Page 52 of Off-Limits

“I’m - I’m so sorry,” she whispers into my shoulder, and I hold her while we both cry.

After a few seconds, she pulls away and smiles at me, and I can’t help noticing the discolouration of her teeth and the dark rings under her eyes. It makes me sad seeing her like this, but when you were sexually assaulted by your father for years, tried to take your life multiple times, only to fail and have to relive the nightmare day in and day out, it is a wonder she lasted this long.

I remember my Uncle Vito speaking of a time he came home from school, to find her lying on the couch, her body contorting, her mouth foaming, because of the pills she’d ingested.

It’s kind of ironic and sad that he was the one to find her, because when I was six, my mother received a call from the cops to come down to the local flats he was living in, because they needed to talk to her about Uncle Vito. She thought she could talk some sense into him, alas, he was lying cold in the back of the paddy wagon; he had hung himself from a tree after a fight he’d had with his then girlfriend, Winfred.

He didn’t do it the traditional way, no, he did it the way they used to asphyxiate themselves as teenagers until they passed out. He tied the rope to the tree, and then placed the noose around his neck, before leaning forward and allowing the rope to tighten.

I shake the terrible memory away. I never liked that bitch, Winfred.

A piece of my mother died with Uncle Vito. He was the only one who stood up for her, and he copped a beating beyond measure each time as well.

All these memories float through my mind as I stand there at the front door, but one speaks the loudest. A time of my mother telling me once when she was drunk and high as a kite, she wanted to take Aunty Kerry-Anne to the roller derby with her, and my grandfather had told her that if she didn’t fuck him in the back of the car before she left, then he would take it out on Kerry. My mother sacrificed herself a little more that night, always trying to save her sister, and actually managing too as well. He never touched my aunty, only my mother, and I’m only glad he’s rotting in the ground somewhere and no longing roaming this earth.

So, I guess when you’ve lived a life like my mother, you find ways to cope with your trauma.

For her, that was drugs and alcohol, and my father.

“Come in. Your father is in the backroom watching T.V.”

“Is he in a better mood?”

She smiles sadly at me. “He isn’t too bad, bub. Just a rough day when you came over last week. He’s only just found out he’s sick, so he’s taking it hard,” she lies easily, protecting him.

Nodding back, she guides me inside, and when the door slams behind us, I jolt. Swallowing the saliva collecting in my mouth, I walk along the weathered floorboards and into the kitchen to find a pot of spaghetti sauce simmering away.

It’s amazing how one thing can elicit so many memories, both good and bad. Cooking was always big in our household, well, when we had money that was.

I push the memories to the back of my mind and find my father’s hazel eyes on me. They widen briefly before returning to normal, and then he gives me a rare, genuine smile.

“Dottie, you came back.”

“Hey dad…” I let the words linger and pull my walls higher to protect myself.

See the thing with my father is, he can flick hisswitches in the blink of an eye. One minute he’s cheery and happy, the next he is a raging asshole with a God complex and hard-on to make everyone’s life a living misery.

“Come and sit next to your pops and tell me everything that has been happening.”

Mum smiles at me and tilts her head.

“Go on, bub. I’ll put the pasta on, so we can eat.”

Smiling back, I grab a seat next to my father. He has a hopeful look in his eyes, but there is fear as well. He’s always been afraid of death, and I remember when he thought he was sick when I was nine, and he started smoking heroin because of it.

He wasn’t sick. He just wanted a reason to continue his addiction, so I guess that’s why I’ve always questioned their authenticity and honesty.

For the next hour, I tell my parents what I’ve been up to and eat with them. Dad sips on a beer, as does my mum, and I wonder why he’s still drinking.

“Are you moving back?” my dad asks, drawing me away from my thoughts.

I hesitate a moment before answering.

“Nah, dad, I’m just here to help Arrie, and I wanted to see you both.”

I see the tick in his jaw through his grey growth, but he simply nods his head and looks to my mother. Something passes between them.

“Look, Dottie, I hate to ask… but we are a little hard up now, with the medical bills and all, I was wondering if you could lend us a little bit of money? I’ll pay you back as soon as the insurance clears.”