Remembering

The First Night

At six years old, I witnessed an argument that changed my life. My grandma had taken myself and my two younger siblings out for dinner. On our way home from dinner, my grandma stopped at a gas station to buy my siblings and I a small treat. She loved to spoil us. The entire car ride home, my little brother and I begged my grandma to give us our treats, but she insisted that it was too late. As she helped my brother and I out of the car and unlocked our front door, we asked one last time if we could have our candy before bed. Opening the front door, she told us one last time that it was too late, but that we could have our candy tomorrow. My father, clearly drunk, ovreheard my grandma as she opened the door. He stood up, walked into the middle of the living room, and began to yell. He told my grandma that she was not our parent. He screamed at her that we were his children and we could have candy at whatever time he said we could. My grandma stood there, dumbfounded.

Soon, my mom was downstairs. She had heard the yelling and ran downstairs, half-dressed, to see what the commotion was about. My mother stood at the edge of our living room and, immediately, she was angry. She yelled at my dad, telling him never to speak that way to her mother. He yelled back, then she yelled again. Soon, they were screaming over each other. My grandmother, siblings, and I stood uncomfortbly between them. Suddenly, my dad stopped yelling. He paused for a moment, then threw the drink he had in his hand across the room and all over my mother. I looked at her face, showing no expression and covered in orange soda. I was scared. I looked at my little brother and told him to go upstairs. He didn't argue. 

I stood beside my grandma, and for a few moments, there was silence. My mother's face remained expressionless as she walked slowly into the middle of the living room. She walked up to my father, looked up at his face, and said nothing. He pushed her. She pushed him. My grandma started screaming. My dad turned around, ripped the VCR out from its place, and threw it. He grabbed picture frames and threw them. He didn't care where he was throwing them or who he hit. He was screaming. They were all screaming. I couldn't breathe.

I turned around, reached down, and unbuckled my baby sister from her car seat. She was six months old at the time. I picked her up and held her, bouncing her as she cried. I watched as my parents hurt each other and as my father destroyed our home. My grandma instructed me over and over to take my sister upstairs, but I stood there for a long time. I couldn't leave my mom. 

Eventually, I gave in. I took my sister and walked to the stairs. I went up a few stairs and sat there, listening. I held my sister against my chest and rocked. I didn't know if I was rocking her or if I was rocking myself. I tried to breathe slowly through the tears. I whispered to my sister that it would be okay. I sat on those stairs for what felt like forever. The noise wasn't stopping. I waited there until I couldn't any longer. I took my sister upstairs. I tried to put her in her crib, but I couldn't reach. I crawled into my mom's bed and held her against my chest. 

I woke up to the sound of a knock on the door. Quietly, I climbed out of my mom's bed and walked over to the stairs. I peered down the stairs at our front door. My grandmother opened the front door and invited a police officer inside. He was tall and I remember his bald head very clearly; it seemed to shine under the porch light. The police officer glanced up the stairs and I quickly hid behind the wall. Too scared to look back down the stairs, I walked back to my mom's room. I crawled back into bed with my sister and fell asleep. 

I woke up a little while later to the sound of my little brother screeching. I walked out of the room. My brother was on his hands and knees at the top of the stairs crying and screaming at my mom. He yelled that he hated her, that she shouldn't have made daddy leave. My grandma rubbed my mom's back, reassuring her that he didn't mean it. My grandma told me to go back to bed. This time, I listened. 

I woke up for the last time in my grandfather's arms. I wrapped my arms around his neck and laid my head on his shoulder. Neither of us said a word. I clung to him while he carried me out of the house, glancing around the house along the way. The kitchen cabinets were torn from their hinges, furniture was broken, and broken glass was scattered across the floor.  Nothing was left on the shelves. We walked past my mom. She had her arms wrapped around her chest as if she was hugging herself. I closed my eyes. 

I never went back to that house.