K. Randis - Spilled Milk

So I kept going back for more.

I remember the night Dad found the power wheel under my pillow. I don’t know why he was in my room, or what he was looking for, but he found it.

He gripped the edges of the paper so hard they crumbled in his hand. I probably could have cooked an egg on his face from the steam that appeared to surround him. There was little time to come up with an excuse, and even less time to react when he started to trash my room. Trembling, I stood my ground and watched my dresser get overturned, my vanity crash to pieces and my belongings thrown in every direction.

When he finished, and after he tore the power wheel into snowflake specks, he charged at me. My body braced itself and I closed my eyes, but the impact never came. A rush of wind past my face and the smell of his aftershave following told me he was targeting someone else, anyone else. At this stage of the game, he finally understood where to get me where it hurt.

He couldn’t touch me. I felt no pain for him. But when he laid a finger on one of my siblings, a wrath of fury simmered up inside me. I desperately tried to recall who was home that he could hurt. Mom was at CVS filling a prescription. My heart leaped into my throat as I turned to run after him.

“Dad, NO!” My legs were useless, they wouldn’t move fast enough. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner, tears burned my eyes when I caught sight of Ethan.

Just learning to walk, stumbling across the living room with a Lego’s block in his hand, he smiled when he saw me. His doll-like arms stretched out for me, his focus locked into my eyes, he never saw Dad behind him. “Leave him alone!” I screamed, and charged at Ethan.

I scooped him up against my chest like a football just as Dad’s steel toed boot made contact with my stomach. I doubled over, the baby in my arms, and lost consciousness before I knew if Ethan was okay.

I don’t know how long I was on the floor. Soft hands pulled at my face. Bits of sound became clearer and I focused on Dad’s voice, telling me it was my fault, I shouldn’t have got in the way.

Ethan was crying above me when I finally opened my eyes. He didn’t look hurt, but I struggled to get up. Snot ran down his face as he cried out “Da! Da!” pointing at Dad from across the room. I used my sleeve to wipe his face and I cradled him against me, making my way towards my room.

If I ran away when I turned eighteen, Ethan would be alone. Kat and Thomas were home, but were undoubtedly hiding from the second they heard the commotion coming from my room. Just like I taught them to do. Ethan was the only one who couldn’t fend for himself. He couldn’t hide; he could barely talk to tell me if something happened to him. I shook my head as I sat Ethan on my disheveled bed with a book so I could pick up the remnants of the tornado that had ripped through my room.

By the time all of us would be old enough to move out, Ethan would have no one to diffuse Dad’s wrath. He would be the only target, the only one left who Dad could still hurt, and in turn, hurt me.

I remembered when we lived on Long Island. Adam and I usually wore Dad’s old t-shirts to bed because we didn’t have pajamas of our own. One night we stumbled upon a stash of magazines with naked women in them at the bottom of one of Dad’s drawers. We giggled and pointed at our unusual find until we decided that Dad just had to see what we found. I must have been around six years old at the time.

Adam held the magazine as we entered the garage just off the kitchen. Dad was tinkering with something and looked up as we came out. “Daddy, look what we found! This magazine is so funny.” Adam pushed the magazine under his nose.

A wheelbarrow is what stopped Dad from grabbing Adam as we both screamed and ran from him. His voice bellowed behind us, and as we turned the corner to the living room Adam pushed me behind the grand piano to hide.

I’ll never forget the look in his eyes as he realized there was nowhere else for him to go. He had given me the only hiding spot in the room. Lowering to the floor he sat in a cross-legged position and put his finger to his lips to motion for me to be quiet.

I watched in horror as Dad turned the corner and I realized what Adam had done. He had sacrificed himself; he put himself in the dead center of his path, for me. Dad kicked him like a linebacker and I covered my mouth as Adam’s body soared through the air, ending with his limp body crashing into the front door behind him. Dad never found me.

I wanted to believe, for years, that Adam didn’t remember that night because of how hard he hit his head. The truth was, I think that night Adam’s spirit was broken, because it was the first and last time he ever put himself in Dad’s path. Unknowingly, Adam took one blow, and passed the torch on to me. Adam’s years of ignoring and denying what happened in our home wasn’t ignorance, it was self defeat.

Ethan flipped through pages, pointing and calling out baby gibberish. My hand moved through his silky blonde straws of hair and my lips sunk into his cheek.

For years, I thought that ignoring and denying what happened in our home was protecting my brothers and sister. I knew, now, that it was only enabling him. The longer I kept his secrets, the longer he could continue to do whatever he pleased. As Ethan nodded off to sleep in my arms I touched his nose with my index finger. “You, little man, are my saving grace.”

Paul went to the bus stop to get Joseph, and I watched him cross the front lawn before I picked up the phone in the kitchen. My hands trembled as I dialed the number for social services and slipped a piece of paper out of my pocket. I knew I would forget something, so I wrote down what I needed to say in a paragraph. An operator picked up and I smoothed the paper out in front of me.

When I finished rattling off what I needed to say, she asked for my name and to explain how I knew what I knew. “I can’t tell you my name. But you have to believe me. Listen to my voice, I’m a child, and I’m terrified. You need to help these kids.” I hung up and returned the phone to the dock in the kitchen.

Joseph bounced through the door. “Hey Brooke, wanna watch Spongebob with me?”

“No,” Paul replied for me, “She doesn’t. Watch it yourself.” Paul walked past me and stormed off to his bedroom. I followed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why do you always ask that? Do you have a guilty conscience?”

“N-No, you just seem…”

“Seem what? I don’t have time for this. I’m going to Judd’s.”

“I just got here.” My voice rose when I didn’t want it to. “I thought we were going to hang out today.”

“Why because it’s convenient for you? Are you sure you don’t have to go meet with your counselor or go spend hours talking in the kitchen with my mom?”

“What is your problem?”

“You. You are my problem.” He chucked his book bag onto the bed and shoved a pair of jeans inside. “I’m only fifteen. I don’t need to be worried about you like I am all the time. All I do is wonder if you’re okay and I don’t even know why!” His hands shot up into the air. “You don’t tell me anything and when I finally do get to spend time with you, you look like you’re going to cry or all you want to do is talk in whispers with my mom.”

“Are you sure this is all about me?” I pressed. “Nothing else bothering you . ”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know, maybe I don’t like you telling half the school that we have sex all the time. Mainly because we don’t, but also because it’s none of their business. I know about you sneaking off with your guys to smoke weed and drink, so don’t think I’m stupid. I’m your girlfriend, and maybe you should respect-”