“Okay.” Is there going to be a dead body waiting for me in the apartment? “What did he do?”
“Punched Dad right in the face. He hit his head on the countertop.” Ben’s trying to be matter-of-fact, but I can hear the wobble in his voice.
“He’s not dead.” Mia’s voice gets even higher. Almost defiant. “Dad fell down, and that guy left. He said something to us, but I don’t know what, because…”
“We were too freaked out.” Ben’s guilty now. “We didn’t hear what he said. And then Dad got up. He went into his bedroom and he’s been there ever since. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”
“That’s not your fault.” I give them both a squeeze. “I’m just glad you’re both safe.” Ben won’t look at me. “Hey.” My brother meets my eyes. Mia peeks up at me, too. “You did the right thing. You called me. I’ll take care of it now. Okay?”
“Okay,” whispers Mia.
“Let’s go inside.” Better if we’re not standing here on the faded carpet with all the neighbors listening in. They can still listen through the crumbling drywall, but at least we can pretend to have some privacy.
Once the door’s locked firmly behind us, I face Mia and Ben. “How was the morning otherwise?”
No school today. Professional development for the teachers. I left them here this morning hoping that they could relax.
They exchange a look. “Fine.” Mia bites her lip. “But that guy showed up not too long after you left.”
Was he waiting for me to leave? Watching the apartment? I don’t like it.
I don’t like any of this, but I need to distract them. And I’ve learned from experience that disasters aren’t an excuse from real life. Not when they’re so common in the Anderson household. Cooking dinner, doing laundry. Even homework. They still need to be done, even when Dad is blowing everything up.
“Do you have any homework to catch up on?”
Mia saysnoat the same time Ben saysyes.They both crack a smile when they realize their mistake. I smile back, despite how pissed I am at our dad.
“Go get it done. I’m going to talk to Dad, and then I’ll make an early lunch. Deal?”
“Deal.” Both of them head to the bedroom they share and close the door. Asqueaksays they’ve both sat down on their respective twin beds, which take up most of the room.
I go to my own room, which is basically a narrow closet, and drop my purse on the bed. Iamgoing to talk to my dad, but if there’s blood—and there’s a decent chance of blood—I don’t want to get it on my work clothes. The black skirt suit I got on clearance from TJ Maxx goes on a hanger, which goes into its place on a hanging door rack.
Then it’s time to survey the damage.
No visible signs of the fight in the living room. Not for the first time, I’m glad we don’t have any upstairs neighbors. Building C has six stories in total, but the back corner only goes up three. All that’s above us is an HVAC unit and a railing that looks low enough to trip over.
I find Dad in his bedroom, a space barely larger than the twins’ room with a half-bath tacked onto it.
He sits in a chair next to a low dresser, which he found left out for free on the curb. It was not easy carrying it up three flights of stairs. His head is tipped back against the wall, and he presses an ice pack to one of his eyes.
No visible blood. I push the door shut behind me and cross to him. It takes all of two steps.
“Let me see.”
He opens his uncovered eye. “You don’t need to look, Bristol.”
Dad sounds tired. Gruff. No surprises there, either. “It’s a black eye. That’s all.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. If you broke a bone or damaged your eye—”
“Then what?” He smiles, his tone chiding. Almost bitter. “We’ll go to the hospital? I can’t pay those people. They’re just as likely to arrest me, anyway.”
“No one’s going to arrest you at the hospital. And if you have to go—”
“I’m not going.”
“Let me see your eye.” He’s not going to lower the ice pack, so I do it for him and wince at the sight of his eye. “Shit, Dad.”