Page 49 of Tiny Fractures

“I’m just saying that I already cleaned today and I don’t see what else I can do,” I say, adjusting the tone in my voice. Even though the alcohol might have loosened me up a little bit, I’m still sober enough to realize I just got myself into some deep shit.

“I don’t really give a shit, Ronan. I don’t give a shit if this house is spick and span and sparkly as a fucking Christmas tree. If I tell you to clean, you fucking clean, do you understand me?” Her tone is high and her voice loud as she takes another step toward me. She’s so close to me that her toes touch mine. “Do you fucking understand me?” she screams at me.

I back away, nodding my head. My phone buzzes on the couch, and both our eyes flit toward it. My dad’s name is displayed on the screen, and my mother’s face changes instantaneously as she steps back, finally moving to the kitchen.

I take a couple of shaky breaths, willing my adrenaline to return to normal while I pick up the phone off the couch and answer. “Hello?” My voice is as tense as my body feels.

“Hey bud,” my dad greets me, his deep voice warm.

“Hey, what’s up, Dad?”

“I’m calling to wish you a happy birthday!” He sounds like he feels really guilty. I bet my grandmother called him to rip him a new one.

“You forgot, huh?” I ask, not even pretending to hide my frustration. The encounter with my mother, coupled with the fact that my father isn’t around to protect me, is getting to me right now.

“No, I didn’t forget,” he says. “I’ve been tied up in meetings this morning. But hey, I wanted to let you know that I transferred some birthday money into your account. I figured you could finally replace that carburetor in your Mustang.”

“Thanks, Dad, I appreciate it. But I already replaced the carburetor a few weeks ago,” I say, and I hear him sigh in disappointment. “But look, I still want to change out the brake system, so that’s perfect.” I hate disappointing him. I hate disappointing my mother, too. I just hate feeling like I’m letting people down. Ugh, this day is turning into a total shit show. The momentary happiness I felt from spending time with Cat has been erased without any trace.

“Okay, well maybe we can work on changing out the brake system together,” he says, his voice taking on a happy tone. He’s obviously hoping for me to get excited, too.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m coming home Friday. I’ll be home for a whole week before I’m shipping out to Germany for two weeks.”

“Oh, yeah, Mom said you’ll be home this weekend,” I remember, still not completely convinced he’ll actually show. “What time are you coming in?” I ask, willing my voice to project some semblance of excitement.

“Probably sometime in the evening.”

“Cool. I’m working Friday, but I’ll definitely see you Saturday morning, then.”

“Is your mom home?” he asks, finally.

“Yeah. Do you want to talk to her?” I ask, eager to end our conversation. My dad is a nice guy; he’s pretty badass, actually, and I used to love spending time with him when I was younger. But he has no idea what goes on at home, no idea what his absence means for me. I used to cry and beg for him not to leave, but of course he always did, and eventually I built enough of a wall that it really doesn’t matter now. He doesn’t really know me anymore, and I’ve found ways to cope and the means to survive.

I walk into the kitchen where my mother is in the midst of making herself a sandwich. She looks up at me, exasperated by my mere presence, that I dare show my face to her after I just talked back to her without repercussion. “Dad wants to talk to you,” I state matter-of-factly, and extend the phone toward her. Once she takes it, I back out of the kitchen and hurry upstairs into my room where I stand for a while, rubbing my hands across my face and through my hair, desperate to shed the tension that has taken over my body. I finally sit on the edge of my bed and rest my head in my hands, taking a deep breath in, holding it for a three-count, then slowly exhaling.

I hear my mother’s voice downstairs as she talks to my dad, but I can’t hear specifics. My mother calls me downstairs to retrieve my phone about twenty minutes later, and her face leaves no doubt that their conversation didn’t end on a high note.

I stand in the doorway to the kitchen, the threshold like an invisible boundary, and deftly catch my phone when my mother throws it at me without warning.

“I’m leaving for work,” she tells me, her voice brusque.

“Okay,” I nod, sliding my phone into the back pocket of my jeans while she walks past me out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

I spend a little more time finding things to tidy up before I finally decide to change and head out to Shane’s at around five o’clock. I know Cat should be there by around six-thirty, and even though the afternoon wasn’t very pleasant, I find myself smiling at the thought of seeing her in a little while.

When I finally make it to the beach house, Shane grins and hands me a shot of tequila. I throw it back, followed by two more in quick succession, and relax when I finally feel the alcohol dull my thoughts.

Cat

Vada and Steve stop by my house at six to pick me up. I’m euphoric when my mom agrees to a 2 a.m. curfew, which I’m pretty sure has to do with the fact that she met Ronan today and thinks “he’s so boyfriend material,” as she pointed out to me the second I got home from lunch with him this afternoon.

I can tell my mom is relieved and elated at my willingness to put myself out there again after months of withdrawing from just about everyone and everything. My world had been blanketed by fear and sadness, and I didn’t know who to trust. My foundation had been rocked—had been getting rocked for a while, but I was too young, too dumb, too blind to realize what I was doing, how my actions were affecting others, how they were affecting me. And then it all came crashing down around me.

Things had slowly been escalating, deteriorating back in North Carolina. I remember the night of the winter formal like it’s burned into my memory—the moment when I knew I had gone too far, had put myself in a dangerous and possibly irreversible position. I remember thinking it couldn’t possibly get worse than this. But boy, was I wrong. The weeks and months that followed were not only devastating for me, but also my family. The guilt over what my parents went through, what my friends had to endure, what Adam went through, has haunted me since that night almost four months ago.

Throughout it all, my parents never wavered in their love and support. The guilt I feel is completely self-imposed. Neither my family nor my closest friends—namely, Julie—have even once implied that anything that happened was my fault. But I know better. I know what boys want, what they need. I knew what Adam wanted and needed; he told me, he showed me, he made it very, very obvious—and I kept withholding that from him. How long did I expect him to resist the temptation, especially given the way I was acting?

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