Chapter 1
The toys had to disappear before my father came home.
My sister and I hurry across the living room floor, picking up everything we can reach. Blocks slide across the tiles, a doll’s arm knocks against the table leg, and I almost drop my stuffed rabbit when my sister tells me to move faster.
“Quick,” she whispers.
The big wooden toy chest stands against the wall. It is old and heavy, and when the lid opens it makes a deep creaking sound that always feels too loud.
My sister throws the toys inside.
Dolls.
Blocks.
Plastic animals.
Everything disappears into the dark space of the chest. I clutch my rabbit against my chest so he doesn’t fall in too. I take him everywhere. His fur is dark gray with a white belly, and one ear bends because I hold him so much.
My sister drops the last toys inside and pushes the lid down.
The thud echoes through the small room.
For a moment the living room looks empty, like no children live here at all.
My mother stands in the kitchen doorway with a cigarette between her fingers and a cup of coffee on the table beside her. She doesn’t look at us. She keeps looking at the clock on the wall.
Then the door.
Then the clock again.
Smoke curls slowly toward the ceiling while she takes another drag from the cigarette. The smell fills the room so much that I hardly notice it anymore.
“Hurry up,” she says.
Her voice sounds tight.
I climb onto the couch next to my sister when the children’s program starts on television. Bright colors flash across the screen. Cartoon characters laugh loudly, their happy voices filling the room.
But the room itself doesn’t feel happy.
My mother keeps pacing back and forth across the kitchen floor. Coffee. Cigarette. The clock again.
Every few seconds she looks at it.
I don’t know exactly why, but I know the clock matters.
When the time gets closer, she moves faster.
Then suddenly she stops.
“Upstairs.”
The cartoon isn’t finished yet.
That doesn’t matter.
My sister and I slide off the couch and walk toward the stairs without arguing. We already know the rule.
When our father comes home, we have to be upstairs.
And we are not allowed to come back down.
My sister takes my hand while we climb the stairs. My feet move slowly because the steps feel big under my small legs.
I am very little.
Sometimes I still get a bottle before bed. Sometimes I wake up and the bed is wet even though I try so hard not to let that happen. When I get scared my body doesn’t listen to me.
Tonight my rabbit comes upstairs with me.
He always does.
I sit on the edge of my bed holding him while my sister moves around the room. The house feels different now. Quiet in a way that makes my stomach feel tight.
We both listen.
Downstairs the front door opens.
For a moment everything is silent.
Then the voices start.
Low at first.
My mother.
My father.
I cannot hear the words clearly, but I recognize the sound of anger when it appears in a voice. The sound grows louder, pushing through the walls of the small house.
My sister sits down next to me.
“Stay here,” she whispers.
I nod.
The shouting downstairs grows louder.
Something crashes against the wall.
My heart starts beating faster. I hold my rabbit tighter against my chest, pressing my face into the soft fur.
The voices echo through the house now.
Angry.
Sharp.
Frightening.
I sit very still on the bed and listen to the sounds moving through the rooms below us.
I don’t understand what they are saying.
I don’t understand why the house suddenly feels so dangerous.
But even at that age, I understand one thing.
Something bad is happening again.
And in our house, when the shouting begins downstairs…
two little girls know they have to stay very quiet upstairs.
