Page 23 of The Story of You
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“You’re going to break it off with this boy. You’re going to put all relationships on hold until your mother is better, and I don’t ever want to hear you making her feel bad about it again.”
He finally got to the strapping. In some ways, it was a relief, but fuck did it hurt. I clawed at the sheets. The air moved as the belt came down on my naked flesh, skin quivering. My right leg wouldn’t stop shaking. I sobbed, my diaphragm heaving, as I tried to breathe through it.
When he was done, I only cared about one thing. “C-Can I see Oliver, sir?”
I didn’t move. I remained bent over the bed. Last time, I made Darius look at my ass to make sure nothing would get infected. I made him put antibiotic cream on it that Father had in the medical cupboard. I would need to do that again later.
“Oliver is in his crib. He can stay there for the night. I am his father, and I say he stays there.”
Yeah, fuck that. He might have made Oliver, but he wasn’t his father. Oliver didn’t know who he was.
Finally, he told me I could get up. “You’re grounded until morning. Do not leave this room.”
In other words, I couldn’t see Oliver. When I misbehaved, he took Oliver away.
Oliver cried through the night. It was the perfect punishment for me. He didn’t need to whip me; I was already whipped by the tiny human down the hall. Those cries began the breaking of me.
Thank God for Darius. He didn’t give a fuck about, Father. Maybe he should have. He snuck into my room in the dead of the night. I was still awake. He brought me a sandwich—ham, and cheese like I’d taught him how to make—and climbed into my side, forcing me to snuggle with him as usual. Darius is a charmer. He can make me furious enough to want to cut his head off but he’s impossible to stay mad at. Somehow, he knows how to cheer you up while berating the shit out of you.
“Oliver’s fine. He’s yowling his head off, but he’s not hurt. He just wants you. Eat this.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Fuck you, Silas. You need to eat—don’t think I haven’t noticed. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I need you, so grow up.”
Yeah, there was that. Eating had become harder. At the time, I didn’t know why. At first, it was just less at meals. Then I went till dinner without anything, telling myself this is what it’s like when you have a newborn—you’re last. You get to take care of yourself when you’re done doing things for them. I wanted Oliver to have someone who felt like that for him. I had unhealthy ideas of what being a parent meant and so I thought me grabbing a bite here and a snack there, a meal when Father got home, was normal.
But that wasn’t the real reason I didn’t make eating a priority.
“If you won’t eat for me, eat for Oliver. He needs you. Remember that.”
I ate the sandwich but not just for Oliver. For Darius too.
“Thank you, Darry. How are you?” I asked, squeezing him to me.
“I’m shitty. Mama’s going to die, isn’t she?”
“Why do you say that? Her doctor said the cancer was gone.”
“Then why is she still sick? I don’t think it’s gone.”
“It takes time for people to recover from these things. Just give her time. She’ll get better.”
“Mama might be all the way downstairs, but you don’t think she can hear Oliver at all?”
I understood. Mama wasn’t the kind to leave her baby crying all night like that. In the least, she would have told Father to get him. I nodded and kissed his head. “I’m sorry for this.” I was sorry for everything. Constantly apologizing like it was my fault.
“Not your fault, Silas. This is his fault. I hate him. I wish he were the one dying.”
I covered his mouth. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
He moved my hand. “I just did. I’m not sorry.”
And nothing I said was going to make him sorry.
“Well Mama’s not going to die, okay? We’ll get her better. Me and you. Let’s make that our focus.”
