Left Drowning

But I can feel it coming. Chris hasn’t said anything to me yet, but I know without a doubt that we won’t be able to hide from what is tormenting him. I haven’t wanted to think too much about what exactly his childhood was made of—what it was like for Sabin, Estelle, and Eric, too—and his insistence on looking solely at the present and the future has distracted me from looking at his past. But as much respect as I have for his privacy, it’s getting harder for me to ignore that he will not be able to run from his own memories forever. I can recognize trauma in another person because I have experienced my own, and to see it in Chris is slowly torturing me.

I feel it brewing furiously beneath the surface of our love: the looming promise of an inevitable, destructive storm.

I hope he will reach for me then.

I am going to fight with everything that I am to save him and to save us, but I won’t be able to do it alone.

The room is dark, and I hear a light rain start outside. I lie on my side and press my body against him with some faint hope that I can shield him from the haunting internal terror. My arm gravitates to his back, and I rest my scar between his two, forming the solid line. I want more than anything for the power of us together to be stronger than the power of the damage.

If I still believed in God, in anything, I would be praying.

JULY

TWENTY-FIRST

Chris takes the hit to the back of his head with as little defiance as a teenage boy can. Defending himself, talking back, usually doesn’t go over well. Not that anything goes over well when his father is like this, but shielding his body or mouthing off can easily lead his father to turn on one of the younger kids instead. It has been three days since the latest episode began, and if history repeats itself, this should be the last day. It hasn’t been this bad in a long time.

Months sometimes go by with nothing. A quiet house, a semblance of normalcy—albeit a cold, intimidating household—and then, as if out of nowhere, it starts. Sometimes a clear bad mood triggers it, sometimes his father’s manic elation over whatever art piece he is working on ends in an abrupt downward spiral. The unpredictability is the worst part. Not knowing when it’s coming, when the rage and need for control will start, is perhaps worse than when the fire finally ignites. The waiting, the fear that an explosion can happen at any time, that’s what is most terrifying.

Well, maybe not the most terrifying. But there is a certain ironic release of tension when his father finally lashes out, because at least then the anticipation is over and there is something clear to deal with. To endure.

All Chris has to do is get through the day. Unfortunately, it is only late morning, so he has a number of hours ahead of him. As long as he keeps his brothers and sister from witnessing whatever happens, he’ll consider today a victory. That’s one of the things that he occupies his mind with during these times, strategizing how to keep them from getting hurt and from seeing as little as possible. And he thinks about the future and how this present hell is not forever.

It’s just pain.

All he has to do is breathe through it.

Chris is going to get them all out. He and his brothers and sister are unfairly alone in this, so Chris will protect them until they all leave for college. No one would believe them about what goes on in this house because his father is so fucking idolized around here. The hugely successful artist who bravely soldiered on after his wife’s death and raised four children on his own? The man who is routinely hailed for his dedication to his volunteer work? Who makes large donations to his church? He couldn’t possibly be such a fucking crazy asshole.

A number of years ago when he was in middle school, Chris made an attempt to get help after one particularly awful night. The night that his father seated them all at the dining room table and demanded that Chris lay his hand flat on the table. His father spent the next hour alternately holding a heavy rubber mallet two feet above Chris’s hand and then pacing the room, laughing and talking about building strength of character, teaching them to feel no fear. He talked about the respect that he deserved after all of his success. Chris only heard pieces of it, never really made sense of the words, because the sound of fear that ran through his own head masked whatever crazy stuff his father was preaching. Chris tried hard not to flinch when his father pretended that he was going to slam the mallet down on his hand. He didn’t want to scare Estelle, Eric, and Sabin more than they already were. He wanted to be strong for them, and he tried to reason that his father often enjoyed delivering hours of terrifying threats that usually didn’t pan out. For him, instilling fear was sometimes enough.

Still, Chris’s determination to hold still faltered. He couldn’t help it. After one of the fake swings when his father landed the mallet two inches from his hand and Chris automatically pulled away, Estelle and Eric both screamed and ran from the table. They were caught on the second floor of the house, where their father spent twenty minutes tying the twins to the banister rungs where they had an eagle-eye view of the table. Chris can still see the wire being formed into intricate twists and knots, like samples of their father’s sculpture, but perversely showcased around their wrists and their necks. Leaving was not an option and shutting their eyes was not allowed. Sabin and Chris never broke eye contact while Sabin’s hands were bound behind him, securing him to his chair. Sabin’s expression was worse than the twins’ tears, Chris thought. The look of heartbreaking sympathy for how much more Chris endured cut the deepest. Sabin didn’t get half of what Chris did, mostly because Chris needed him to keep the twins away from harm, and it was usually easy enough to get his father to direct all of his attention to Chris. He was the oldest; he could take it better. Keeping their father away from Eric and Estelle was often doable. Chris just had to bait him by saying something along the lines of, “You’re going to work the little kids over? What? You can’t deal with me? I’m the one you want.” He couldn’t always protect Sabin, but he tried because Sabe was more fragile than he was.

So that night wore on.

The threat of the mallet continued until Chris finally yelled, “Just do it!” knowing what this would earn him, but also knowing that his shout would end this episode. It would be the grand finale. It was the type of climax their father fed off, and delivering it would at least make the torture stop. “Do it!” Chris screamed again.

And his father did, pounding the mallet onto Chris’s hand, then tossing it aside and retreating to his expansive studio on the opposite side of the house. The pain was shocking, but as soon as his father was gone, Chris got up from the table. It took a while to find something to cut the wire and free the others, and he assured them repeatedly that he was okay. Yes, his knuckle was probably broken, but he would be fine. Sabin wrapped up his hand tightly with a bandage and homemade splint and got him two bags of ice to try to cut through the pain and swelling.

The next Sunday, Chris took Estelle to church as he always did. They got there early so Chris could talk to the priest. He showed the man his hand, tried to explain. It backfired. At that day’s sermon, the priest lectured the congregation on lying and si