too. And you are running around to the other side of the living room, slamming into the back door. Your fingers are dialing.
9-1-1.
You shove all your weight against the door, “Hello, Hello? I have an emergency…” You start to scramble away from the door, but Father grabs your arm, flips you around, and the punch sounds like it has cracked every bone in your face and you fall to the floor, the phone still in your hand.
“You little bitch, you…”
You are on your hands and knees, crawling. Blood is dripping down your nose. “My husband is beating me,” you say into the receiver.
Father pries your hand with the phone away from your face. He slams his boot down, breaking the speaker. You scream. You scream so loud that you could splinter the house into pieces. You’ve never screamed. You’ve always choked the sobs down, stayed quiet. You let the studs and floorboards be the only ones who could hear the pain. But now you are screaming and you are crawling for the front door.
I am trying to drag him away from you, but my fingers meet nothing but air.
He takes your shoulders and flips you over, and pins you to the floor underneath him. “You are mine, do you hear me? You belong in this house, you belong with me, and I would rather have you in one million fucking pieces than outside that door so you are going to calm down, shhhhhh, shhhhhh, you are going to calm down and we are going to pretend that none of this ever happened. Okay?” Father’s mouth is on your bloody lips.
You are on the floor, on your back, and he thinks he has won. But he doesn’t see the light in your eyes, the secret nestled there. You aren’t done fighting.
You bite his lip, then knee him in the groin and his hold on you is lost as you shove him away and bolt for the door. He is on your heels and grabs at your feet and he trips you with one strong arm.
You kick at him, launch to your feet, and heave your weight toward the door. The floorboards creak. He swipes again. His hand meets air.
Father is seething and scrambling to his knees.
That’s when you stumble across the threshold and the sun, stark and bright, hits your face.
That’s when you leave our house of secrets, and lies, and bruises behind.
That’s when the sirens, flashing red and blue, pull into our driveway right behind the Cadillac.
57
Father,
The police take you away.
Momma won’t lie for you anymore.
You might have wrecked our lives, but yours will burn down along with them.
And you won’t even need your lighter to do it.
58
August,
It only took a day for my body to be cremated. My ashes are in a white urn. It is too white. Too crisp and bright and new, and Momma knows it.
Momma carries a box to your house, sets it down and knocks on your door. She has a tear in her lip, a bruise on her cheek, but her back is straight and when no one answers, she knocks again.
That’s when she hears your feet pound down the stairs and sees you fling open the door. Her gaze is steady. Your chest is rising and falling—your eyes searching her face.
Momma’s sweet, honeyed voice says, “She really did have the most beautiful freckles, didn’t she?”
The words crack the dam between you, and in the span of a breath, you collide in a hug. You hold each other closer. You hold each other up.
When Momma pulls away, your eyes are red and your faces are streaked with tears.
“I have a favor to ask you,” she says.
“Anything,” you say.
Momma picks up the box she had set down and takes out each item, one by one.
My white urn.
My Sharpied shoes.
Our two old origami doves.
And my old, dried-out gold pen.
“This is how I want to remember her. This—”
“Wait, just wait one sec…” You dash back into your house and a few moments later, I see my face in stars on your canvas. “This is how I want to remember her,” you say.
Momma runs her fingers over the brushstrokes. “I knew it.” She smiles, as bright and vast as the starry night sky. “I knew you were the person who could see her. Like I do. I knew you were the person I needed.”
She picks up the urn and holds it to her chest before stretching out her arms to give it to you. “Will you paint her