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But it was quiet, so I figured maybe she forgot to come get me when they were done fighting.
But they weren’t done. They just took it outside.
Now, Momma’s standing in the gravel driveway with her arms crossed. She’s still crying, but she’s no longer screaming or shoving at him or grabbing at the collar of his jean vest like she was a second ago, trying to hold him in place.
She’s just…standing there in the rain, her shoulders bunched up by her ears, brown hair spilling down her back like a waterfall, leaving wet streaks all down her pale blue shirt.
My belly hurts. It’s hurtin’ real bad. Feels like something’s trying to crawl outta me. With the hand not pressed to the glass, I twist my fingers in my shirt, digging around deeper and deeper like I could get to whatever it is and make it stop.
I watch through the blur of rain as he climbs into his rusty red pick-up truck, head drooped between his shoulders, his blond hair hanging wetly around his face and neck.
He no longer looks angry, like he did before when he shoved Momma back and pointed at the house.
My fingers curl into the leather couch just as he slams the door shut. I hear it even in here, even under the pouring rain, even under the thump-thumpin’ in my ears, and the humming in my throat as I try to keep the music inside me, just like the song says.
I blink a couple times, squinting, peeking just over the couch, trying to see his face through the driver’s side window.
The engine pops in that way it does when he starts it—like a gun going off—and black smoke puffs outta the pipe in the back.
My humming fades, and I’m left panting hotly against the leather cushion.
The truck rumbles and dirt kicks up around his tires as he pulls away, tail-lights sweeping over our front yard, and beaming through the house, lighting the world red.
Then he’s gone, and it’s all dark and gray and silent, except for the rain and my loud heavy breathing.
I keep watching, keep waiting for him to turn around.
The front door opens.
Closes.
Footsteps…
My breath hitches?—
“Mason?”
“Where’s Dad going?”
I hear a tired sigh. “Kid, you’re supposed to b?—”
I whirl away from the window and cushions and scramble off the couch, throw pillows tumbling to the floor. Standing tall to face Momma, I cross my arms. “Where is he going?” I demand louder now, in my big boy voice.
That’s what Dad calls it—my tough voice. Shows people I won’t take no crap.
“It’s a big, bad world out there, son. You gotta have thick skin to make a name for yourself. There’s no room for softness, or tears… Not when you’re a man. They’ll walk all over you. You don’t want that, do you?”
No, I don’t, I think now as I clench my jaw to stop the shiverin’, and lift my chin, staring up at Momma with hard, hot eyes.
They feel funny, my eyes. The burny kind of funny that means I’m gonna cry. But I’m not a stupid baby anymore, so I hold it in, just like I hold back sneezes when I’m in church.
Momma doesn’t hold it in though. Her eyes are red and wet, and I know it’s not just a’cause of the water dripping down from her whole body, leaving a trail of puddles leading from the front door, and into our carpeted living room.
Dad’s not gonna be too happy ’bout that.
But it’s okay if she cries. She’s a girl. Dad says girls are sensitive, and it makes them cry a lot, but it’s okay. They can’t help it, all the big feelings they’ve got. It’s our job to take care of them, and protect them, because those feelings make them silly sometimes.
“He’s going…away,” she tells me slowly, her voice thick. She sounds weird—like she’s far away, even though she’s standing right there. Her eyes look like that too—shiny and distant, like she doesn’t even see me.
