Page 34 of The History in Us

Finally, laying AJ in his crib, I felt slightly guilty at releasing him, but I needed to give Levi a piece of my mind before I kicked his ass. When I walked into the living room, the first thing I saw was the bottle next to him. A green glass container, nearly half empty, of Irish whiskey. His prosthetic leg lay flat on the wood floor. His other leg raised, holding up his elbow. With his forehead pressed in his hand, he was asleep sitting upright…or passed out. Slowly, I slipped my body next to his, hoping he might take comfort in my nearness.I nudged Levi, intent on waking him and then decided to let him sleep as I listened to his restless breathing. He shifted his weight and his head eventually fell to my lap. My hand hesitated over his skull. My anger slowly cooled. I struggled again with thoughts to wake him, but as he nuzzled against my leg, my heart pinched with a desire to comfort him instead. What horrors filled his head? I risked stroking over his hair, combing my nails down his scalp. I can’t say how much time passed, but I drifted into a foggy daze with dull memories of things I didn’t wish to recall when his voice startled me.

“I’m a terrible father.” My nails stopped scratching through his short hair, but his hand rose and pressed over my fingers, encouraging me to continue. I should have answered him. I didn’t disagree, but honestly, was he a terrible father? He was drunk in the middle of the afternoon, with his infant child in the other room. Yes. My first response was unequivocally, yes. But then I thought of Levi’s situation. Alone, without the mother of his child. I didn’t know if he had friends. I considered the thought twice before I realized he’d called me of all people. As for family, I remembered briefly he didn’t have any. An older brother, maybe. Once he left for the military, I don’t recall any mention of Levi Walker again, until I saw him on that fateful night of his father’s funeral.

“I don’t think that’s true.” I tried to sound confident in my answer. No, he wasn’t a bad father, just alone, frustrated maybe, definitely making huge mistakes, but he was human and he was trying to do the right thing.

“I can fight a squad of militants, but I can’t take care of one freaking baby.” He shifted his face and scratched his nose against my thigh, over my jeans, before righting himself again to rest his cheek on my leg. If I thought it possible, I would guess he was crying, but Levi had an edge to him that didn’t include tears.

“Maybe I should give AJ to someone. Someone more responsible, more capable. Someone who will know what to do.” His voice faltered, his words disconcerting. The tears entered my eyes instead.

“I don’t think you mean that.” My scratching increased, a cold fear filling my blood.

“I’m no good at being a father,” he whispered, the sound lazy. My hand froze on his head. I didn’t want to believe him, but his words chilled me. My stomach rumbled with a wave of bile, threatening to erupt at the thought of him ditching his child.

“My mother left me.” My voice shook as I spoke. I never shared the intimate details of a past nearly twenty years old, and yet, still raw. Especially each time I saw toddlers with loving mothers. Levi’s head shifted and he rolled to his back, looking up at me, but I ignored his glare. His eyes drilled a hole in my chin, willing me to peer down at him, but I couldn’t.

“I was only two…”

An alarm had been beeping for what seemed like an endless amount of time. I sat on the comfy bed of my parents with my ears covered. I’d been watching television next to my sleeping mother for two shows of my favorite purple dinosaur. The noise incessantly buzzing.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” I said gently. She didn’t like to be woken, but the noise was too much for me. She might yell at me. It frightened me when she yelled. I’d cry, which would make her angrier, but I was hungry. The cereal was in the lower cabinet since my dad caught me on the counter one morning. My parents had gotten into a big screaming match. I didn’t like that. I could get the cereal myself, but not the milk. The refrigerator was too difficult to open for my tiny arms. It made my dad laugh when I struggled to pull the large handle. Little feet would slide against the floor despite my tugging.

“Mommy,” I said louder. She rolled her head and muttered, “Five more minutes, Katie.” Her voice was gruff. Her hand shot out from under the pillow and hit the clock again. She was tired, I assumed. She went out often, after my dad came home and before I went to bed. She’d return in the early hours of the morning, sometimes waking me up. Daddy had been in college at the time. He had an internship coming up the year after he graduated. It hadn’t been ideal that I was born, I’d been told.

“Katie, I said, five more minutes,” she grumbled into the pillow, suffocating what sounded like a scream.

“It’s was five minutes, five minutes ago,” I whined. A new episode of the singing purple dinosaur was about to begin.

“Fine,” my mom growled and begrudgingly rolled out of bed.

I imagine my mother stumbling to the kitchen in a fog of sleepy confusion, much like I do when I’m woken too early. She dramatically tugged open the cereal cabinet. She slammed the cabinet door after removing a bowl. She pulled too hard on the refrigerator door and it shook. She slapped the bowl in front of me.

I flinched. I’m sure I did. Loud noises made me start.

Pouring milk, the cereal spilled out with a splash. I started to cry. I could sense her anger.

“Stop crying, Katie,” she urged. “Stop crying.” She swore. I’d heard the words before and only knew they were bad because my dad would correct her. He’d say she shouldn’t use those words in front of me. Her voice rose as she told me to stop crying again.

The sobs came harder. My little body shook as I tried to control them. The struggle to suppress the tears was an unwinnable battle. A slap came across my face. The sting imprinted on my tiny cheek.

“I said. Stop. It,” she yelled at me, her hands on my shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled between heaping gulps for air.

“Just shut up.” She shook me. “Stop crying. Stop talking,” she screamed in my face, the face that stung from her hand then her words. And so, I did what she asked. I stopped talking, for years.

The memory roared back at me, real and raw. I could feel the sting on my cheek as if it were yesterday. Cool tears slid down my hot face. At two years old, I hardly remembered the strike, but bruises developed and the doctor surmised I’d been struck. This portion of the story was told to me years later. The instant I heard it, the sting returned, the memory real, the notion unbelievable. I’d come to Chicago hoping for answers. All I found were dead ends.