Chapter One

February 11th, 1996 - Stockton, California

I was six years old, perched on one of our tall kitchen stools picking at a plate of cold spaghetti while my mother wandered aimlessly around the kitchen, tidying things and pretending to be focused enough to help me with my homework. The homework was just ten simple addition problems that I could have done myself, but I played dumb because I wanted a reason to spend time with her.

“Mom?”

“Hm?” She glanced over her shoulder at me from the sink where she was wringing out a sponge. Her green eyes looked tired and there were faint but definite streaks of gray in her auburn hair. I was struck suddenly by how old she looked.

“Uh, I need help with…” I trailed off and looked down at my math problems, “five plus two.”

She arched an eyebrow and started wiping her hands on a dish cloth, “honestly Kelly, I know you know the answer to that problem. I’m not stupid and neither are you.” She turned back around and hung the dish cloth on the hook above the sink, shaking her head.

I bit my lip and scowled at her back. I’d heard the difference between how normal parents spoke to other adults, and how they spoke to their children. My mother never spoke to me like I was a child. I lowered my pencil to my paper and scribbled the answer to the question in the blank space provided below it. Of course I knew the answer; I’d been competent with addition problems since I was three. When I glanced back up, my mother was standing on tip-toe, straining to see out into the front yard through the kitchen window.

“Is dad home?” I tried to sound casual but I knew she heard the panic in my voice. I hated when my dad was home, we both did.

My mother visibly stiffened, and answered me back quietly, “I don’t think so, honey.”

When I was about four, my father got laid off from his job and fell into a deep depression, which ended up in him getting heavy into using drugs. I hadn’t understood what was happening until a couple months ago, when I’d seen a talk show on TV that covered a similar situation. I’d always known something was wrong with my father, it was impossible to ignore the weight and mood changes, and the sores on his face and arms.

Despite my mother's relentless support and encouragement, he could never keep himself clean for more than a couple weeks. They fought a lot, about everything it seemed, but they always made up and I truly believed one day he would get better. He didn't.

Over the last couple months, he’d sunk deeper into his addictions and became another person, no - a monster. Sometimes their fights would end with my mother sporting a black eye or deep purple bruises on her arms. I knew families weren’t supposed to be like that, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I was mad at him for treating her like that and at her for letting him.

My mom swung around and rested her hips against the sink, trying to appear relaxed. “So, have you decided what you want to do for your birthday this Saturday? I know it’s only three days away but we could still try to pull a party together. You could have some friends over…”

“I don’t have any friends.” I cut her off, lowering my eyes back to my homework and clutching my pencil tightly.

She was silent for a second, and I felt her green eyes studying me carefully. “I just don’t see how that can be true…all the children in your class seem nice, maybe if you tried to make friends…”

“They call me Belly, mom. They don’t like me because I’m fat.” I felt my cheeks go red at the mere mention of my unfortunate nickname and pushed my plate of spaghetti away in disgust. I hated that she automatically assumed it was due to my unfriendliness that I didn’t have any friends.

She opened her mouth to say something but her mouth snapped shut quickly as we heard a car pull into the driveway. We both sat silent and motionless as the engine turned off, the car door creaked open, then slammed, and heavy footsteps thudded up the driveway onto the porch. My mom darted over to me and dug her fingers into my shoulder, her eyes on the door, “go to your room”.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up at the way she said it, in an emotionless, tired voice, like she was trying to numb herself against whatever was coming. Before I had time to react, the kitchen door slammed open, banging against the wall loudly, and my father’s silhouette filled the doorway. He didn’t come in right away, just clutched each side of the doorframe and breathed loudly through his mouth.

My mom relaxed her grip on my shoulder and smiled widely at him, “honey, we already ate but there’s spaghetti on the stove, I could warm some up for you if you’re hungry.”

