Elizabeth Finn - Brother’s Keeper

Sara is also kept busy with school herself and helping her parents around their lake house at nearby Spring Lake. They are restoring the neglected property and pay Sara top dollar for her help. I occasionally go with her to help out but have a weekend waitressing job that limits the time I can spend there. And it is on an Indian summer weekend two months into our senior year of high school I find what is to be my new sanctuary.

Working the weekend shift at the Little Tuscan Bistro is how this poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks keeps herself in decent, albeit generic, clothes. That being said, this is no ordinary bistro. There is nothing Tuscan, little, or bistro about this place. But as is the case in small town USA, a title can go a long way in convincing us that we really do have the finer things in life.

On Friday nights, we usually finish up around ten or shortly thereafter, and this night is no exception. At ten fifteen, I duck out the back door and begin the short bicycle ride toward the mobile home park that my father and I live in. Riding a bicycle isn’t my first choice of transportation, but it is the only means I can afford. I try to convince myself I look like every other health-savvy suburbanite by choosing the green alternative over the oil-sucking monster that is the automobile, but quite frankly, I’d take a car any day over my old bent-spoke, sad-looking bicycle with its over-worn seat that threatens to impale my tush should I hit a pothole. But alas, I am a bike dweller. And while I may be well on my way to owning my own car, thanks to good tip money, unfortunately, “well on my way” isn’t the same thing as “there”. On occasion, my father will allow me to take his car when he doesn’t need it, but that is never on a weekend night. His old beat up car is reserved for his recreational drunk driving only on weekend nights. Fortunately, Sara has a car, and I’m not forced to show up for class on a bicycle too often. Though I must admit, I wear my best exercise costume on those days when I must to drive the point home; I’m not poor, people, just healthy, damn it!

When I arrive at our trailer, it is dark and empty. There is always concern upon arriving home to our old, ugly trailer that my father will be there, spewing venom for words and ready to hate me for being alive. It is early, though, and often on the weekends, he feels the need to congregate with his folk until at least midnight. I’m tired and filthy from playing waitress for the night; after all, it is Friday and spaghetti a la tomato paste was on the menu. After showering and changing, I crawl into bed for what I hope will be a quiet, uneventful night.

I have become very adept at dodging my encounters with my father. He hasn’t landed a blow for years, and while I’m sure many have suspected him of physical abuse, they’ll be hard pressed to prove it by me, and I will be no help to them. I have no relatives, at least none who would claim my father, and I know full well that means a juvenile home for me if his little temper ever surfaces to meet the public eye. Not even Sara understands how truly violent he can be. She knows as much as I tell her, which is little. It’s no secret that he is a less than great man. Fortunately for him, cuts, bruises, and even the occasional concussion can easily be explained away—if he can just remember to pace himself. Social Services has a short memory, and active young girls have accidents all the time. Besides, he is a surprisingly good liar when it comes to talking with Social Services.

But those were the earlier years. Now, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve become the skilled escape artist, and in his drunken state, he forgets very quickly his daughter’s room is empty and her ground floor window ever so slightly cracked. Sara’s family knows I work late and never care when I come over late. It’s the perfect solution … most of the time. But not on this night.

On this night, my normal vigilance is replaced with uncharacteristic exhaustion. Perhaps I’ve become lazy, or perhaps he’s learned to tip toe drunk. In any event, it comes as quite a surprise when my bedroom door is flung open and the meanest man I’ve ever met comes staggering in to pick a fight with a seventeen-year-old. That’s alcoholism at its finest. The first blow strikes the left side of my head—hard. That first blow to the left side of my temple sends my right temple smacking against the wall, and all I can register are the fireworks suddenly flashing in the back of my eyes from the impact. The next back hand lands nicely on the corner of my mouth, and soon blood is dripping down my chin from where I was struck. The instant pain that shoots through my jaw feels as though it is unhinging from the joint.

The nice thing about glancing back handed blows is that they tend to spin a drunk man like a top, and spinning drunk men aren’t all that familiar with balance. Thus I am afforded my moment for escape. The window, my normal route, isn’t an option as he’s blocking my path directly to it. Which leaves the front door as the only alternative. I grab my book bag sitting on the floor by the door as I skirt past him while he staggers to get to his feet. As I run through the house, I can hear him stirring in my bedroom. He sounds like an angry bull whose matador has just done something very rude and unpleasant to him. But I am fast. In a matter of moments, I am out the door and bicycling fast for parts unknown.

Normally, I would have made my cursory call to Sara from the phone in my bedroom before he even had the chance to stumble his way down the hallway to my room, nothing more needed than a quick, “Hey, dad’s drunk and I don’t feel like arguing. Can I come over?” followed by her ever happy to see me, “Of course.” But this night is different.

Because of my slip, my heart is racing, my hands are shaking, I am crying, and my head is exploding. I have no idea what time it is, and judging by how soundly I was sleeping, it could be well into the early morning hours. I will have no choice but to explain the bloody lip, which means lying to my best friend, and worst than that, no way of knowing just how bad it will look in the morning when we join her parents for breakfast.

