Page 14 of The Story of You

Father wouldn’t look at him.

That morning, I had too much to do to carry him around, and the pain from the whipping I’d endured exhausted me. I promised myself I’d spend all the time in the world with him later. First, I would wash his clothes and put some bottles together. There were dishes in the sink I hadn’t done the night before. There was Mama and Father’s washing to deal with. Darius was going to have to learn to help me wash some clothes too if I was ever going to get it all done.

“He asleep?” Father said, looking at me and not Oliver.

“Yeah. You wanna hold him for a bit while I clean up?” I did try.

“No. Put him down. You hold him too much. This place is a mess. And I need to talk to you.”

A pit formed in my stomach. I was letting Father down. I wasn’t doing enough—how did Mother do this? Whatever he was going to talk to me about wouldn’t be good.

I met him in the kitchen and leaned against the counter near the sink. The yellow-orange sun poured into the window. He stared at me. It was the first time I got the sensation that I wanted to cover myself up. It was the eighties and as many teenagers my age did, I had a drawer full of crop tops. That day I wore my neon green one and a pair of joggers that were soft on my ass. I’d chopped my long hair to my shoulders because it was easier with a baby and had it tied back. A few strands fell over my face.

“You look like she did, you know,” he said. “Like your mother.”

“I look like shedoes, Father.” It was like she’d already died.

“Yes. You know what I mean. She doesn’t sparkle like she used to. You still do.”

I didn’t like the way he looked at me. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

He moved closer. He brushed the errant strands from my face, his fingers lingering too long. A shiver went down my spine—not the good kind like I get when I’m with Lakshan. “Did you mean it when you said you forgave me?”

“I did. Don’t worry about it. I know you’re stressed. The last thing you need is our bickering.”

He nodded. “Good. But I still think that I should make it up to you.”

The way he said it set off all my internal alarm bells. Ones I didn’t know I had. But at that moment, all I could see were the dishes still on the table from dinner. Baby paraphernalia strewn about the living room. Darius’s shit everywhere. Father’s shit everywhere. The floors were filthy. The bed linen hadn’t been changed in who knows when. I remembered all the laundry and the vacuuming that never got done. The families of silverfish had moved in and crawled over everything. Then there was Mama’s room which I tried to keep up with the most, but it was still a disaster and the guilt plagued me.

“I know you don’t want anyone here, getting in our business but could I please get some help? Maybe we could hire someone to help me clean.” I knew we could afford it.

Father was charming as fuck. It’s where Darius got it from. That and his cleverness and good looks. He smiled at me, and the sun got brighter. He laughed and the world healed. “We can do that, but we have to be careful. I don’t want any questions asked. You’ll still look after your mother’s room—the cleaning staff won’t go in there at all—and when they ask why you’re home, we’ll tell them you’re homeschooled.”

It didn’t end up being a lie. I had to put myself through homeschooling starting the September after Oliver was born.

“Yes, sir. I promise.” I never asked why we had to lie. It all made sense. We were a private family. Father was a high-priority surgeon with a reputation to keep.

“This doesn’t mean you can slack off. Oliver is still your responsibility. I don’t want whomever we hire touching him.”

“No, sir. Only me.”

“Good. And if you want to keep a privilege like this, you need to behave. You also need to do a better job of keeping Darius in line.”

I was so close to getting the help I needed and so tired—I hadn’t slept a full night since I’d become a pseudo-father—I would have promised him the moon to get a scrap of relief. “I can do all that, sir.”

“Good boy.”

I might not have a submissive personality but that didn’t stop fifteen-year-old me from lighting up inside and out at the praise from my father. My hero.

He pushed the hair off my face again, this time curling it behind my ear. The tingles came. They weren’t good but they were so much better than what I had been feeling, knowing that I was going to get some relief after months of hell that I closed my eyes and let them wash over me.It’s not the end of the world,I told myself.Things will go back to normal, and he’ll go back to normal.This would be a small blip in time of weird shit.

“I have to go to work. I’ll find someone suitable by the end of the week.”

Thank fuck Oliver woke up and I could distract myself from whatever the fuck that was.

* * *

Silas