Months have passed since then.
Mom had wholly left the family picture, either because Dad forced her to stay away or she simply decided it was for the best.
As a solo parent, Dad started doing all the chores himself—he cooked our meals, washed our dishes, and even did our laundry. Of course, Emman and I did what we could to help, but it didn't erase the fact that something—someone—was missing.
Soon after, Dad changed even more.
He started drinking.
He never even liked alcohol. He complained about their horrible taste, exclaiming, "How people can stomach this thing, I'll never know!" Mom would laugh and tease him about it, calling him a "sissy," and Dad would jokingly call her a misogynist.
It made me wonder, "Would Mom be proud if she saw Dad finally drink until he dropped to the ground?" But then I thought, "Of course not; what wife would want their husband to be a drunkard?"
The more days passed, the more beer bottles littered the top of our dining table. From a single bottle every night, it became two bottles, then three, then five, then nine. Once he reached the 10-bottle mark, Dad stopped doing anything around the house.
Emman didn't want to do more than his share, so I had to step up. I learned to cook, wash dishes, do laundry, iron shirts. I pack my lunch, get myself to school, and then back home again.
Months passed, but nothing changed.
Dad tried to act sober whenever Emman or I would start a conversation, but it was easy to see that he wasn't. More than the stench of alcohol, it was his eyes that gave it away. They were never clear. They always seemed to be looking past us as if he was someplace else inside his head. In another world, at another time, perhaps when Mom hasn't left us yet.
Whenever I tried bringing up Mom, he would quickly dismiss us by saying he was busy. But 'busy' meant sauntering to the kitchen, popping open a bottle, and drowning himself in alcohol until the world turned black.
At the very least, Dad gave us a number to call so we could get food delivered to the house. I never knew how he paid for it, but we didn't starve.
Another month in, and the house grew even dirtier, filling up with beer cans and other bottles. Whenever I tried to take out the trash, more of them magically appeared.
Dad didn't even sleep in his room anymore. He was always drunk in the kitchen or passed out on the couch. I wouldn't be surprised if that were the only sleep he ever got.
Eventually, he started driving out at night. He returned every morning just in time for the breakfast delivery; then it's back to the bottle, the kitchen, and the couch.
"This is getting ridiculous!" Emman complained one morning, just before breakfast came. "We can't continue living like this! We're not eating healthy, and we haven't seen Mom since my birthday!"
Emman wasn't usually the beacon of sense, nor was he the wiser sibling, but for once, I agreed. Dad was slipping away. I couldn't even remember the last time he talked to us, and any memory of him being sober just seemed like a distant dream.
In the In-Between, I turned my head and saw Death looking at me. His face was almost unreadable, but his eyes gave it away.
He knew.
Of course, he knew.
But I, at that young and tender age, didn't.
I tried not to show my emotions, but what does it matter? He's Death. Of course, he could see right through me. Besides, my poker face was never good to begin with.
I had just turned back to the scene in front of me when I felt Death's hand brush against my wrist. I looked back at him; he was staring at me with this odd expression.
"What?" I asked, half-laughing—a nervous tick.
"I'm here."
My eyes widened.
I didn't expect that, but I knew exactly what he meant. We don't have that tight telepathic communication like what I had with Dad, but I like to think I can understand the deeper meaning behind Death's sentences.
"You can cry if you want." That's what he wanted to say. "I'm here for you."
And just like that, tears started trickling down my cheeks. I tugged at Death's long black sleeves, holding it tightly. Then finally released the sobs I'd been swallowing. My pitiful cries echoed inside the In-Between.
How odd. There was nothing inside for the vibration of my sobs to bounce off, but my voice still echoed. Well, this IS the In-Between of Life, and the After Life physics logic probably didn't apply here.
"You're leaving again tonight, Dad?" The memory reeled me back in. Dad was leaning on the doorway, looking at something outside, while my younger self stood behind him.
Dad hummed in response.
"Dad, can't you just stay home tonight?" I pleaded.
"I'll be back tomorrow, Evangeline," Dad replied.
"You promise?"
He never answered. I don't know if he just didn't hear me or was ignoring me on purpose, but he just put on his coat, closed the door behind him, and didn't even look back.
"Drive safe, please," I whispered to no one in particular. The next thing I knew, the car was revving from the garage. The buzzing sound usually brought me comfort, but not that night. There was a pit in my stomach I couldn't quite put my finger on.
An intuition.
So I watched through the window as Dad left, following the dim light of the car until it disappeared into the distance.
I didn't realize until I turned around that Emman was watching us. He was standing at the corner of the room, his face almost indifferent.
He had kept to himself since Mom left, only leaving his room so he could sneak his favorite plate into my wash pile. He probably thought I didn't notice, but it was pretty obvious.
I thought he would talk to me, but he just mumbled something inaudible and clomped upstairs to watch TV or play video games, probably.
'How about I don't wash his plate tonight?!' I thought to myself as I entered the kitchen. 'Maybe that would teach him a lesson!'
Though honestly, I was just impressed with myself for not breaking anything. I had a reputation for being clumsy, so I wasn't entrusted with anything fragile. Mom always had to guide me when washing, ready at a moment's notice to catch the plates and mugs.
I wondered how Mom was. I looked so focused as I washed, but I knew my little mind was screaming with the questions that kept me awake at night.
𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯?
𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦?
𝘐𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘸?
"What would have happened if I didn't show Dad that picture?" I didn't even notice I had said that aloud.
What followed was the piercing sound of shattered glass. It echoed throughout the kitchen and into the entire house.
It was a plate. It slipped from my hands while I rinsed it, breaking into a million pieces as it hit the ground. If I'd known any swear words at that age, I'd have said it.
From upstairs, my brother shouted at me. "What the fuck are you doing down there?!"
"Nothing!" I quickly responded as I realized I had dropped Emman's favorite plate. "This is bad," I thought. "He'll hit me tomorrow when he realizes his plate is gone!"
I knelt on the floor and quickly picked up the large pieces, only for an extremely sharp shard to pierce my hand. Rich, red blood dropped into the cold cement as I bit my mouth in a bid to stay quiet.
It wasn't that painful, to be honest. I wasn't that young of a child anymore to cry over such a superficial wound, but for some reason, I found myself tearing up.
Her tears—my tears—weren't from the slice. It was from my chest. From my heart. From the months of trying to keep it all together. From months of pretending as if everything was fine. Keeping house and doing chores—in those small ways, I wanted to keep a semblance of our old life. Back when we were still one family. Back when Mom was still around.
But that cut was the straw that broke the camel's back. All the pent-up emotions inside me came out like a flood, and I let the tears flow as I washed my bleeding hand.
"Shut the fuck up!" Emman shouted from his room, and I tried to muffle the sobs.
It hurt more when I did that, but it had been our routine since Day 1: If you don't want to be beaten, don't let Emman hear you cry.
Through heavy tears and dripping snot, I shook my head and continued cleaning. I checked every corner to make sure there were no more shards, then I locked myself in my room and used a spare, clean kitchen cloth to wrap my hand. I didn't know if it helped; I just saw it from the movies. I closed my eyes and wished that Dad would come home soon so he could help me.
He didn't, though.
Help me, that is. Not with the dishes, nor with my hand.
He didn't even come home.