Cheap Wine and Woodchips

The chicken nuggets simmer beneath the microwave light. I watch as candle wax drips onto the countertop in a mind-numbing descent, illuminating the kitchen in shadows. Beth perches on the head of Dad’s recliner, rocking back and forth til the sun sets and all she can see is her own reflection staring back at her. 

           The microwave beeps slicing through the news anchor on the TV.

           “Dinner!” I call. “Turn of the tv.”

           I plate the chicken, my fingers burning on melted plastic.

           We sit across from each other in our usual spots. Beth’s chin rests on the tablecloth. Neither of us mention the empty seat between us at the head of the table. Instead, she blows on her chicken and a loose glob of spit hits my nose. I lean over and stab her Tinkerbell fork through the center of a nugget, slicing quarters, puffing out the steam.

           “You’ve only got two. I’ve got four.” She counts.

           “How much is two and four?” I swallow a rubbery bite.

           She sticks up one finger, two, mumbling numbers beneath her breath.

           “Six.”

           “Very good.”

           “Why don’t you eat four?”

           “We had to share, silly.”

           “Will you be hungry?”

           “No.” I wink. “Do you know why?”

           She shakes her head and the curls I’d gelled back that morning bounce on her shoulder blades.

           “Because” I lean forward, “I’m gonna eat a little girl’s nose.”

           Before Beth can think on my words, I pinch the bridge of her nose and pretend to chew on it with my teeth. 

           “Yum… your boogers are so flavorful.” I laugh as her eyes widen and she touches the bump on her nose.

           “You didn’t get the best part.” She giggles.

           “What’s that?”

           “The crooked piece Daddy gave me.”

I frown remembering that gift all too well. It’d been winter. A snowy day. The schools, the factories, even JPs had locked their doors to the storm. Making matters worse the power in our building kept flickering in and out like a kid playing with a light switch. Worried about the groceries spoiling, my mom and I sealed the fridge shut with duct tape.

With all four of us cooped up in that tiny apartment, the heater on the fritz, and Dad’s beer in a pseudo-state of lockdown you could feel the tension brewing, a mixture of hangover sweat and ashy icicles leaking through the windowpanes.

I kept to my bedroom. Beth on my heels.

“Do you want to play?” She poked my hip in the same spot she always did. One of my old baby dolls hung in her hand by its leg.

“I’m doing homework. We can play later.”

I’d actually been writing a story in my journal. I’d started writing in secret the summer before. Despite a love for reading that bordered on obsession, I hadn’t thought of writing stories of my own until Ms. Sparrow demanded to read work that didn’t exist. When I told her I wasn’t a writer, she’d told me I didn’t know what I was. A few days later, she stuffed my paycheck in an empty journal, and I took the hint.

I realized rather quickly I was not to be a winner of the Pulitzer. Yet as I marked empty pages with pencil shavings, erasing and rewording, something warm hugged the curves of my mind at seeing my thoughts fill up blank space. It was proof I existed outside the confines of these four walls… that if I were to break those bindings… something tangible would exist beneath it all… wholly mine.

Beth got bored of looking over my shoulder. Used to the tickle of her breath in my ear, I didn’t notice her disappearance until the harsh pierce of his shouts took their place.

In the kitchen, duct tape littered the floor in tatters. The fridge door had been cracked open wide enough for a skinny arm to squeeze through and snatch a pop tart.

The scent of fructose corn syrup and strawberry lingered turning my stomach over and over until I found Beth in the family room alone. Her knees were tucked into her chest and as I knelt to inspect the blood gushing from her nose, she rocked back and forth, into me and away again.

“He’s gone.” I pinched her nose with the sleeve of my sweater.

“Momma too.” She wrapped her legs around my waist, and I lifted us up.

She rested her chin on my shoulder and as her blood leaked down my back, I berated myself for leaving her behind.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have ignored you.” I murmured. “Show me your nose.”

On the kitchen counter, she sat, swinging her legs, drumming the cabinets with the backs of her heels. If I focused solely on the beat, I could pretend the dark maroon trickling down her chin was just leftover batter licked clean from a bowl of box-baked brownies.

