how much better it is here.”
“Mom—”
“Tell her.”
“Mom, it’s good here. See you on Sunday.” I hang up fast.
Mom says Dad will take us away from her. Dad says he will put cement shoes on Mom and throw her in the lake. Dad says if we say a word, he’ll burn us all while we sleep.
* * *
Until we were five, we were at Dad’s every other weekend; he liked it when we played games outdoors, so it looked from the outside like he was a perfect father. He cared what the neighbors thought even though he said they couldn’t be trusted. Look at the ground, he’d say. Don’t look the lady across the street in the eyes; she might think you want something.
When he and Mom divorced, he kept all of our video games and everything else that was fun. The joysticks for our game console sat on his floor. The wires got tangled. I liked to play the game where I got to be a frog and jump across the highway, on the tops of car roofs. One wrong move and you’d get splatted; game over. All of our toys, storybooks, and most of our clothes were at Dad’s house. He’d kept Mom’s baby pictures and her entire wardrobe; he’d taken her clothes from her closet and tossed them into a big heap in the basement, next to the washer and dryer. Some of her things he left out on the curb in the rain, for the garbage collectors to pick up.
We drove to Mom’s with the radio turned up loud. Dad flipped the station off when we pulled into Mom’s driveway. “Tell me what I want to hear, girls,” Dad said. “Remember what I told you about your mother.”
Every weekend we said the same thing before we got out of the car and went inside with our mother. “Mom is a witch. Mom should die. Mom is an evil bitch.”
* * *
Dad had a swimming pool. He taught us how to swim by pushing us into his pool, one after the other. He said we’d have to learn how to swim for our upcoming vacation to Florida. The pool was a big, above-the-ground model that Dad put up at the side of his yard. He carried us, a twin on each of his hips, up the stairs of the wooden deck, to the poolside. We stood together and looked down at the deep water.
“Close your eyes, girls,” he said, putting one of each of our hands in each of his. He pulled them up from our sides and asked us to cover our eyes. “Don’t peek.”
He pushed us in.
The air whooshed through our hair and we landed.
We were on our way to Florida.
* * *
Dad likes to comb our hair. Our hair is long and brown, hangs to our waists. He starts out softly with a brush, then works his way through until his fingers tickle the tops of our heads.
“Stop it,” I say. Sister is crying. “She doesn’t like that. You’re hurting our heads.”
“You sound just like your mother,” he says, as mean as the meanest kids on the playground. “You look like her, too, with all that hair.”
Dad has an idea.
“Did you know there is a place where it’s summer all year?” he asks. “Don’t tell your Mom. It’s a secret.” I know we will keep his secret. It isn’t a lie if it’s really summer all year someplace.
“It’s hot there,” Dad says. “You’ll need to get your hair cut to stay cool.”
Dad takes us to his barber. I like to watch the barber’s pole, the spinning red and white. Christa and I sit in the chairs. Our eyes spin around with the pole. Men sit and get their haircuts. All of the shop’s seats are full. The men sitting next to us talk about boxing and the new Rocky movie.
“It’s just not realistic. But he’s some actor,” one man says. The rest nod, put their hands in their laps. They lose more hair.
The barber gets close to my face and talks loud. “Are you next, pretty girl?” Dad pushes me forward.
“I never saw Rocky .” That’s all I could say.
“Such pretty, pretty hair” the barber says. When he’s done cutting, there’s none left.
Sister is next. The barber cuts her hair shorter than he cuts mine. Sister cries harder
“Mom—”
“Tell her.”
“Mom, it’s good here. See you on Sunday.” I hang up fast.
Mom says Dad will take us away from her. Dad says he will put cement shoes on Mom and throw her in the lake. Dad says if we say a word, he’ll burn us all while we sleep.
* * *
Until we were five, we were at Dad’s every other weekend; he liked it when we played games outdoors, so it looked from the outside like he was a perfect father. He cared what the neighbors thought even though he said they couldn’t be trusted. Look at the ground, he’d say. Don’t look the lady across the street in the eyes; she might think you want something.
When he and Mom divorced, he kept all of our video games and everything else that was fun. The joysticks for our game console sat on his floor. The wires got tangled. I liked to play the game where I got to be a frog and jump across the highway, on the tops of car roofs. One wrong move and you’d get splatted; game over. All of our toys, storybooks, and most of our clothes were at Dad’s house. He’d kept Mom’s baby pictures and her entire wardrobe; he’d taken her clothes from her closet and tossed them into a big heap in the basement, next to the washer and dryer. Some of her things he left out on the curb in the rain, for the garbage collectors to pick up.
We drove to Mom’s with the radio turned up loud. Dad flipped the station off when we pulled into Mom’s driveway. “Tell me what I want to hear, girls,” Dad said. “Remember what I told you about your mother.”
Every weekend we said the same thing before we got out of the car and went inside with our mother. “Mom is a witch. Mom should die. Mom is an evil bitch.”
* * *
Dad had a swimming pool. He taught us how to swim by pushing us into his pool, one after the other. He said we’d have to learn how to swim for our upcoming vacation to Florida. The pool was a big, above-the-ground model that Dad put up at the side of his yard. He carried us, a twin on each of his hips, up the stairs of the wooden deck, to the poolside. We stood together and looked down at the deep water.
“Close your eyes, girls,” he said, putting one of each of our hands in each of his. He pulled them up from our sides and asked us to cover our eyes. “Don’t peek.”
He pushed us in.
The air whooshed through our hair and we landed.
We were on our way to Florida.
* * *
Dad likes to comb our hair. Our hair is long and brown, hangs to our waists. He starts out softly with a brush, then works his way through until his fingers tickle the tops of our heads.
“Stop it,” I say. Sister is crying. “She doesn’t like that. You’re hurting our heads.”
“You sound just like your mother,” he says, as mean as the meanest kids on the playground. “You look like her, too, with all that hair.”
Dad has an idea.
“Did you know there is a place where it’s summer all year?” he asks. “Don’t tell your Mom. It’s a secret.” I know we will keep his secret. It isn’t a lie if it’s really summer all year someplace.
“It’s hot there,” Dad says. “You’ll need to get your hair cut to stay cool.”
Dad takes us to his barber. I like to watch the barber’s pole, the spinning red and white. Christa and I sit in the chairs. Our eyes spin around with the pole. Men sit and get their haircuts. All of the shop’s seats are full. The men sitting next to us talk about boxing and the new Rocky movie.
“It’s just not realistic. But he’s some actor,” one man says. The rest nod, put their hands in their laps. They lose more hair.
The barber gets close to my face and talks loud. “Are you next, pretty girl?” Dad pushes me forward.
“I never saw Rocky .” That’s all I could say.
“Such pretty, pretty hair” the barber says. When he’s done cutting, there’s none left.
Sister is next. The barber cuts her hair shorter than he cuts mine. Sister cries harder
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