I consider not calling her and just killing time until morning when I can go home, but I am cold and tired and hurting. After two blocks, I come to the old Amoco station and decide it is either a cold, uncomfortable night on my own or a nice, warm bed and good company. I stand at the pay phone with tears still streaming down my face and notice for the first time my feet are bare and bruised from the metal pedals of my bicycle and the hard chewed up asphalt of the old gas station’s parking lot. I fish a handful of change from the side pocket of my backpack and dial Sara’s cell number. I am not looking forward to this conversation but eager to hear her familiar voice. That’s when things change.

I am so busy trying to decide what to tell her I somehow manage to not hear the overtly masculine voice on the other end of the line. Instead, “Hello” in Logan’s sleep-laden and somewhat annoyed voice is the first thing I register. In my over-adrenalized idiocy, I start to wonder how I’ve managed to dial his number before I realize I wouldn’t know how to dial his number if I wanted to because I don’t even have the number.

After a few confused, terrifying moments and several impatient “Hellos” from Logan, I finally find my voice—the stammering voice that is my alter ego of humiliation. “Uhhhhh … L-Logan? I-Is S-Sara home?”

“No, she’s away at the lake house. She forgot her phone… Wait, Rowan…? What’s wrong? You sound like you’re crying. What happened?”

Shit! That isn’t stammering, it’s sobbing. This is not good. Regroup. Deep breath. Change of subject. “What are you doing answering Sara’s phone?” Good, that will throw him off.

“I asked you why you’re crying. What the hell is going on, Rowan?”

Okay, redirection didn’t work. We’ll just go with a lie instead. “I’m not crying. I’ve just been riding my bike.” This can’t get any worse. Not only am I trying to lie, I’m coming up with really stupid lies.

“Bullshit. Rowan, why the hell are you calling Sara from a payphone in the middle of the night in tears?”

Caller ID. Oops. What do all smart people do when they are caught in a lie? They keep lying. Adamant rebuttal is fool proof. “Logan, really, I’ve just been riding my bicycle… I forgot something at work and needed … uh … to talk to Sara… I… Why is she at the lake house this weekend? I thought … you know … uh … comp report… I mean, it’s due Monday, and she was supposed to be home…”

“Okay, that’s it. Where are you? I’m coming to get you. And don’t even think of saying you’re fine, and don’t even think of telling me you’re not crying. Just tell me where the hell you’re at before I call the cops.”

Well, that just didn’t work at all. I think about hanging up, but the sound in Logan’s voice is paralyzing. He is angry, not to mention confused. For all he knows something bad has happened to me, and well, he wouldn’t be all that wrong. If Logan wanted to, I have no doubt he could have the cops out looking for me. It’s a small town, and he is well known and respected. The last thing I want is the cops to be pounding on the door to the trailer where my drunken father is likely trying to pass out to some obscure early morning infomercial. That could be really bad.

“Logan? I need help.” It’s barely a whisper.

I don’t recall ever saying those words to anyone in my life, especially in connection to my father’s drunken behavior. Strangely, I immediately feel an odd sense of relief. I know there’s nothing Logan can really do for me, but just saying the words out loud in some way is liberating. I’m tired. Secrets are draining, and this one’s a doozy. And with this confession, a sense of the inevitable starts to slowly sink in.

“Can you please pick me up at the Amoco at Vine and Eighth Street?” I don’t wait for a response. I hang up.

No one until now has known what life is like in the Rowan Avery household. But in a short time, someone will. I better just hope I’m prepared for the fall out.

She better have a damn good explanation. She must think I’m the world’s biggest idiot. Riding bicycles in the middle of the night. What is she, five? Please. This is the thanks I get for dog-sitting—should have just taken the stupid dog with them like they usually do. But no, dog has an ear infection, and everyone knows dogs with ear infections can’t possibly go to lake houses. Never mind the fact that Rufus doesn’t exactly enjoy having his ears messed with. Rufus becomes Cujo real fast. And if that isn’t enough, my bedroom’s been turned into a damn hobby room. Who the hell is going to be using this hobby room? Not that I don’t love sleeping on the couch in the den. It is better than Sara’s room, clothes always strewn about and constantly oversaturated with the latest perfume all girls her age seem to bathe in. And now it’s two thirty in the morning, and her phone starts ringing.

Her leg better have fallen off while she was riding that damn bike. She better need a tourniquet. Shut up, Logan, the decent part of my brain is saying. You’re just tired and crabby. You like Rowan, and if she was crying, then something must be wrong. She takes a lot in stride with no complaints. Stop obsessing. But the dickhead part of me is floored.

Why tonight? I have to be at the office early tomorrow to help with discovery on the Gleason case, and now this. Gee, sorry guys. You don’t mind if I just curl up on the DA’s desk for a quick snooze, do you? She better be bleeding… Wait, she is bleeding.

My headlights sweep the parking lot of the Amoco and find her sitting against the wall of the station with her knees pulled to her chest, and as she looks up and meets my eyes, it's clear she really is hurt.

She’s barefoot and wearing only pajama pants and a tank top. She looks tiny. She is tiny, but she looks even smaller than her normal petite self. It is the end of a long warm summer, and while the weather’s been nice, the nights are chilly and tank tops and bare feet are no longer appropriate.

She’s bleeding from the corner of her mouth. I’ve seen enough domestic violence cases to know a good back hand across the face will leave telltale signs. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say a jealous, violent boyfriend had done this work. And then it occurs to me, perhaps a nasty, drunk father.