We weren’t always like this. When my mother was around, my dad would help her in the kitchen—hell, he’d even cook sometimes. He was never father of the year, but at least he wasn’t useless. Now he can’t make his own, let alone hold down a job.
There’s a loud clank as he drops the fork on his plate. I turn and see him rub roughly at his face. “Grab me a beer, will you?” he asks.
“No. It’s barely five.”
He glances at me, looking sorry for a second. But he gets up and walks across the room to snatch a beer from the nearly empty fridge. He pops the top on his Bud Light the moment he sits back down at the table.
“Daddy,” Evan yells, running into the kitchen. “Look what I made!”
Our father eyes him, taking a loud sip of his beer before answering. “Let’s see what you’ve got there,” he says quietly, holding out his hand.
Evan’s jumping up and down, his energy out of place in this small, miserable kitchen.
“A pink house,” our father says. I appreciate his attempt to sound interested.
“Uh-huh.” Evan turns around to show it to me. “Savvy wanted hers pink.”
I press my lips together and reach out to push his shoulder. “And see how good it looks?”
“Yeah.” Evan laughs.
I look at our father and find him watching Evan with the same expression he always has when he’s around him lately. A face of guilt, regret, resentment maybe—I’m not sure. But at least he knows enough to try to keep it to himself. He takes a long drink like he wishes he could drown himself in it.
“What color house do you want, Daddy?” Evan asks, stepping toward him.
“Doesn’t matter,” our father says. There’s a pain in my gut when I see Evan’s lower lip jut out.
“Make it a blue one,” I answer quickly. “Daddy’s favorite color is blue.” I have no idea what my father’s favorite color is, and I honestly don’t give a shit. But I know Evan likes blue.
“Mine too!” my brother yells, flailing out his arms. He accidentally knocks into the can of beer and topples it over.
“Damn it!” our father snaps, pushing back in his seat as beer trickles off the table and onto his jeans. “What the hell, Savannah?” he screams at me, making Evan jump. “You’re supposed to watch him!”
I ball my hands into fists.
“Come here, Evan,” I say quickly, pulling my brother toward me. But it’s too late. He’s already begun to cry. Hard. He hates loud noises, especially when they come from our dad.
“Oh great,” our father says, raising his hands in the air, his lips pulled into a sneer. “Another fantastic night.”
“Shut up,” I say, hugging Evan to me. But my brother starts struggling, crumpling his picture into a ball and throwing it to the floor. “Stop,” I whisper. But Evan digs his fingernails into my skin, and when I wince, he yanks free and runs toward the living room.
I swear and lift up the edge of my shirt to see the deep scratches along my side. They hurt, but I guess they’ll go nicely with the bruise on my back from last week’s tantrum.
The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of beer running off the table in a steady stream. I look over at my father and find him red-faced with anger.
“We can’t keep doing this,” he says.
“You’renot doing anything,” I answer. “I am.”
“If your mother was here—”
“She’s not. She left, remember?”
He narrows his eyes. “I remember, Savannah. I remember pretty goddamn clearly.”
Does he? Does he remember what it was like the morning she left? Because I do. I was the one who called around looking for her. I was the one who had to miss school to babysit Evan. And I was the one who had to tell him that she wasn’t coming back.
Evan was destroyed. I sure as hell remember that.
