Behind Closed Doors

Chapter 2

This routine continues for the next few days with Cate, Esme, and I waking up, getting breakfast, an then getting the others ready to go to the beach. Despite the fact that there's only a one year age gap between Esme and Lilia, it always seems like Lilia is a lot younger.

However, one day as we're laying on our towels reading, I get a phone call from father. He informs me that some new neighbors moved into one of the houses next to us, and he and mother invited them over for dinner. This is one of my father's favorite moves. He befriends as many people as possible; teachers, neighbors, parents of our friends, so he can play the role of a trustworthy individual who takes good care of his family. We're the only people who know how he really is.

The couple who is coming over names are Alfred and Jillian Bennett. Apparently, they have a sixteen year old son, Brady. "They're a very affluent family," father tells me, "so it's important to make a good impression. Perhaps Brady and Cate will get along well." This is my father's way of telling me to keep my sisters in line so that they don't embarrass him, as it goes without saying what the consequence would be. I'm also assuming that he and mother want to set Cate up with Brady. They both seem quite bothered by the fact that at age sixteen, Cate has still never had a boyfriend.

The face Izzy makes after I break the news says it all. None of us want this. After a couple moments of silence, they explode with questions:
"When are they coming over?"
"Is he good looking?"
Cate keeps staring blankly at the water, her mind anywhere else but here. I stare at her thoughtfully for a second before responding. "Father said they'll be here at seven o'clock sharp." I say curtly, "so we ought to head back to the house now so that we have time to get ready. It's almost six."
The five of us trudge back to the house like a funeral procession, not one person uttering a single word.

We begin getting ready, and as I help Izzy fasten the back of he dress, she asks me a question. The same question that has been circulating through our minds since we were old enough to talk. "Why can't we tell someone?" She asks, her voice small and timid. "Remember what happened last time we did?" I tell Izzy solemnly.

It was back in middle school when I was barely twelve. I remember my choppy bangs and the gap between my front teeth that I tried so desperately to fix with braces. I remember my faded pink shirt and my awkward, spindly legs. It was the morning after a particularly bad fight. Cate's arms were covered in bruises, as she had tried to stand up for mother. She wore long sleeved shirts for a week after that, even though it was the middle of May. This was the worst I had ever seen from father, and it scared me. It scared me to the point where I told.

I always heard about teachers being mandated reporters, so I decided to tell Mrs. Donovan, my sixth grade home room teacher. She ended up calling DCFS, so they made a visit to our house, but nothing came of it. I can picture the look on mother and father's faces when they heard the knock on the door. Mother was in the kitchen, so she heard it first. Her eyes widened with fear as she called to father. I can remember the uncertainty in her voice as she answered the door, offering the social workers coffee and showing them around the house.

Of course, father slipped immediately into his role like and actor playing a part. He was extremely welcoming and willingly showed the workers around the house. When they spoke to mother and father, he made light jokes about football games and gas prices. Of course, neither parents showed signs of being in an abusive environment, so the visit came to no avail. Afterwards, father yelled at all of us children, saying that we "risked his whole reputation" and that we needed to be punished. So, one by one he took turns beating us while mother sat in the corner crying. That's the problem with reporting abuse. 

You'll ask for help,
beg and
plead
but our parents are seemingly kind and wealthy, so a blind eye is turned. That's just the society we live in. If father has ever taught me one true thing, it's that your appearance has full control over the way you're treated.

I regret my words immediately as Izzy's face crumples, obviously recounting the memory. "Come on, it's okay." I say, "Once I graduate college, I'll let you all come live with me and we'll finally be free." Little did I know that this idea, this dream, was merely a figment of my imagination. I know now that only four of us had enough luck to successfully escape our father.

We continue getting ready until about half past six when mother calls us down to the kitchen to help her set the table. As we take out the good silverware and cloth napkins, mother tells us more about the Bennetts. "Mr. Bennett is a lawyer like your father," she says in her small, quiet voice, "and his wife is a fashion designer. Naturally, they're the type of people that are important to become friends with. Already, Mr. Bennett mention to your father about investing in his law firm, so you girls have to be on your best behavior tonight." We all nod dutifully. "Oh, and Cate, your father and I would love it if you could get to know Brady well. You two are about the same age, and it wouldn't hurt to be on good terms with that boy, if you know what I mean." I look over at Cate, who is wearing an elegant olive green sundress and intently staring at the floor as if she had just noticed its existence. I shoot a worried glance at my sister, about to ask her what's wrong, but suddenly the doorbell rings.