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I chuckled. “I really wouldn’t call it babysitting.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I paused, looking her in the eye. “Yeah,” I finally said. “He’s worried your husband might decide to come looking for you.”
“Do you think he will?” Andrea asked. “My husband, I mean. Do you think he’ll come looking for me?”
I placed my mug down on the coffee table, folded my arms across my chest and sighed. “My father used his hands,” I said. “A lot. On my mom. On me. Whenever he damn-well felt like it. The thing is, my mom stuck around. Until the day she died.”
Andrea’s eyes glistened, and a tear raced down one of her cheeks. She quickly wiped away.
“She didn’t have your guts,” I continued. “I don’t know why. Sometimes I thought she stuck around for me. Sometimes I was cruel enough to believe she enjoyed the beatings. But she stayed through it all. You didn’t. And that says a lot.”
Andrea turned away, looking out the window. I couldn’t tell if she wanted a distraction or was trying to hide her tears.
“I think,” I said, “that if she had left, my father would have chased after her. The man was a relentless son of a bitch, and I didn’t shed a tear when he finally croaked. He had his good days, rare as they were, but when it came to my mother, he was a possessive motherfucker. If she had run, he would have followed.”
I picked up my coffee and took another sip, before gazing out the window myself. “So, yes, Andrea,” I said. “I do think he’ll come looking for you. And that’s why I’m here today. And every day that Bobby wants me to be here.”
She looked at me and I met her gaze.
“If your husband comes knocking on that door, he’ll be in for the surprise of his life.”
We drank the rest of our coffee in silence and said very little for the rest of the day.
Chapter 7: Andrea
I woke up screaming.
The nightmare was far too vivid. At one point, I had known I was dreaming. After all, why would I be at home in Manchester when I knew I was in my bedroom on Davis Road, with Bobby sleeping two rooms away, snoring up a storm?
But I was there. Sitting at the kitchen table I had shared for years with Dennis, dinner laid out and ready, waiting for my husband to come home. And he did come home. Drunk as ever, smelling like alcohol and piss and a hint of women’s perfume. He staggered through the front door, and as usual, left it open expecting me to come running and close it.
I didn’t move. I only sat there, watching him sway. He suddenly stood completely still and stared at me from the living room, expecting me to get up as I usually did. Expecting me to shower him with pleasantries in hopes that he would stay placated until we could go to sleep. On any other day, I would have done that. I usually did. And it never seemed to matter, because he would always turn sour, curse at me for a while before practicing his punching hand.
So, I didn’t move.
“Get over here,” Dennis snarled.
I only looked at myself, not daring to move, persistent in my resolve to rebel tonight. He saw the look on my face, and the most sinister of smiles crept on his face. He enjoyed it when I fought back, the sick bastard. A sadist ad masochist at heart, my Dennis. He liked it when I didn’t give in.
He staggered into the kitchen, wiping his hands on his back pockets the way he usually did before he got ready to beat at me. He balanced himself on the chair next to mine, looked at the dinner I had set up, and began to laugh.
“My wife, the cook,” he teased.
“You should have some, Dennis,” I said.
Dennis looked at me, then at the food, then at me again. With a snarl, he grabbed the plate of roast beef and flung it across the kitchen. It barely missed my head before shattering against the cupboards behind me. He lashed out, grabbing me by the hair and pulling me to him.
And for some reason, I didn’t fight back.
Dennis looked me in the eye, his snarl turning into something scarier. A look of absolute glee on his face at what he was about to do to me.
“I know where you are, Andrea,” he whispered. “And I’m coming for you. Your brother can’t save you from me, you little bitch.”
He raised his hand, and I woke up.
I sat in bed, sweating and gasping for air, my eyes wide and my heart slamming in my chest. I could feel the air around me like a heavy weight on my shoulders, and the harder I tried, the more difficult it was to breathe. I felt like I was going to suffocate right then and there.
