Page 35 of The Way We Are

“Stop, stop, please, stop,” my mom begs from the sidelines, her voice barely heard over my pulse raging in my ears.

I assume she's pleading for us both to stop.

Unfortunately, that isn’t the case.

She doesn’t care who she is defending him to, her excuses never wane.

"Ryan, stop! This isn't your father's fault. I should have listened to him. I'm sorry, Ted. I'm so sorry."

After fighting out of Damon’s hold, she crawls across the bleach she spilled during his assault. She eyes me like I am an animal, like I am the one responsible for the mark under her eye a heavy coat of makeup can’t hide. She glares at me like she hates me.

Only now do I realize I’m not knocking sense into my dad just for her and the millions of women who don’t know any better. I’m doing it for me as well. I didn’t ask to be born into a family disgraced by domestic violence. I didn’t ask to become my mother’s protector when I was only eight. I’m tired of being forced to choose between my mom’s sanity and my own. I want it to stop. Ineedit to stop.

Fear unlike anything I’ve ever felt floods me when my mom throws herself on top of my dad’s body, protecting him as he should have protected her the past twenty years. Time stands still as my greatest nightmare plays out before my eyes. My fists approach my mom’s back at a faster speed than I can rein in.

I’m about to become my father.

Pain rockets up my arm when my fists slam into the wooden surface mere millimeters from my mother’s back. Clutching my bloody hands to my chest, I scamper away, frightened beyond belief. Although I’m one hundred percent certain I didn’t strike my mom, my eyes still scan every inch of her body.

Convinced she's unharmed, I raise my hands into the air to ensure none of the blood oozing from my shuddering frame belongs to her. It's an utterly ridiculous notion believing I can decipher one person’s blood from another, but I do it anyway, fearful my eyes didn’t register the whole picture.

I continue staring at my hands for what is only minutes but feels like hours, only stopping when they are pulled behind my back and cuffed by one of my father’s colleagues.

13

Ryan

“Is that true?” Regina, the pretty African American detective who’s been interviewing me the past hour, adjusts her position, blocking my mom’s pleading eyes from mine. “Were you involved in a domestic incident with your father because you weren’t happy at his request for you to do your laundry?”

I drop my eyes to my knuckle-busted hands, fighting to hide the disbelieving chuckle rolling up my chest.Is that the best he could come up with? A rebellious teen refusing to do his chores?I thought my dad was smart. Clearly, alcohol isn’t just altering his looks.

Not content to accept my noiseless chuckle as an answer to her question, Regina pulls out the dining chair next to me then takes a seat. Since my dad is a "respected member of law enforcement," his request for our interviews to be conducted in-house were granted within thirty seconds of him demanding it.

He has spent the last hour sitting in the den with three of his colleagues, laughing about the length fathers must go to "keep their sons in line these days."

If I weren't being subjected to my mother’s silent pleas for calm, his left eye would have a shiner identical to the one circling his right eye.

I stop glaring at my dad when Regina’s arm brushes mine. With her eyes focused on a witness statement sprawled across the dining room table, no one is aware of the attention she is focusing on me. No one but me.

Her acting skills are so top-shelf, I'd even believe she's merely filling in paperwork if I didn't hear her whisper, "Forget who your father is, Ryan. His position holds no importance in my investigation. Just tell the truth. What happened today?"

Her voice is so low, the scratching of pen on paper nearly drowns it out, but it isn't low enough for my mom not to hear.

"Coffee?" she asks, jingling a half-empty pot of coffee in Regina’s face. She keeps her head tilted to the left to ensure her hair falls far enough in her face that Regina won't see the bruise under her right eye.

"No, thank you," Regina replies without pause, impressing me further with her natural performance. "Although, I would love a glass of lemonade. If you have any?"

My mom startles for a second before following Regina’s gaze to the kitchen. Regina is smarter than I first gave her credit for. The kitchen is only four feet from where we are standing, but far enough away my mom won’t be in earshot of our conversation.

“I’m sorry, I’m all out of lemonade,” my mom says, her voice as sugary as the drink I can see on the kitchen counter as clear as day. “You know what teenage boys are like.”

Regina pouts. “It’s probably for the best. I don’t need any more calories.” She licks her dry lips before quirking her brow. “Perhaps I could have a glass of water? You’re not out of water, are you?”

The color drains from my mom’s face. “Water... Ah... Sure. I can get you some water.” She issues me one last plea before racing into the kitchen, her steps so fast they are almost a jog.

The instant my mom is out of earshot, Regina whispers, “You can trust me, Ryan. I am here to help.”

Pretending I didn’t hear her worthless pledge, my slit gaze strays to my father. Although he appears deep in conversation with his partner of fifteen years, I can feel his eyes on me. One wrong move and punishment will follow. There's just one problem: the wrath of his anger won’t be inflicted on me. It will be on my mother, who is so infatuated with a man she once knew, she can’t see her children’s pain.

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