“You look pissed,” Joey noted, watching me from across the table with those sharp green eyes.
“I am.”
“I can leave.”
“No, it’s not you,” I replied. “I’m pissed with Paul for talking about me.”
“Oh.” Setting his spoon in his empty bowl, Joey leaned back in his chair and gave me a hard look. “Well, if it’s any consolation, he won’t be talking about you again.”
“Because you set him straight, right?” I joked.
Joey didn’t laugh.
“Oh my god.” Awareness crashed down on me. “You set him straight, didn’t you?” I whispered, feeling my heartrate spike, as I thought back to their fight the other day. “That’s why you hit him, isn’t it?”
“Someone had to.”
“And that someone was you, right?”
He shrugged.
My heart leapt. “Joe…”
“Thanks for the food, Molloy.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I should be going.”
“No.” Disappointment soared to life inside of me. “You don’t have to go yet.”
“Yeah, I do.” Grabbing his bowl and spoon, he walked over to my sink and quickly rinsed them both off before setting them on the draining board.
Meticulous, he walked back to the table with a dishcloth in hand and wiped down where he had eaten. Tossing the cloth in the sink once he was finished tidying up, he moved for the front door. “Again; thanks for the food.”
“No problem,” I replied, holding the door open for him.
He pulled his hood up, concealing his face, and stepped into the night. “I’ll be seeing ya, Molloy.”
“Yeah, Joey Lynch.” I blew out a shaky breath. “You will.”
YOU ARE JUST LIKE HIM
FEBRUARY 25TH 2000
JOEY
My youngest memories began around the time of my third birthday. I couldn't say for sure if the events that occurred before that day had been particularly good because all I seemed to remember was the bad.
And right now, at ten o clock on a Friday night, after breaking up another shitstorm between my parents, all I could remember was the bad.
Aching in places I didn’t know existed, I couldn’t stop my brain from rehashing some of the more disturbing memories from my childhood…
"You can cry, Joey," Mam whispered, fingers curling around my skinny arm. Her touch was soft and warm and the feel of her made something twist inside of my stomach. "It's okay to feel, baby."
Nope.
She was wrong.
Again.
Furious with her and the whole fucking world, I swallowed my pain, pushed my feelings to the back of my mind, and concentrated on my job – a job I was fairly certain no other boy in my school was doing for their mam.
Rocking baby Ollie in my arms, I held the bottle to his lips, watching carefully for any sign of wind just like Mam showed me to do.
She couldn’t do it herself.
Nope, of course she couldn't.
Postpartum hemorrhage my hole.
More like postpartum battery.
He beat her the other night because the baby wouldn’t stop crying.
It was the closest I'd seen her come to dying in a long time.
The image was still at the forefront of my mind.
The blood.
The wailing.
The feeling of hopelessness.
"Where are the nappies?" I asked when the cranky little shit was finally finished guzzling the four-ounce bottle I'd made for him. "He smells."
"I can do it," Mam started to say as she pulled herself into a sitting position.
"Stay down," I ordered, shivering at the memory of what I'd seen come out of her body just a few short days ago. "I can look after him."
Eyeing the nappy bag in the corner of her room, I balanced my baby brother in my arms and reached for it.
"Come on, ya little fatty," I muttered, lowering him back onto her bed and gently pulling his wriggling body out of his onesie. "Let's get this over with."
He stared up at me, all big eyes and cuteness, and I frowned.
"Don’t look at me like that," I warned. Like I can keep you safe. "And don’t piss on me either."
"You'll make a great father in years to come," Mam said with a tremble in her voice.
"I'd rather die," was all I replied...
"Joey."
I wished she would stop talking to me.
Her voice made it hurt.
All of it.
“Joey, please.”
Reluctantly, I forced myself to look at her, feeling my heart shrivel up and die in my chest when my gaze took in the sight of my mother.
She was ruined.
Again.
She usually hid it well, but not today. Like a fresh coat of paint on the wall, my father had layered her in a fresh coat of blueish-green bruises.
I'd never seen anything like it, and that wasn’t an understatement.
She looked like a corpse.
Guilt churned inside of me, and I honestly wanted to die.
What could I say to her?
How could I form the words to tell her just how sorry and mad I was all in the one breath?
I wanted to hold her and shake her all at once.
As my lungs expelled the air I'd been holding in, I let every harmful feeling and thought of tonight’s events seep inside my head, hoping that they could somehow spark the flame of self-preservation inside of me.
Hoping my thoughts could fuel my anger and my anger could help me flip the switch and not care anymore.
Because caring was killing me, and I honestly didn’t think I could hold on much longer.
“What do you want from me, Mam?” I heard myself ask, tone hoarse, heart cut to shreds.
Her blue eyes widened. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean what do you want?” I snapped, running a hand through my hair. “You call me out of bed to fight him off you? I did. To barricade the door? I’ve done that, too. What do you want from me now, Mam? What do you want me to do?”
“He’s gone this time,” she whispered. “He won’t be back. I p-promise.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do,” I replied, too weary to fight with her. It had taken everything in me to go toe-to-toe with her asshole husband earlier. I had nothing left in the tank, not even my hatred to chug on. “He’ll be back, and he’ll be worse the next time.”
“Joey…”
“He’s going to kill you, Mam,” I choked out. “Don’t you get that? Can’t you hear me? You’re going to die in this house. If you don’t get away from him, you’re going to die here. I can feel it in my bones…“ my voice cracked, and I choked back a sob, unwilling to shed tears. “Don’t you love yourself? Don’t you love me?”
“Of course I do,” she sobbed softly, reaching across the table to place her small hand on my torn knuckles. “I love my children so much.”
‘I love my children’, not ‘I love you, Joey’.
Typical.
She might think that she loved all of her children, but she certainly didn’t, or couldn’t, love me.
Darren was her firstborn and favorite, Ollie was her sweet and affectionate baby, Tadhg was her mischievous rogue, and Shannon was her only daughter.
That left me.
The spare.
Blinking back the wet in my eyes, I glared at her small hand as she attempted to comfort me with minimal contact. "Why?"
"Why what?"
Why don’t you love me?
Inclining my head, I nodded towards the wedding band on the fourth finger on her left hand, and asked instead, "Why do you keep wearing that thing?"
Jerking her hand back, Mam cradled it to her chest and whispered, "Because that's what I'm supposed to do."
Temper rising, I glowered back at her. “And he’s supposed to not kick the living shit out you, or did ye not have that particular promise in your wedding vows?”
“Don’t, Joey.”
“Don’t what?” I sneered. “Tell you the truth?”
“I’m too tired to fight with you.”
“And I’m too tired to clean up any more of your messes,” I hissed. “You keep us here in this fucking house of pain. It’s your choice, and you choose him every single time. Darren was right to get the fuck out of this place.”
Flinching as if I had struck her, Mam slowly rose from the table, looking like she was seconds away from collapsing.
Against my will, I felt myself rise, feet moving straight for her. “Here,” I said, gently reaching around her back. “I’ll help you upstairs…”