The top of the slat separates, and I focus my aim on the bottom piece. After a final hit, the slat falls down into the dining room below. Its echoey clatter mixes with the jangle of keys and the metallic click of the front door being unlocked.
“Shit,” I murmur, scooping Reece up with one arm while scooching backward on my butt and shoving the hammer under the frameless mattress that used to be mine. With shaky fingers, I quickly turn off the flashlight, haul to my feet, and scurry down the stairs.
I manage to shove my phone in my back pocket and pick up the wood just as Dad walks inside and flicks the light switch.
Free arm behind my back, holding the piece I just busted off his loft railing, I bounce a hiccupping Reece on my hip while Dad stumbles backward, his hand coming over his chest. “Jesus Christ, Ace. What the hell are ya doin’ in here in the dark?” he gasps.
“Singing lullabies and whispering secrets,” I answer as his blue eyes go from a drunken haze to sharpening in disbelieving curiosity. When he turns around to hang his keys on the hook by the door, I use the opportunity to toss the wooden slat toward the living room, hoping it’ll land on the couch. A soft plop tells me I’m in luck.
When Dad faces us again, though, Reece has her arm outstretched, little finger pointing up toward the loft. Dad’s eyes follow the movement, but I rush forward, wrap my free arm around his waist, and give him a side hug. The nostalgic mix of his spicy-woodsy cologne and the several beers he drank hits me, and I squeeze a little harder.
His softened gaze drops back to Reece and me, and he engages in the hug, wrapping us up tight. He then places a kiss on the top of her head. “Mmm,” he hums. “You girls are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
But once again his focus sharpens and body stiffens. I step away and slowly walk backward toward Mom and Dad’s bedroom door. Dad’s cheeks blaze red and eyes go wild as he tries to solve an assumed problem by checking me from head to toe, studying the oversized sweats I stole from Vincent and the baggy class shirt I pilfered from Baylor. “What are you doing here, Ace?”
“Just popped in to grab a few things.” I flash him a grin. “Figured I’d get some cuddles before I left.” His eyes move over my shoulder toward his bedroom door. I continue blabbering, hoping it’s enough of a diversion. “Reece is getting so big,” I coo, rubbing my nose against her plump cheek. “Climbing and crawling now, I bet.”
“Yeah. That’s a new trick,” he responds, a fake grin twitching the corner of his lips, momentarily distracted by the conversation.
The gig is up, though; I just know it. His eyes scan the dim room, find the hole in the railing, then hone in on Reece. He studies her rotund body right down to the sagging diaper that is barely staying attached and further to her discolored leg. The blood flow is improving, but her leg is certainly not back to a normal color yet.
Dad steps forward, hands fisting at his sides, rage burning in his eyes. He grabs me around the bicep and wrenches me to the side. “Dad. Dad, no,” I beg as quietly and calmly as possible. But it’s no use. He slings the bedroom door open, and a faint hint of ammonia wafts through the air. The scent immediately drags me into euphoric recall, and my stomach cramps tight with the sudden craving. I draw Reece closer to my heart, using her innocence as a shield.
A deafening roar echoes through the house. I snuggle Reece and peek into the bedroom just in time to see Dad swipe an arm across the dresser, and all the paraphernalia goes flying across the room. Mom is drugged out, limp on the bed.
Dad grabs and shakes her. “Wake the fuck up, woman!”
She won’t stir. And I know Dad. He’ll wait. He’ll pace. He’ll run his boots into the ground until she comes to.
Right now, his mind is just as gone as hers, consumed by a rage that has been building over a number of years and stoked every time Mom slips — every time her lapse in judgement puts Reece in danger.
Nothing brings out the beast inside my father more than harm befalling his girls. When Mom is awake and feeling enough to remember it — to understand — Dad will gain retribution with a harrowing fist for the neglect of his child. Then, to take away both the physical and mental pain, Mom will use all over again.
Reece and I stow away in the nursery. I lay her on the floor, grab all the diaper stuff, clean her up, and settle us into the old glider. Rocking, I lull her to sleep counting each incessant thump, thump, thump of Dad’s stomps like a kid who grew up in a normal household might count sheep.
Before long, I doze off, dreaming about leaving this wretched place far, far behind and making a new life for myself — taking Reece with me as a stowaway.
But she would only be moving from one type of hell to another.
After all, the apple never falls far from the tree.