I can feel tears welling in my eyes, my voice cracking as I say, “It’s not like that.”
He senses it, I think, because his expression hardens, that anger rushing back into him. “So you’re just a pussy, huh? Maybe that’s what your Scarlet Letter stands for. Just a fucking scaredy-cat. But I’m not putting up with that shit. It makes no sense.”
Lorenzo walks out, slamming the front door behind him, and I close my eyes, trying to keep tears from falling.
Face your fears and wipe your tears.
“Sasha,” I whisper, even though he’s gone, wrapping a hand around my wrist tightly, my palm covering the tattoo. “It’s all for Sasha.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The dice clattered along the kitchen bar top, coming to a stop in the center of it. The little girl stood up on the stool, practically climbing on top of the bar, crawling across it.
“One... two... three...”
She pointed, counting the dots, as a loud huff sounded out across from her, so close she could smell the stale stench of breath. Vodka. She scrunched her nose up at the Cowardly Lion. Yuck.
He stared at her impatiently. “Well? What is it?”
“I’m counting them,” she said, looking back at the dice.
“Hurry it up,” he said. “I don’t have all day.”
The little girl was pretty sure he did have all day, since all he ever seemed to do most days was hang around there, but she didn’t say that, counting the dots.
Six on one; five on the other.
“Six and five,” she said.
“Which is...?”
She hesitated, counting the dots all together. “Eleven.”
“Eleven,” he agreed, snatching up the dice to roll them again, looking at her pointedly. “Well? What is it?”
Around and around, again and again, he kept rolling and she kept counting. Learning.
Footsteps headed their way, the Tin Man strolling into the kitchen, his brow furrowing as he glared at her sprawled out across the bar. “What are you doing?”
“Counting,” she said.
“I’m teaching her how to add,” the Cowardly Lion chimed in, taking a drink from his bottle. “She’s terrible at it.”
The little girl groaned, sitting back on the stool. “It’s no fun!”
“Life isn’t fun,” the Cowardly Lion said, pointing his bottle at her. “You don’t want to be dumb, do you, little girl?”
“I’m not dumb,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “My mommy—”
“Mommy or dummy?” he asked, laughing that mean way he sometimes did. “Like mother, like daughter, eh?”
“Enough,” the Tin Man said as he approached, snatching the little girl off the stool and setting her on her feet. “Run along, kitten.”
She stomped off, heading upstairs, and plopped down at the desk in the bedroom, crayons and paper scattered all around in front of her. Her chest felt all tight, like her heart was sad tonight.
Six months. Half a year.
The little girl didn’t know how many weeks that was, much less how many days. But she did know it was the end of December, which meant Christmas was coming.
Grabbing a fresh piece of paper, she started drawing, as the first bit of winter snow fell outside her window. She drew until the sun set over the city, until darkness crept in.
When she finished her first picture, she moved on to another, not stopping until that one was done, too.
“Perfect,” she said, holding them up, grinning, before snatching up Buster from the corner of the desk and making her way back downstairs. It was getting late, really late, and all the winged monkeys were gone.
She wondered if the Tin Man was sleeping, with how quiet it was, but flickering light filtered out from the den. The doors were cracked open, so she slipped between them.
The Tin Man sat in his chair near the fire, holding a bottle of vodka, his suit all rumpled.
“Daddy?” she whispered, carefully approaching.
“I thought I told you to run along.”
He didn’t even look up as he said that, legs spread out, his body slouched. His voice was low, like sandpaper again.
“I did,” she said, “but...”
His eyes rose, bloodshot but gray. Not all black today. “But?”
“I drew you a picture,” she said, holding up one of her drawings.
He regarded her in silence for a moment before motioning for her to approach. She walked up to him, holding the drawing out, standing still as he took it. It was a picture of the beach, the one he’d taken her to months ago. She’d even drawn the rides that had been nearby, like the Ferris wheel. She’d hoped he’d take her back there, maybe when it was open, but he hadn’t let her leave the house since then.
After looking at the picture, he set it on the table. “What else do you have?”
The little girl looked at the second drawing, her heart racing. “A picture of Mommy.”
“A picture,” he repeated, “of your mother.”
She nodded before reminding herself: use your words. “I drew it for her for Christmas. I didn’t know how to draw her, really, I didn’t know if her hair got long or what she wore or maybe she got taller, but I drew her like I remember, and maybe I can see her on Christmas, or you can give it to her?”
He frowned and held his hand out. “Give it here.”
She handed it to him.
He clutched the sides of the paper, his knee moving, rocking back and forth, as he stared at the picture in silence.
“I didn’t know if you had wrapping paper,” she continued. “Can we get a tree now? I can decorate it and put the picture under it. Mommy liked the star on top.”
He sighed. “We are not getting a tree, kitten.”
“We’re not?”
“What is the point? So you can climb it?”
“It’s Christmas,” she said. “Santa Claus brings presents.”
“We do not celebrate Christmas.” He set the picture down in his lap. “We are not religious.”
“But Santa—”
“Is not real.”
She gasped. It felt like he hit her. “You’re lying!”
“No, your mother lied,” he said. “She lied to me. She lied to you. That is all she ever did. Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie!”
He shouted the word ‘lie’ so loud that she flinched, taking a step back, tears stinging her eyes.
“No!” She shook her head, clutching Buster tightly. “Why are you saying that stuff?”
“Because it is true,” he said, snatching up her drawing, crumpling it as he waved it at her, nearly smacking her in the face with it. “This woman? Your precious ‘Mommy’, with those eyes and those hips and those lips? She lied to you, kitten—hideous lies! She made you think I was the bad one, but that was her. She betrayed me. She kept you from me, my own flesh and blood. You were mine! I would rather you are dead... I would rather end your life than ever let that suka have you for herself. She gets nothing!”
The little girl took another step back, away from him, her bottom lip trembling. “Stop saying that stuff! It’s not right, so stop it!”
“You do not tell me what to do. I tell you! What I say goes!”
“I hate you!” she yelled. “You have no heart in you!”
She ran out, heading upstairs, moving as fast as her legs would carry her, tears streaming down her cheeks. She hated him. She hated him so much. She went to her room and slammed the door, jumping into the bed.
“He’s lying,” she whispered, hugging Buster, squeezing her eyes shut. “Mommy loves us. Mommy doesn’t lie. He’s just mean, and big, and ugly!”
Footsteps echoed down the hallway, coming near, stomping against the wood, determined. Angry. Her bedroom door flung open, slamming into the wall, and the little girl curled tighter into a ball. The moment she felt the mattress dip, she saw his face, bitter and bloodshot and right there.
“You want to hate me?” he asked. “I will give you reason to.”
She held her breath, terrified, waiting for the hurt she thought he’d make her feel, like the way he hurt mother, but it didn’t happen.