Page 41 of Stupid Dirty

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as I take the turn that leads into town, getting closer and closer to my house.

I don’t have a lot of memories from Dad back then. It was only Mom. I don’t think I went to school very often, either. Everything I remember is this long, hazy existence of the two of us in the house. Mom hated the bright sunlight, so she always kept the curtains drawn. She slept erratically, so I slept erratically, and days didn’t pass the same way they do now. It was like we were suspended in time. Or maybe suspended just outside of time, hanging there, while the rest of the world continued their onward march in peace.

Being the center of her world was nice. I liked it, most of the time. But her anxiety was also our constant companion, and often competed for her attention. I think things got worse as I got older. I remember her crying a lot, and nervously pulling at her long, blond hair until chunks of it were scattered around the house.

One of my earliest memories of Dad is when he came home from a race and noticed that I’d picked up the same habit. I’d started pulling out my hair when I got anxious, copying her. He was horrified. He yelled at her for a long time.

Then he shaved my head to break the habit. The feeling of his strong fingers digging into my skull to hold me still will be etched in my brain forever.

As I pull into my driveway, I realize that I’ve gotten so lost in the memory that I’m doing it now. I haven’t worried about haircuts since my life imploded, and Dad has clearly been too preoccupied to think about it. My hair is still short, but longer than it’s ever been since that first day he buzzed it off.

My fingers figured that out with no conscious effort on my part, resurrecting a habit I thought was long dead and buried. But the sting of my scalp as I tug at the strands feels good. It’s grounding. It helps me claw my way out of this memory and back into the present.

I can worry about what that means some other time. Right now, I need to go inside. And Dad’s truck is in the garage, so that confrontation really is coming.

I’m an adult. You can’t control me. I don’t owe you anything. I’m going to stay with Cade and people who care about me.

It runs through my head on a loop as I walk inside, pretending my hands aren’t shaking.

It’s not my fault she’s dead.

By the time I get to the living room, I’m so flush with adrenaline that I feel like a bag of bees with a hollow chest. Iexpect to find him on the couch watching old race footage, as usual. Or maybe on the computer researching another one of his get-rich-quick ‘investment’ schemes.

If Cade can stand up to his father who hits him, I can stand up to the man who only ever attacks me with words. This will be good. This has been a long time coming.

But when I find Dad on the couch, fast asleep next to an empty bottle of whiskey, I’m not disappointed. I’m relieved. It makes me feel like a coward, but it’s true. I don’t know how, but Dad’s always had this way of making everything seem so rational, like he’s so right that it’s all a foregone conclusion, and anyone who disagrees with him is acting crazy.

I was half-afraid that when I got here, he wouldn’t get mad. He’d just tell me it wasn’t happening, and I’d believe him. I can never trust my own mind when I’m around him.

Embracing the relief, I slink upstairs to pack my stuff. He doesn’t wake up the entire time, and he’s still snoring as I leave.

I can confront him whenever I get back. Right now, getting back to Cade is more important.

I’m not a coward. I just don’t trust myself to know better.

Chapter Seventeen

After the weekend I had, having the girls back in school and me being back at work feels blissfully normal.

It’s pretty standard for an ambulance to be staffed with one paramedic and one EMT. Tristan spent years putting soldiers back together in active combat zones (he won’t tell me where, I asked once; it did not go well). He went back to school afterwards for his paramedic license and practiced in the not-great part of Boston that spawned him and then gave up all that high-octane trauma medicine to come to Possum Hollow and narcan junkies behind dumpsters for a living. Because, according to him, “Trees are nice and possums are badass.”

We’ve been friends for a year, and that’s the sum total of biographical information I have on him. He’s fucking cagey. But it’s enough to know that he is the first, last and only person around here you want if there’s a legitimate emergency.

Which makes me his bitch. I mean EMT. That’s why right now he is sitting comfortably, counting back our drugs, while I’m scrubbing vomit out of the paneling. I’ve been doing this for sixmonths though, after only four months of school, but I’ve been cleaning up junkie vomit since I was old enough to hold a sponge—thanks, Mom. This is an appropriate use of our respective skill sets.

Still sucks, though.

I distract myself by counting down the hours until our shift is over. It’s been a very slow, very boring day and I’m ready to bounce. In the macro sense, I’m happy the people of this county aren’t having severe medical emergencies, but I am not a fan of sitting still.

At least Silas is home today. Knowing he’s there to watch the girls and keep them safe is such a fucking weight off my chest. It’s like I didn’t realize how heavy it was until Silas showed up and took it off me. It feels incredible.

It’s not just that, though. Home has always been complicated for me. I love being with my sisters, and I wouldn’t leave them for the world, but sometimes I think the threads of love and guilt and worry are all so knotted up that I’ll never be able to untie them. Anytime I’m home, it’s like I’m experiencing all those emotions at the same time. Dialed up to their maximum setting.

After all the chaos on Saturday and Mom bailing on us again, Silas was justthere. He took us up to Franklin, and it barely took any time at all for the ghost of Dad’s violence to fade into the past. We were normal people, eating greasy burgers and buying cheap school supplies. It felt like normal family shit.

Even when Mom showed up two days later—blitzed out of her mind and dragging the memory of misery with her before she disappeared again—it was easier to stay calm because Silas was there. He always has my back. It feels like we’re a team.

I’ve been a team of me, myself and I since birth and I gotta say, this new way is pretty fucking cool.

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