Minder

Chapter 2

LAWSON

My first memory is sound.

An echo probably is more appropriate.

I’m three, maybe four years old. The noise comes from behind me. After hearing the boom, I looked down at my toy in my chubby toddler hands. Then another sound came—her scream.

I wasn’t supposed to turn around, but momma Angel’s cry made my bellyache. His mouth was moving; later, I learned they were words you weren’t supposed to say to someone you claimed to love.

My papa loved her; he told her all the time. He would shout it in her face, yell it to the back of her head. So much that I believed it to be true.

I didn’t ever want to be loved like Daddy loved my mother. The love made her weak; it crippled her protection. Each time he said those words, she would back herself in a corner, defenseless. Waiting for the proclamation to be over.

Announcements and grand gestures were warning signs that chaos was about to sprint into our house. It was small, and my little sister Crimsyn and I shared a bed in one of the rooms.

Daddy always said Mommy thought she was better than us. Angel’s skin was the color of fuzzy peach. It was just as soft when she held us close. Clutching us away from the danger, we would fall asleep in her arms.

Listen to an unsettled pulse, worried about the strength of the bathroom door lock.

“Why is Daddy upset, Mommy?” Crimsyn tucked to the side with her brown-skinned dolly. Her tiny fingers, braiding the long mane.

“He can’t find what he wants.” Angel doesn’t turn to look at the fear in our hearts. Her own terror conquering any courage we might have been lucky to discover. She isolates her focus at the scratched door.

All I can do is stare at her, waiting for a reaction other than this.

“Should we go help him find it?” Crimsyn has cooled her tears and has gone back to find a solution to our problem.

“No, sweetie. It’s gone; what he wants is gone. There isn’t anymore, and we don’t have the money to buy more.” She whispers the last part, eyeing me carefully. But rests her sight back on the door, making sure the pounding on the other side hasn’t broken through.

I’m 6 years old and wonder if we’ll be hiding in here for my birthday next month. I’m in first grade, and I start counting the seconds until we can breathe out loud.

I’m the older brother, trying to protect a wounded mother and sister blinded by the experience.

My twenty-four-year-old mother is memorizing the pattern in which her lover beats the hollow wood door. She begins tapping the tops of her knees. Trying to sing away the scares that are too familiar to ignore.

“What song are you singing, Momma?” Crimsyn breaks a smile for the first time since being sealed near the bathtub. “I want to sing too!”

She starts clapping, ignoring the fists that keep flying against the drywall outside. A piece of furniture is thrown, and we all stop and inhale, hoping it wasn’t something that creates sharp points.

“It—um, it goes, don’t worry about the thunder that crackles from the skies….” Angel’s voice starts to move in a rhythm that creates a safe haven for her daughter.

I stare at them, confused how a song or words will save us this time from the mad man.

He shouts some dirty slur about my mother being w*********h. My eyes move to her, curious if the accusations are true and I’ve never known before.

Angel still doesn’t cry; she keeps singing make-believe to Crimsyn.

“The storm outside will grow quiet into the night. Empty sky, can you close your eyes? Leave me alone until the morning light.” Her arms squeeze us tighter, and we notice the jiggle of the doorknob getting loose.

“Move away from the clouds and dry up all your tears. It’s okay; we’ll get through this timeline.” Crimsyn latches onto the words, mouthing along to a pretend song.

All at once, the banging stops, and we are all shocked that the song worked. Magic has happened, Verse’s dad does small card tricks, but I knew there was something good in the world. Everything can’t all be bad.

Minutes go by, and we all look relieved; there isn’t a crazed father waiting hungrily to abuse his family.

“Keep singing, Angel. I love your voice. It always soothes me when I’m coming down.” The doorframe creaks as Issy leans against it.

Angel listens to this order like she does the rest, without hesitation. She points to the window and opens it wide enough. Both my sister and I have the opportunity to escape.

“Go to the Villatoro’s house. I’ll come to get you when it’s safe to come home again.” She waves us on, her light brown hair shoved back out of her sight. Not wanting to miss us fleeing for our lives.

Safe to come home again. Maybe next time it will be.

“Angel? ANGEL! WHY THE f**k DID YOU STOP SINGING, YOU STUPID b***h?” I’m sure the neighbors a few miles down heard his holler.

Crimsyn has her hand in mine, and I don’t let go because, if I do, I get into trouble. Tears begin to force themselves out of our mother’s eyes.

It hits me that it might be the last time we see our mother alive. Her mouth opens to sing again, and she closes the window, her figure slipping back to the ground.

Angel does survive that night, but we don’t know it until two days later. Crimsyn runs to her open arms, and I stay back a bit. Watching any signs of where she flinches with contact.

She doesn’t grimace, and I feel a sensation of hope.

His love outbursts don’t end until I turn 8.

Full school days, the teachers started to catch on when the bruises weren’t fading. They hauled my father away as he spits in the faces of uniformed officers.

Patch came into our lives; he held my hand and let me sit in the front of the cop car. My mother’s tears wet my hair, but I didn’t need her comfort. We were finally safe. Protecting my mother and little sister paid off; I wasn’t constricted on the breath.

I decided then that I didn’t want to love anyone; it looked like it hurt too much. Even if I wasn’t receiving the love, I wouldn’t want to hurt another person with that type of emotion.

We grew up better; we moved into a bigger house. A house my English grandparents approved was suitable to come and visit. Crimsyn cried for Daddy, who’d been sent to serve his sentence up the hill behind the Krause mansion.

I told Crimsyn he couldn’t hurt us anymore. But she only cried harder; she missed the bastard.

Soon, after Patch came into our lives, he never left; I took a particular interest in him becoming my true father.

When Angel got pregnant with my brothers, I knew it was fate. We were all meant to be a happy family finally.

Understanding that going through a challenging life earned us this simple one, it was hard not to look over my shoulder and see if someone was out there keeping score.

Isidro, or Issy, as all his friends called him. My dad was behind bars for the next several years. It was the first time I prayed his temper would work in my favor. I hoped he would stay there until the day he died.

Then we would be free from the reign of his fury. And maybe Angel would stop looking at me like I would one day grow into the monster.

That’s the thing about fathers and sons. Bred to be best friends, have a bond more influential than any other. But I hope, in our case, the assumption was false. Still, her eyes lingered on me a few seconds too long, waiting to see what I learned from the man who, day after day, broke her.