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The men began to chat excitedly again, the smell of pot now filling the air.
"Hey!" my mom cried, calling to them. "I'm almost done in here!"
"It'll just make us hungrier for that shit you're cooking," my father grumbled and the men laughed again.
She glared at the wall between the back room and the kitchen, staring silent daggers at my father.
She'd heard him.
Of course she did. She might pretend that she was deaf but she could hear just fine. She knew exactly what was going on in this house.
My emotions threatened to boil over. I opened the fridge, took in the rows of fresh food. Fucking full.
Everything was replaced more than once a week, including our pantry and the chest freezer in the garage.
A quart of milk and a jar of mayonnaise.
A flash of yellow, sixties-style carpet, fists gripping and pounding. A howl of pain.
Rage boiling over, I grabbed a bottled water––glass. Four dollars each, and there were twelve of them, replaced every few days.
The scrape of a spatula, the sizzle of grease. Laughter. Burning expensive leaves. Champagne.
A soft, feminine moan.
How Rook had looked up at me with that damn hope in his eyes. He thought I could fix it.
Somehow bring her back to life.
Then he'd scrambled to his feet, giving his nana CPR. His attempts clumsy and all wrong.
He had no fucking idea what he was doing.
Had no fucking idea that she wasnevercoming back––my father had made sure of that.
Had no idea that the lawyers my father would send him would make sure that Rook would sign away his legacy, the one thing they wanted from him that his Nana was blocking.
I'd stood there and watched as he counted and breathed, pressed his fists to her lifeless chest, trying to squeeze some life into her again.
Desperate. Frantic.Hopeful.
And then, when he wasn't giving up and I couldn't take it any longer, couldn't hold back the dam of self-hatred inside me, I'd called the police, insisting that we leave the room.
He was inconsolable, tears and snot running down his face.
He'd held me and I'd let him.
I'd let him holdme, the bastard partly responsible for her death.
I'd stood there, wordlessly, as he cried against my chest, wishing a hole would appear, that the room would swallow me up.
I didn't open my mouth to reveal the truth. Didn't say a single world of comfort. Just let him hold me and cry.
But now, as I unscrewed the top of my water, everything threatened to boil over. I took in several hitching breaths, hiding behind the fridge door.
Grease sizzled on the stove top. More laughter from the back room. Rooksobbing.
I wanted to cry and scream and shout. To throw everything to the floor and beat the damn refrigerator to a pulp.