Page 81 of Not Another Yesterday
“Hey, I’m just looking out for you. Wouldn’t want that gorgeous, silky cock of yours to wither away from lack of usage. I only have your best interest at heart.”
“Oh, yeah, obviously. Thanks for looking out for my cock.”
“Anytime, Rony. Remember, I’m a regular Mother Teresa.”
“I almost forgot,” I say, still laughing. “Alright, Randi, I’ll let you go. I’m gonna head to my dad’s and see if he’ll help me.”
***
It’s striking how strange it feels to let myself into my dad’s house. I only moved out a few months ago, but already it doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it never did.
Even now, nearly two years after the abuse ended, I still tense whenever I pull up to the curb. I fully expect my mom’s white Camry to be parked in the driveway, to walk in on her waiting for me in the kitchen, ready to dish out punishment for some minor transgression, like sneezing or saying “hi” incorrectly.
That car, of course, is no longer around. My dad sold it a long time ago. In fact, there are essentially no traces of my mom left inside the house. He packed up all her belongings, bought all new furniture—pillows, bedding, and linens included. He even threw out that damn broom that hung on a hook in the kitchen. The surveillance the D.A. played at the trial made it obvious that my mom favored that broom as her weapon. She used it a lot there toward the end, and the day my mom changed her plea to guilty, my dad yanked it off the wall—hook and all—and bent that metal handle with brute force before marching it out to the trash can.
Still, old habits die hard. I enter the house making virtually no sound. I hang up my jacket, then take off my shoes and quietly deposit them in the shoe closet, finding a spot between my dad’s running shoes and Penny’s black pumps. I walk down the hallway, careful to avoid the spots where the floorboards creak, then turn right into the living room.
My dad’s sitting back on the sofa, working on his laptop. He’s not alone; resting against my dad’s solid chest is one of my baby halfbrothers—Dean, if I had to guess, but I’m still not great at telling the twins apart.
Like the career soldier he is, my dad catches my movement out of his periphery and turns his head in my direction. “Ran?”
“Hey, Dad.”
He narrows his eyes at me, gaze sweeping over me as if to assess my well-being as I sit on the loveseat.
“Not that I don’t love the surprise visit, but I’d be lying if I said I was expecting to see you today, bud. Are you alright?” His voice is a low, soothing hum. I know it’s for the benefit of my sleeping brother, but I can’t say it doesn’t have a calming effect on me, too.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, then nod at the baby. I figure a little small talk is a good idea before I ask my dad to take advantage of his security clearance and deep dive into my mom’s family history. “Is it nap time?”
He expels a breathy laugh. “You could say that. Dean really only sleeps well when he’s being held, which means Penny doesn’t get great sleep at night. She’s upstairs right now resting with Kellan while I’m on Dean duty. He conks right out when I have him on my chest. I get a pretty solid couple of hours of work done this way.”
I cock an eyebrow. “And Kellan doesn’t want to be held the whole time?”
“Not when he’s sleeping. Kellan’s a solid sleeper. Dean not so much. But when the boys are awake, it’s the complete opposite. Then Kellan wants to be held all the time while Dean wants to do his own thing.”
I nod, contemplating how different Kellan and Dean are, despite them being twins. “How much longer are you on leave?” My dad took advantage of the twelve-week paid paternity leave offered by the Air Force, which I imagine is coming in handy with the twins, one of whom is apparently a terrible sleeper.
He moves his laptop onto the sofa cushion. “I go back the week after the wedding.” His eyes narrow analytically again. “Alright, Ran, you haven’t stopped by in weeks now. You haven’t responded to mytexts. I literally had to hunt you down at Murphy’s a few evenings ago to assure myself you’re still breathing. There’s a reason you’re here, and that reason is not to ask me about my leave. Feel like spitting it out?”
If only he had been this discerning when my mother was still beating the shit out of me.I brace myself and exhale deeply. “Well, I kind of need your help with something.”
“Okay?” He stands, carefully moves to a motorized baby swing, and successfully transfers Dean into it without waking him. Then he retakes his seat on the sofa across from me and gives me his undivided attention, his brows raised.
“I think I want to try to find Mom’s brother.”
His eyes flare while his eyebrows knit. “Wow, Ran, that’s… why?”
“Because I need to know if it’s possible for me to break the cycle of abuse, Dad.”
It’s the most basic explanation, the most watered-down response. I practiced it on the car ride over here. Of course, it’s way more nuanced than that, but hey, baby steps.
His features soften. “Of course it is, Ran. And you will,” he says like he doesn’t harbor a single doubt. I knew he wouldn’t fucking get it. I mean, how could he? He’s never had to live in my damn head, never had to breathe with my lungs, hasn’t had to wake from those dreams, hasn’t ever had to wonder whether he’d snap one day and hurt the people he cares most about.
I rake my hands through my hair, that familiar feeling of powerlessness pricking my skin. “No, Dad, you don’t understand.”
“Okay, then explain it to me,” he says, his deep voice soft, his brown eyes warm as he studies me.
I tell myself to heed Doctor Seivert’s advice, to give my dad a chance to be my dad, to lower my walls and let him in. Not just because he’s my dad and has been making an unreciprocated effort to be a part of my life, but because he’s in the best position to help me find my long-lost uncle.
