shawna

Growing Up

Growing up, I always slept on my side, facing toward the
wall. I slept on my side facing the wall, because my sister and I had a deal. I would face the wall and watch out for boogie men ghosts and monsters, and she would face the room and watch for our parents. To us, both threats were equally real. I guess we always tried to think of them as the same. The monsters and the boogie men and the parents, they were all just figments of our imaginations but just to be sure, we had a deal.
Most nights, it seemed like she got the better end of the deal, because most nights my parents wouldnt make it back as far as our bedroom. Most nights the yelling and fighting and glass shattering and screaming would only go as far as the kitchen or the master bedroom, before things would quiet down.
This night was different though. When my mother stumbled into the room, her breath was fire and her tears dripped like paint to the floor. Her eyes were filled with tears as she fell into our bed, and slurred, "My girls, my baby girls, wake up and give your mama some sugar."
We of course, had listened to the fighting. We always had to. We heard the shouting, the name-calling, we heard the chairs, the vases, the classes, the punches thrown. And we just lay there, back to back, hoping it never left the kitchen. Hoping we were only dreaming. And crying, but trying not to let the other know.
When after the fighting, my mother would come into our room, we didn't ask what happened. We never asked what happened. We always knew.

And it was impossible to tell whose side to be on. Some nights, momma would come into us, and tell us she loved us, and to just ignore the screaming, and no one really meant it. It would be better, she would say, your stepfather is a bastard.
And some nights, she would come in raging. She would swing at us and call us whores. And my step father would hold her back, beat her back, to protect us, until she gave in and slumped onto the floor for the night.
Those were the nights we hated the most. Those were the nights when we couldnt sleep in our own beds, the nights where phone calls were made secretly to aunts, or uncles, anyone, to see if we could find a place to stay. Those were the nights when it wasnt safe to be home.

Growing up, I always woke up facing my sister. My arm would be wrapped around her, and I would wish I didn't have to explain away the holes in the walls, the broken windows, the bruises. But I knew I couldnt leave.