she needed though and never had to see the guy again.” I nodded and Gina continued. “Maybe we can call the place and make you an appointment. They’re the experts, you can figure things out with them.”

“Are they free?” I already used most of my money to help mom with her bills and I was trying to save for a car.

“Yes, and they’re confidential too. Just like any other counselor.”

“I don’t know how I would get there. Could you take me?”

I wasn’t just asking her to drive me to the counseling center. I was asking her if I could trust her. If I could open up to her just a little bit more and agree to go to a place that specialized in domestic and sexual violence. Whatever would be thrown at me when I went, I needed to know that she would be there for me. I couldn’t do this alone, I didn’t want to.

Gina smiled. “Of course, of course I’ll take you. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll make the call.”

We pulled up to the Women in Crisis building three weeks later. I figured it would be easier to explain where I was going if school had started. Gina could pick me up a half hour before school got out and I would be able to make it back in time for work.

The center was just an old Victorian home with a white sign out front. A tire swing hung from the branches of one of the trees and the sidewalk sloped leading up to the doorway. Gina told me she would wait in the car for me, so I pulled open the door and was greeted by the receptionist.

“Hi there, can I help you?” She smiled and looked behind me, most likely looking for a parent.

“I’m Brooke. I have a 2:30 appointment.”

The receptionist ran her finger over a thick schedule book and tapped the page. “Yep, here you are, I’ll let her know you’re here. Go ahead and take a seat.”

I picked the closest chair to the entrance and gazed at all the toys and coloring books that littered the cramped waiting room. It looked like a lot of children came here.

“Brooke?” I was greeted by a wide smile and a soft tone. She was a hefty woman in a printed dress. Her skin contrasted the pale colors she was wearing and she reached out her hand. “I’m Midge. Want to follow me?”

I nodded and followed her up a steep staircase. “These steps ain’t meant for us bigger women.” She snickered at herself. “They need to make the stairs bigger or I need to make myself smaller.”

We passed two other doors, one that had a sign on it: Quiet Please, Sharing is in session . I tried to calm my nerves by telling myself that if I didn’t like it here, I never had to come back.

“Pick any seat you want. Except the black one, I sit there because my knees won’t let me sit in the bean bags. But they are the most comfortable seats in the room!”

I chose a chair not too close but not too far away from the black chair she mentioned she would be in.

“Whew, all right then. I’m Midge.” Sweat glistened off her forehead and she patted it with a tissue. “I’m so glad you’re here, Brooke. It’s not every day we get a brave girl like you to come in here by yourself. You know what kind of counseling center this is?”

“I think so.”

Midge shook her head. “We work with all kinds of people here. Children, adults, teenagers.” She pointed at me. “A lot of people come here looking for answers because something in their heart is telling them they’ve been wronged or that they deserve better.” She leaned forward in her chair. “That sound about right sweetheart?”