“How many rooms do you think we’re going to have?!” I laugh, brushing a thumb over her cheek with a smile.
I will do whatever it takes to get you somewhere safe, space princess.
•
I carefully crawl out of my bed, pulling the covers up over my sleeping sister as I do. She never sleeps in here unless she needs the cuddle, so I don’t mind the tight fit. I can be here for her when she needs it.
It’s been quiet downstairs for a few hours, which means the coast is clear to assess – and fix – the damage Dad did down there. I’m almost afraid to look as I slowly move down the stairs, a few of them whining beneath my feet. They’re just as tired as we all are. My mother’s death has been a constant, heavy weight on this house; even the building is breaking down.
My feet crunch into a pile of spilled cereal as I reach the landing, grinding the sugary pieces into dust on the floor.
At least he had something to eat, I guess.
I follow the trail to the kitchen, where the box lays discarded on the floor, surrounded by – you guessed it – even more cereal. Half of the cabinets are cracked open, probably from being slammed so hard that they bounced off their panels. There are a few other bits of different foods strewn about the kitchen, and a few broken plates I have to be careful stepping around.
I make my way toward the laundry room so I can grab a broom and a dust pan, clenching my teeth together and willing myself not to get upset.
Don’t cry.
Don’t cry.
Do. Not. Cry. Over. This.
Stuff. It. Down.
Crying doesn’t change anything; I’ve known that for a long time, now.
Stuffing my feelings into a little box in the corner of my mind, I brush the crumbs and debris into a pile at the center of the room and carefully lower myself to bring it all into the dust pan. With the mess on the floor and the risky ceramic shards taken care of, I slowly shut each of the cabinets; a habit I’m not sure when I picked up, but the sound of them shutting makes my heart skip, so I try to avoid it when I can.
The living room is so much worse.
As soon as I step over the threshold, the chemical, burning smell of cheap vodka floods my nostrils, making me cough. It doesn’t take long to find the culprit – a bottle that had recently emptied itself into the carpet next to Dad’s recliner. It probably got knocked over when he got up to go to Al’s for the night.
The bottle of vodka is not alone; there is a plate of food, which looks like it could have been leftover spaghetti or something, also tipped over onto the floor. God knows how long it’s been sitting there, seeping into the carpet. I’mnever going to get the stain out, but if I don’t, I’ll never hear the end of it.
The rest of the room can wait. I hurry to grab some carpet cleaner and a handful of rags – all of the rags we have, actually – and I move back to the living room, picking up the bottle and plate and setting them onto the table next to the recliner.
The carpet cleaner goes on in a rich, thick foam that I really hope will dig itself down through the fibers and eat away at all of the filth left in there. I settle on my knees, clutching a rag in both hands as I scrub and scrub and scrub at the mess, willing it to just come clean. Even if it just leaves behind a faint stain, please, come clean.
This process goes on on repeat until I reach the last of the rags. My body is begging for a break and I’m starting to feel lightheaded from the elbow grease, but I keep scrubbing. I scrub until tears prick at the backs of my eyes and I clench my jaw as tightly as I can to keep them at bay.
“Please,” I beg the massive blood-red splotch on the floor. “Please!”
It doesn’t budge.
I fall forward, my forehead pressing against the carpet, and my tears spill over in a choking sob. I cry into the stained, foamy carpet until my throat is sore, until there are no tears left to come out.
When the front door opens, I’m still on the floor, next to my pile of used up rags and my empty can of carpet cleaner. I brace for impact as I hear Dad’s footsteps nearing the living room; he’s home from the bar early tonight, and usually that means he was told to leave. Al is an understanding guy, but his patience only goes so far.
“Why are you on the floor?”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, my hands suddenly trembling. “There was sauce and— the floor had— I tried to clean it up, Dad, I tried. I’m sorry.”
“Did I spill?” He stumbles over to me, lowering himself to the ground. I hold my breath while he studies me. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, honey,” he tells me. His insults might just pick at already-existing wounds, but his apologies tear open a brand new one, bleeding me dry every time.
“I won’t yell at you anymore,” he promises, like he always does, and he wraps his arms tightly around me, like he never does.
It won’t last through morning, I know that. But for right now, he loves me again.
