chapter eight

      I awoke in the morning hoping to be stirring from a nightmare, but I hadn’t been dreaming. Just another day in the life of Ivey Doede. Whether it was the next day or a week later since whatever it was that happened, I didn’t know. My head throbbed, and a shrill ringing ping-ponged between my ears. I sat up and looked around, noticing for the first time that I was in my room, in bed, tucked under clean sheets. My fingers scurried to my shoulders and along my back. The gashes from the thumbtacks and rope were almost healed, as were bruises that now took on a yellow and green hue. My injuries had been mending for far more than a night, I noted.

      Crawling from bed, I noticed a glass of water someone had left. I grabbed it, picked out the dead gnats, and let it wash over and down my parched tongue and throat. Falling onto my pillows, I longed for another.

      Without invitation, the memories of that night flashed before me, returning in snippets, leaving the missing segments—for better or worse—to my imagination. I saw Mom looming in the shadows with her cigarette, Dad escaping into the cornfield, Louie shaking violently in the dirt, me fearing he was dead.

      I shook it off. It was too painful. I teetered to the door and pressed my ear against the paint. Tiptoeing through the hallway, I slipped into Louie’s room and found him in bed, belly up with his head twisted sideways. I rested my hand on his chest feeling for his heartbeat; it sent healthy vibrations through the covers. He had looked so frail and helpless that night—it was nice to see him breathing normally again. I was glad he was safe, even though it was to no thanks of my own. All I wanted to do was save him, to protect him.

      “Put it out of mind, Ivey,” I said aloud. For it felt as if someone was knitting with my insides.

      Don’t think about it. Don’t be so hard on yourself. The worst is over. I heard myself giving the excuse that things would be different next time. Next time it won’t be so bad. There, I did it again. Next time, next time, next time. Things can’t keep on like this. There has to be a light at the end of the tunnel. But who was I kidding? Deep down I knew it wasn’t true. Things would only get worse as Louie and I bid for our independence and pushed our cell walls to their limits.

      I decided to let Louie rest and re-situated the covers around him. Comparing notes from the previous night could wait.

      There was clanking and footsteps downstairs as I started toward the kitchen. The smell of scrambled eggs struck my nostrils. On a normal morning (then again what did “normal” mean in this family?), I would have been nauseated, but today was different. I’d devour anything that would settle the growling in my stomach. Loitering in the entryway like a dog trying to snatch a bone without getting booted across the kitchen floor, I ducked in and found Mom by the stove. She turned and jumped, flexing her wrist and sending egg bits airborne. She forced a smile and asked if I wanted to eat.

      I told her I wanted the eggs and took a seat at the table, as if nothing was wrong. As if she hadn’t tried to kill Louie and me the night before. Sometimes the path of least resistance is an okay step forward. Never over a long period of time, but remember there was still next time.

      She scooped the eggs she had spilled up off the floor and onto my plate. I inhaled them, coughing and picking out grit and hair as I went. Breakfast never tasted so good.

      I followed with seconds, thirds, and would have had fourths had she allowed it. With two glasses of water and a cup of milk, I washed it all down and sat with my hands on my cheeks soberly coming to terms with the fact that I was going to be alright.

      A second later, feet shuffled down the stairs and to my complete surprise, in walked Dad. He placed a hand on my shoulder and, like Mom, proceeded to go about his business as if nothing was wrong. But I could hardly believe my eyes: Dad was showered, shaven, and dressed in a button-up shirt. The stench that accompanied him was gone, and in its place, a minty floral scent. He looked over his shoulder and gave a recently brushed–teeth smile. And as he turned, I got a glint of the crucifix dangling from his neck and nearly fell out of my seat.

      Slovenliness is no part of religion. Cleanliness is indeed next to Godliness.

      Dad was never big on religion. He went to church only because if he didn’t, there would be hell to pay. Not from God, but from Mom. During most services, aside from bingo night, he fell asleep and snored so loud the preacher had to shout over him. Well, not quite that bad, but he would have, if Mom didn’t elbow him in the gut every time he did a head nod.

      He took a seat across from me and started to eat. His crucifix swung like a pendulum over his plate.

      “I’ve got a lot of work to do,” he said to Mom, “but maybe later we can go into town.”

      She didn’t reply. Her eyes were lost to the window.

      “What do you think?”

      She glanced back. “We’ll see.”

      Dad shifted. The cross swayed to and fro, left, and then right.

      The words just leapt out: “What’s with the vampire piece?”