He made a low noise, a grunt that sounded affirmative, so my mom turned quickly and scrambled to grab a plate from the cupboard. My father watched her from the doorway for a moment, and then staggered forward, into the light. His blue eyes were wild and red-rimmed and his face was so gaunt and pinched that I hardly recognized him. As he made his way further into the room, goose bumps rose on my arms. Something was wrong. He was too quiet and his movements were jerky and unnatural. As he moved to pass behind me, he clutched the back of my chair with a filthy hand and I was overpowered by the smell of road kill and hard alcohol, and something darker that I didn’t know a name for. My stomach lurched and I leaned away from him.

My movement seemed to startle him, because he turned sharply and looked at me as if he hadn’t noticed I was there. I heard my mom slam the microwave door shut but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his face. It looked wrong, like a Halloween mask. Suddenly he let out a hacking cough and sprayed my face with spit. I covered my mouth with my hand, trying not to gag as his stench blew right in my face.

I jumped as my mom clunked a steaming plate of spaghetti down on the table across from me and glanced up through her lashes to address my father, “here, I’ll grab the parmesan.”

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly maneuvered himself around the table and plopped clumsily into the chair. When he spoke, his voice was so dry and ragged that I couldn’t help but stare at him, “I don’t….” he paused, seeming confused for a moment, then continued, “I want…” his words were cut off by another hacking cough. “Marian,” he said my mother’s name so softly that she didn’t hear and continued rummaging through the fridge for the parmesan cheese. Suddenly, he slumped forward, his face so low to the table that it was almost in his food.

Wide eyed, I started to get up from my seat, “mom, I think dad just passed out.”

She emerged from the kitchen with the parmesan clutched in her fist, looking tired again. It wasn’t the first time he’d nodded off at the table. Sighing, she plunked the parmesan down on the table.

“Why…” my voice sounded so hoarse that I had to swallow and try again, “why is he so…what’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, honey,” she sighed again and reached carefully around his slumped figure to scoot the plate out from under his drooping head. As she did so, he coughed suddenly and straightened up. Before either of us had time to react, he seized her by the arm, dragging her half onto the table. Her elbow landed right in the middle of the plate of spaghetti, sending it shooting across the table onto the floor.

“Ow, John I was just –“ She stopped talking suddenly and looked down at her arm in horror, “John, your nails!”

He was digging his nails into her arms so hard that I could see blood rising for the points where his fingertips met her skin. She tried to yank her arm away but he grabbed her free arm and rose to his feet, pinning her on the table.

“John!” She croaked and tried to push him away, but he was too strong for her and slammed her back down onto the table by her throat. The table was tall and not designed to bear significant weight. It buckled and flipped over, away from me. They rolled onto the floor and for a moment my mother was free.

She scrambled to her knees and started struggling toward the still open kitchen door, but my fathers grabbed her around the waist and yanked her back to the floor, hauling her toward him. His mouth was snapping open and closed and he was making a weird sound in the back of his throat.

I was frozen where I was, still sitting on the kitchen stool.

One of them kicked the table and it rolled across the floor, half-hiding them. My mother screamed and I clapped my hands over my ears but I couldn’t block it out. My homework was scattered across the floor. I still had four more problems to do. The next one was eight plus one. I thought it was nine but I wasn’t sure, I couldn’t think straight.

My mother screamed again, piercingly, like she in pain. I heard her inhale to scream again but instead she gasped and there was a ripping sound. She didn’t make any noise after that.

There were more ripping noises, then silence. A pool of red liquid spread slowly across the beige linoleum. It took me a moment to realize it was blood.

My father struggled to his feet and stood motionless for a few moments, seeming unsteady on his feet. Then, abruptly he lurched forward and made his way to the door, kicking the table out of his way. He disappeared into the night and I caught a glimpse of my mother. It didn’t look like her anymore. I didn’t understand what had happened.

I stared down at my homework and saw that the blood had spread and was slowly soaking through the paper. Eight plus one.

The answer was nine, I was sure of it.