Page 6 of The Souls We Claim
“Where’s my breakfast?” Patrick asks. The smell of gasoline precedes him. He must have the jacket he wears to work at the truck stop with him. My stomach makes another lurch.
“It’s nearly ready.” I crack three eggs into the bubbling oil as it splatters everywhere, but I’ve learned that Patrick likes his eggs unbearably crispy on the underside and so runny on top, they are almost raw. An impossible combination to ensure I never get them quite right.
I hear the scrape of the chair against the peeling linoleum tiles. I can guess which chair, how far it’s pulled out, and exactly when I’ll hear the chair being dragged back under the table.
“Where’s my coffee?”
Shit.
I grab a cup and pour one quickly. Hot and strong. I leave the cooking for a moment to deliver it to him. “There you go.”
He grabs my wrist, then pinches my chin so I look at him with eyes that have swollen some more since last night.
“You eating breakfast too?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not hungry.” Also, it’s hard to move my jaw. It’s not broken, but Patrick’s fist dealt a hard blow.
He shakes his head. “You need to eat, sweetheart,” he says as if he isn’t looking into the bruised masterpiece he created.
“I’ll grab something at the diner, later.”
It’s a lie because I’m about to lose my job.
“If you didn’t test me so much, I wouldn’t get so damn angry,” he says on a sigh.
“I need to deal with the eggs before they burn.”
“Don’t tell me you’re mad.” His words are filled with disbelief.
I’ve done this dance with him too many times to answer honestly. “No. I just need to finish your breakfast and get going.”Because I need to pretend it’s business as usual so I can make the two-hour drive to Asbury Park, New Jersey.
“Glad to see you came to your senses about going to your sister’s funeral. From what your dad says, she was nothing but trouble.” Patrick works for my dad at the truck stop he owns and runs. Dad was on the brink of driving the business into the ground until Patrick applied for a job there. He brought enough energy to just keep it in the black.
Patrick is the son my father never had. They do everything together. Fish. Hike. They’re like the same person.
My dad set us up, and he turns the other cheek when I show up bruised because of what a good worker Patrick is.
If I weren’t so goddamn broke, it would be easier to leave. But there’s no cash for a new place when we only just manage to make rent on this one between the two of us. I went home once. The first time it happened. But my dad let Patrick walk straight in the front door to take me back. Told me that sometimes a man loses his temper and that I should try a little harder to be good.
I hate them both, but I also don’t have a lot of options. I tried reporting Patrick to the police, but his brother is an influential man involved in city politics. Thanks to a friendship with a senior cop, he was able to make my complaint disappear. I didn’t have the funds to get a lawyer to help. Dad thinks I’m trouble, like my sister, and thinks I must be asking for what Patrick does to me.
My mom would never speak against my dad.
I’ve been saving what few cash tips I’m able to take without being noticed in a tampon box in the bathroom. We’re meant to hand cash tips in to be pooled. But most people just leave their tips on their credit cards, and my boss is a tight ass who doesn’t pass them on. He also plays poker with Patrick the second Tuesday every month and tells Patrick exactly how much I’m getting paid.
As a result, I have the sum total of eighty-eight bucks in the tampon box. There are also forty-two dollars in my checking account.
I let my hand slide from his without answer. Yesterday, when I heard from Penny, I made plans to go.
Patrick was clear he didn’t want me to. When I told him I was leaving anyway, he reinforced the point with his fists. When I asked for time off from my server job, my boss threatened to fire me due to the number of times I’d already missed work because of the bruises my husband always left. The ultimatum was clear. Show up today, or I wouldn’t have a job.
So, I made a plan. While Patrick was sleeping off his drunkenness, I grabbed the cash from the tampon box, packed a bag, and hid it in the trunk of my car.
I serve up Patrick’s breakfast, then go to the bathroom and begin the process of trying to cover up the mess he made of my face. This time there is a cut, and there is no way I’m slathering concealer and foundation into it. That’s a sure-fire way to get an infection. Instead, I find the most discrete Band-Aid I can find and cover it with that. Then I go to work on covering the rest of the damage.
No amount of eye cream is going to decrease the swelling, but some primer and matte foundation will make it look more like an allergic reaction than a solid beating.
Gripping the edge of the sink, I look at my face. How did my life boil down to my being so matter-of-fact in hiding how my husband treats me?
