Page 16 of I Hear You

“No unwanted visitors at home?”

He’s wanting to know if my dad’s tried to come back. He has not.

“Well, I’m sitting here and not in jail. That should tell you that no, my dad has not tried to come back home.”

Officer Gatlin doesn’t find this response as amusing as I do.

“Look, kid, you’ve got six months left. Just six months and this can all be behind you. We both know you got the short end of the shit stick. But when your dad grew up in this town and played college ball with Judge Thompson, well–people don’t want to believe the people they know and trust are capable of the shit your dad was.”

The shit my dad was capable of, was giving my mom a black eye and breaking two of her ribs. That’s what has me sitting in front of Officer Gatlin.

Dad was never a warm and fuzzy father or husband. I have memories of him talking down to my mom since I was a kid. Little digs like insulting her cooking or making her second guess her outfit choices, but he never hit her. At least I didn’t think he did. I just thought he was an asshole and my mom stayed with him for me.

As I got a little older, he took his anger out on both of us from time to time. Most of his anger toward me was when I wasn’t doing well enough on the football field or wasn’t getting the grades he wanted me to get. With Mom, his anger was because she didn’t have dinner waiting for him when he got home, even though she herself was working ten-hour shifts at the hospital. Or he’d accuse her of flirting with one of his friends or spending too much money going shopping with Emmett’s mom.

A few years ago, she stopped going out with her friends altogether and only worked four-hour shifts so she could be home enough to keep the house spotless and have dinner ready for him. It helped for a little while, but then I noticed he was finding new things to get angry at her for. She wasn’t wearing enough makeup, or she was wearing too much. Dinner was too hot, or it was too cold. He’d grab her arm or throw things, but I never saw him hit her. Not until that night.

“I know, Officer Grissom. Promise, he hasn’t shown up. Hasn’t even called.”

“Alright kid, well, get out of here. Practice is at three, right?”

“Yeah, I’m heading straight there after this.”

Officer Grissom shakes my hand and I head out to my truck.

On my drive to practice, I’m white knuckling the steering wheel. Every time I go to one of these check-ins, Dad gets brought up and I hate it. And when Grissom brings up Dad, it brings up memories of that night. Memories of coming into the house and hearing the loud crack and thinking someone dropped something–only to find out it was the sound of my dad’s fist connecting with my mom’s face. When I turned the corner of the entryway into the living room, I was in complete shock. The first thing I saw was his fist going full force and full speed to her stomach. I didn’t react right away because I was honestly just soconfused. I thought I was dreaming or my eyes were playing tricks on me.

By the time he’d hit her again, she’d crumpled to the floor, and I’d already picked up the trophy.

Football practice today is freaking boring. The team has been on the field for an hour and spent half of that time just standing around. Jesse and Emmett used the past twenty minutes to argue about whether Xbox or PlayStation is the superior game console. I’m about to intervene and tell them they’re both idiots.

Jesse is my oldest friend. I would trust him with my life, but Emmett and I have a different kind of friendship. He’s a tight end on the team, which meansmy safetyis often in his hands. There’s a trust I have to bestow on him unlike anyone else. He’s also shown up for me off the field in ways no one else has. I should tell him how grateful I am for him, but he’ll probably just tell me I’m messing with his bad boy persona. He’s got a reputation to protect and all that shit.

Coach eventually sees nothing else is going to get accomplished today and releases us for the day. We all start gathering our bags from the sidelines and head to the parking lot. The school just received a donation to remodel the locker rooms and they won’t be ready for another 2 weeks. I can’t say for sure, but I’m almost certain theanonymousdonation came from Caleb’s parents. Pretty sure the guy thinks he can buy his way into a starting position.

“Hey, need a ride?” I ask Jesse when I’m almost to my truck.

“Nah, Emmett’s gonna drop me off.”

“Alright, later.” I bump Jesse’s fist and give a small wave to Emmett as they get into Emmett’s car.

Emmett’s parents tried to buy Jesse a car as a graduation gift, but Jesse refused. He was grateful for the gesture but said he wanted to prove to himself he could save up and buy a car on his own. Last we talked about it, he was only a few months off from being able to afford one. He keeps making jokes about buying a Mini Cooper. Jesse is six foot four, and over two hundred and fifty pounds. I stopped giving him shit about it because at this point I hope he does buy the tiny car because it will be hilarious.

Mom and Dad gave me my truck for my sixteenth birthday. It was actually my grandpa’s before it was mine. A pale blue, beautifully maintained and updated, 1963 Chevy. I didn’t know this until recently, but Mom used to drive the truck when she first met my dad. One of the first things he did after they got married was buy her a Lexus. Apparently, it was a gift from Dad after one of their more tumultuous fights. The truck was never driven again and sat covered in storage until she convinced my dad to let me have it.

It makes me pissed off, but mostly sad, to know they were fighting and Dad was manipulating her for that long. Over the past year, Mom has shared some of her secrets with me. Some she had no choice but to share when they came out in court, others have come out in our monthly family therapy sessions, and a few get slipped into random dinner conversations. She doesn’t say these things to make me angry or sad, or to make me hate my father even more. Then again, I don’t think it’s even possible to hate that man more. She tells me because she feels guilty, I think. I suspect it’s her way of trying to help heal our relationship.

She feels guilt and shame for not speaking up sooner. She feels guilt and shame for not pressing charges against him, even when it could have helped my case. I’m not angry at her. I couldn’t be because I have no clue what it was like for her. To hide her reality from everyone; her friends and even her own son. I know she thought she was just protecting me all these years.

At least Mom and I have both stopped waiting on apologies from a man who thinks he’s done no wrong. A man who is such a coward, he left town and never looked back. Dad packed two suitcases of shit, jumped in his car and hightailed it to Florida. One of his old college buddies lives there.

Mom probably did the right thing, not telling me. Because who knows, maybe if I would have found out about the abuse earlier, I wouldn’t have had enough self-control to stop before actually killing him. Or maybe if I found out about it when I was too young, I wouldn’t have had the physical strength to almost kill him. Neither of those scenarios sits right with me. Nothing about this situation sits right with me. But it happened–and it’s my reality, my past. I’m working to overcome it. I just hope I overcome it before it overcomes me.

Chapter seven

Madison

Myshiftisdraggingon, and it’s been a slow day. Thanks to a few regulars, the tips are still great. I’ve been working at the diner now for a little over three weeks. It’s been just as great as I suspected it would be. Joy is an incredible boss, always willing to work with my class schedule. She even checks in with me to make sure I’m getting enough time to study and do homework. I think she can sense I don’t exactly have any type of parent figure looking out for me, even though I haven't shared any details with her about my situation. She’s careful not to ask too many questions about life back home. I appreciate her keen sense of awareness.

---