It’s past midnight, long past it, and I’m standing in the kitchen drinking some water to take an aspirin before I finish up on some of my notes from school all week. I have my one full day I do monthly at the shelter tomorrow as it’s Saturday, so I want all my homework to be up to date because I’ll be too tired later. Sunday, I have plans with Elisa for a much-needed break.
After listening to them fight again, I’m hiding away from my parents in their room. I heard the name Dane so many times I wanted to rip my ears off and came down here to escape it instead. It sounded bad this time.
My mom was yelling like a banshee, which she rarely does, and Bryan was reacting to it, which he never does. He’s such a solid, push-over guy that he normally lets my mom vent and takes it, but I could hear him shouting back. Defending his idiot son and all his shitty behaviors.
Over the past few months, it’s become a regular occurrence. It’s like it builds up: my mom finds fault in everything that Dane does, and Bryan’s lack of controlling him gets attacked. She curses and yells and storms around, throwing ultimatums, and then breaks down sobbing about the mess of our home life since he came to stay. I heard London about six times, too, and know my mom is pushing to send Dane back to his mother, which, despite how we are, I don’t want to happen.
I can’t even explain why.
I don’t understand it myself, only that whenever I hear it, I instantly feel sick and anxious and worry she might actually send him away.
Dane’s still not home. After taking off from school after our last class, there has been neither sign nor word from him, and his cell is off. I know because I have tried calling and texting him fifty times since ten when his curfew ran out. Nothing but his voicemail, and I don’t have Tyler’s number either. Another reason tonight’s fight erupted.
This isn’t the first time.
“Why are you still up?” My mom’s strained voice pulls me out of my head and draws my attention to her as she walks in wearing a pink silk robe. Her face is clear of makeup, and her hair is brushed out and silky despite sounding like she was at war twenty minutes ago. I guess she is finally done.
Even in the dim light, I can see she has dark circles of fatigue, and her mouth is pinched and tight as though she’s internally brewing a storm. Her entire aura says, ‘Don’t talk to me,’ so I know it’s best to stay quiet like I never heard a thing and don’t ask. My mom never confides in me anyway.
“Headache. I came for some aspirin…. I’m going up in a second.” I smile emptily when she walks over and gives me a perfunctory peck on the cheek. A normal mom thing for her to do whenever she encounters me in the house before bed. Pretty much the only form of physical affection she has ever dished out in the entirety of my life. My mom is a talker who believes in conversation over cuddles. She’s not an overly affectionate or demonstrative person with anyone.
“Don’t stay up too late. I know what you’re like for burning the candle at both ends. Get a good rest. You have work tomorrow.” She heads for the door to the cellar, dismissing me, and I frown as I watch her disappear inside, knowing the only thing we keep down there is wine.
“I know, I’m going up,” I call after her but get no response.
My mom doesn’t normally need a drink at almost one am, but I guess this fight had to be worse than the last few. I can’t stand and watch it because I’ll get mad and upset and not sleep tonight. Churning up a million insecure feelings and sickly emotions because I need my second family to stay together for my own sanity.
I pick up my glass and leave to pad into the hall and upstairs, stopping for a second on the mini landing before the stair curve and peering into our drive. Dane’s spot for his motorbike sits empty between my jeep and my mom's Porsche, and I am flooded with a heaviness that pushes my headache to throb harder.
Sighing, I let the curtain fall into place before moving upstairs and back to my room, pausing by my mom’s bedroom door to see if Bryan is still up and getting nothing but silence. If Mom is downstairs drowning her woes in wine, she will probably sleep in her study again… something she did a few days ago. I know her too well.
My heart sinks, and nausea swirls with anxiety to twist up my gut that my life is falling apart, and I try not to think about it because I don’t know what I can do. It’s like watching a slow dissolve of something that once seemed so solid, Catching sand in your hands and trying to pile it back on so it sticks.
I dump my glass on my desk and wander to the double doors of my veranda, which I have sat open for tonight's heat. The sheers are across them to keep the bugs out, and they are barely moving from a gentle breeze. Standing for a second, I try to get my thoughts and emotions in order before turning around to power down my laptop because I know I should be going to bed. If I stay up, I’ll keep going over their fight and my mom’s mood and worry myself into a panic attack. I have felt it building for days now.
I have a six am get-up alarm for spending my day at the shelter where I have volunteered for the last two years. It’s my only downtime besides hanging out with Elisa between study, school, and after-school clubs.
I keep my life packed tight, with barely a second to breathe. It's just better and gives me zero time to think about how my father never contacts me, and my mom is so immersed in her job and marriage that I spend a lot of time alone. Well, I did before Dane moved in, and he seems to invade my space at every opportunity. I guess it’s partly why I don’t want him to leave again.
A thud on my veranda scares me half to death, so I jerk and hop away as it's so heavy and close. I nearly jump out of my skin, squealing before covering my mouth with my hand and backing away with my eyes glued to the darkness behind the white fabric. My heart races through my chest as a shadow sweeps my sheers, and I start frantically looking around for something to use as a weapon from whatever creature has just crash-landed there. Whatever it is, it’s weirdly big and dark, even in the blackness of the night.
“Relax, drama queen, it’s me.” Dane’s slurring words come through my curtains before he does, and I bristle all over, angry at this asshole for scaring me out of my wits. My stomach flipping over with relief that it’s him, but also something warm that he is finally home. I hate to admit that I worry about this idiot and don’t even know why.
“How did you get up here? What are you doing?” I snap at him, lowering my voice to a hiss and throwing my nearest scatter cushion his way. Irritated that his mere presence has thrown up another chaos of confused feelings when I am already uptight.
“Tree…. it’s closer to yours than mine, and I am way too drunk to make the jump.” He slumps sideways into the frame of my open door, and I can smell even from here that he is a walking bottle of alcohol. He stinks.
He’s dressed in all-black even though today was like a hundred degrees, and everything is zipped up and closed tight, so his body must not be able to breathe. With his leather biker jacket over jeans and boots but no sign of his helmet. He must have had these clothes in his backpack during class because he left in his uniform.
“Please tell me you did not drive like this?” I’m irritated by his appearance, his state of sobriety, and generally him, pushing past him to yank him inside and close the door properly. Cursing mentally that this idiot might have done something illegal and endangered his life in the process.
Having him appear like that has made me nervous about leaving it open now. I never heard him coming up the tree, so I would not hear anyone else doing it either, and that makes me scared as I mentally put a tick note to never leave it open at night again. It didn’t set off the house alarm or the floodlights, so he must have cut through the tees from the left.
“I’m not that dumb. My bike is safe with a friend. I’ll get it tomorrow. We got a cab home.” He stumbles past me, steps labored, and zigzags to my bed before slumping down on the end and looking ready to fall back. Kicking at his boots as though he intends to take them off and manages to set his laces loose on the left one.
“Get up… don’t you dare pass out in here. Go to bed, Dane. My mom is downstairs on the warpath, and your dad’s in his room, so be quiet.” As much as I would love for them to catch him like this, wasted and walking in at this time, I don’t want the fallout after an already strained evening. My mom is worse when she drinks, and tonight would be nuclear. I don’t have the emotional constitution for any more today.