Page 18 of Best Woman
Mom and Dad are fighting again.
It happens almost weekly now. Mom shuts Aiden and me into our room for the night, looking sad and distracted as she kisses our foreheads and turns on the Winnie the Pooh nightlight Aiden can’t sleep without.
She’ll tiptoe out on the soft carpet, shutting the door as lightly as possible.
I can usually hear Aiden start snoring by the time the door is closed, his soft whirring barely audible from my spot above him on our bunk bed.
Moments later, the yelling starts. They probably think that with two doors and a living room between our rooms we can’t hear them, but they’re so loud.
Not loud enough to make out all the words—although reliable phrases like “just like your mother” and “how can you say that to me” are now familiar enough to hear clearly—but the feeling behind the argument all but rattles our small house.
I know how this will go. They’ll scream for an hour. Mom will cry, Dad will go quiet. Then Mom will start yelling again, and Dad will start crying, something I used to think was impossible. The cycle will repeat a few more times until finally they go quiet.
Maybe it’s because they’re louder than normal tonight, or maybe it’s because he’s older than he was when this pattern started six months ago, but suddenly Aiden is standing on the ladder beside my bed, big brown eyes wide with tears.
“Can I sleep with you?” he asks.
I nod into the darkness, moving over to make room.
We lie together in silence listening to our parents scream at each other.
I wonder if this is the first time they’ve woken Aiden up, or if it’s happened before and he’s just lain in silence listening the same way I have.
The thought of that makes me sadder than the fighting, which at this point is so familiar I’m becoming numb to it.
“Why are they so angry,” Aiden asks, face turned away fromme.
“I dunno.”
“Do you think…” The silence stretches out for a long moment. “Is it our fault?”
Sometimes I do. Sometimes I think they’d be happier without us, if they didn’t have to take care of us and worry about having enough money and had more time to spend together.
Sometimes I can’t understand why they even wanted us if they so clearly hate each other, and how we’ve made it impossible for them to escape each other.
“No, of course not.” I draw an arm around his little body and squeeze him in tight. “It’s grown-up stuff. It has nothing to do with us.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I say, not believing it but hoping desperately that my sweet little brother does. “Now go to sleep, and don’t hog the covers.”