Not blood from the swing of his fist.

She dropped her hands from her face, and I winced. Already black and blue circles had formed under her eyes.

I soaked a rag in his vodka and blotted spots around the fracture leaving the swollen and crooked bridge for last.

“This is gonna hurt. Squeeze my hand.”

Beth grabbed hold of my right hand and together we counted down from three. Before she could reach one, I plunged the bunched-up towel into the center of the wound. Her wails drowned out the sound of my spiraling thoughts until all I could hear was her hurt echoing through my ears down into the marrow of my bones.

“Stop.” She ripped the rag from my grasp.

“We need to ice it.”

She clenched her jigsaw teeth tight and chucked the bloodied towel onto the ground. Wiggling down from the counter, she bolted to our room. Before I could catch up, she’d locked the door.

“Beth. Open up.” I banged against the wood.

I could see her toes. Chipped nail polish, the same shade of pink as mine, taunted me as frozen peas numbed my palms.

“Come on. Let me ice your nose and we can stay up past bedtime and I’ll read you whatever you want.”

“Frog and Toad?”

           “Yes.”

           “The whole thing?”

           “Yes.”

           A tick and a creak later, owl eyes peeked through a slice of space.

           “With the voices?”

           “Yes.” I rolled my eyes. “Now open the door all the way.”

           After promising breakfast at JPs with Maia and a chocolate bar from the corner store on the way home from school, I got the peas plastered to her face.

           I was brushing Beth’s hair, glaring at the setting sun, when I heard it. The jangle of her keys and the low timbre of his voice.

           “Get under the covers.” I pulled back the quilt.

           Beth’s head hit the pillow. Her knotty curls veiled the bandage I’d wrapped around her nose. I stayed still until she shut her eyes and steadied her breath.

           I found them, hanging up their coats, wet with melting ice, on the metal hooks the last renters left behind. The mascara smudged beneath my mom’s bottom eyelashes and the lack of liquor on my dad’s breath spoke of their guilt.

           “Where’s your sister?” He asked in his voice reserved for forgiveness.

           “Asleep.” I lied, blocking the narrow hall.

           “Do you think I can give her a kiss goodnight?”

           From behind his shoulder, my mom’s silent begs broke through my resolve.

           “Fine.”

I led them down the hall and into our bedroom. He leaned into her to smell the spearmint in her hair and I hovered close. So close that I could see his shoulders tense when the vodka hit his nose instead. Still, he brushed his lips to her temple and whispered a soft apology.

Like a traitor, Beth blinked and sat up with the energy of a kid wide awake. She shot him a toothy smile and the bandage covering her nose crinkled pointing out the strangeness of the movement the rest of us were too gutless to call out.

“Frog and Toad?” She turned her smile on me.

“What’s that, Bee?” He asked.

“A book,” I said.

“I can read it to you.” He said.

Before I could argue, he had his phone in his hand and was typing the title into google. I frowned at the messages popping up at the top of his screen all from unknown numbers.

“She likes the paperback,” I said, frowning further when he slipped his phone back into his jean pocket and crouched down to the last row of our bookshelf.

           Beth’s smile grew wider, the bandage nearly falling off.

           “And voices. There are certain voices.” I stammered when he took my spot on the bed.

           My mom lay on the other side of Beth, running the comb I’d discarded through her already-brushed hair. He cracked the spine and Beth leaned her head into the crook of his arm. Only I could feel the tenseness she fought to free. I perched on the edge of the bed and listened to him butcher the characters I’d raised her to love. She giggled and helped him flip the pages.

           “Do you know how much I love you two?” He closed the book, directing the question at Beth.

           She stretched out her arms as wide as she could and for a moment I saw my limbs, a shade darker than hers, growing and aging under the pressure of his love.

           “I love you this much.” He stood up and extended his long arms, triple the width of ours.

           I fell asleep that night dreaming of Icarus, of his father, and of the sun.