Leave Me At the Doorstep

Chapter 11: Memories (Avery's POV)

I leave school early, skipping Ms. Chevy’s class so I don’t have to face Jackson, who was probably dying to talk things out with me on a walk home. The house was silent when I got there. It’s weird lately. No yelling dad, no sharp cracks of a belt on someone’s face, no Julian pretending not to cry in the next room over. I slouch up to my bedroom and fall out on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I start running through random thoughts.

How does Jackson know? Does he really know or is he just assuming? If he really knows for sure, why would he tell Joshua? If Joshua knows, why didn’t he spread it; why doesn’t everyone know? Where’s Julian? I wonder if he’s at school? If he’s not, where is he? Why did he change? I miss him. Where’s dad? Did he finally decide to just up and leave?

I haven’t seen him in a while. In about a week and a half actually. Yes, believe it or not, I’m worried about my dad. I think it’s just assumed that all kids despise their abusive parents. But I don’t. Sure, I might not love my dad, but I don’t wish he was dead. He feeds us, he clothes us. He does a lousy and technically illegal job of it, but at least he doesn’t put locks on the fridge or refuse to acknowledge our existence. Believe it or not, I really don’t have it that bad. Remember when I said, “I’m sorry. But I was young back then. I held on to the illusion that he loved us,"?  Looking back on it now, I wasn’t under the illusion that he loved us. He really did. I only have three memories of my life before now. Two of them good. One bad.

The first was when I was 3 years old. Me, my dad, a 7 year old version of Julian, and a lady, my mom, sat on a fuzzy gray couch in front of a television in a room that looked like a safer, less junky version of our current living room. Mom and Dad were glued to each others faces, similar to how Ariel and Prince Eric were about to be on the television set that Julian and I were staring at. Once the movie was over, Dad swept me up into his arms, giving me a big kiss on the cheek as he carried me up the stairs. Julian and Mom walked up behind us. We slipped into pajamas, brushed our teeth, and Mom put my hair into two neat braids. When she finished, her, Dad, and Julian walked me to my bedroom and tucked me in. Once I was snug, Julian yelled, “Triple kiss!” Him, Mom, and Dad all leaned down and kissed me at the same time. I smiled and drifted off to sleep as they tiptoed out the door.

The second memory was at a park. All four of us again. I was sitting with my mom, looking at a picture book. She told me the babies in the pictures were me and Julian, and that the two people in the pictures outside of a big building where her and Dad when she was in high school. I asked her why they were kissing in some of the pictures and why she was walking between rows in a white dress. She said because her and Dad were in love, and they wanted to get married, be with each other forever. I smiled at her and asked if I could take some pictures. she said sure and handed me her camera. The only thing Mom loved besides me, Dad, and Julian was her camera and her stacks of photo albums. For the rest of the day the two of us took pictures, Julian and Dad playing baseball, words on the concrete that Mom and I made out of leaves and flowers, and all four of us licking our lips free of the vanilla ice cream that coated them.

The last memory is the worst. I was 5 years old. My brother was 9. Our dad had just brought us back from school and our mom was supposed to be home soon. Julian was in the living room, attempting getting away with “doing his homework” and watching TV at the same time, while I sat upstairs and flipped through photo albums and ran around the house taking pictures of anything I could find. It was 6:30 when it came, a knock on the door replacing a smiling mother that should have been there. Dad open the door for about two seconds then slammed it back. He turned around, paralyzed, wide-eyed, looking like the dead people in those vampire movies. He stood there for about 5 minutes, massive tears flowing down his face, not stopping. I was confused, so I snapped a picture, figuring I would get the chance to show it to mom later. Then he started running. Running towards me. He threw my camera to the ground and jumped on it. He grabbed me up in his arms, giving me a hug so tight that it hurt. He ran to the living room, snatching Julian’s arm and ran upstairs with both of us. He took us into his bedroom and howled. He shook Julian’s arm until it turned purple and, still holding me, stomped on Mom's pile of books. Every picture that came flying out was ripped.  Then he fell onto the bed, mashing me under him, soaking me with tears. I didn’t know what was wrong and was too scared to ask questions. After awhile, he started punching me in the stomach, ruthlessly, barbarically. It hurt so badly, it wasn’t even bad and I couldn’t even cry.

Then Julian stepped up. “Daddy, don’t do that, you’re hurting her!” His eyes were wide and scared, but he stood his ground anyways.

But dad just smacked him, leaving a red mark on his face. My eyes widened, even larger than Julian’s, as I noticed that this wasn’t happening because of Julian’s method of doing homework. Dad was really truly angry. We had never been hit, punched, or spanked in our lives, not even by the kids at school.

Dad continued to punch me as I stared at Julian, begging for help. Then he ran out. Or at least tried. Dad yanked Julian to practically the other side of the room. “Don’t you dare. You tell anyone and I’ll get a knife.”

Julian slipped me a sympathetic look before slumping against the wall. I continued to stare at him until I blacked out.

        I wonder sometimes, what is wrong with me. I don’t miss my mom. But I know that something in my life is missing. And I know that she is that something. Even though I don’t know her. I barely she looked like because she always comes across as blurry in the memories. but I knew her so well. It hurts me to think my mom. Not because I miss, but because I don’t miss her and I feel like I should, like I should have fallen apart from the day she was gone. But it didn’t. I can’t connect with my feelings for her. Every year, once a year, I do this same, stare at my wall and relive the memories. But I can’t go any further. I can’t ask more questions. I can’t meet my mom.  I guess memories just aren’t enough.