Chapter 2 - The Morning After
At 7:15 AM on the Friday after Thanksgiving, my phone began to vibrate on Rachel’s coffee table.
I was already awake. I had spent the night propped up on three pillows on her pull-out sofa, unable to lie flat without the inflamed lacerations across my shoulders grinding against the sheets. Rachel had cleaned the cuts with saline and applied an antibiotic cream that smelled like lavender, but every time I breathed deeply, the intercostal muscles along my left ribs protested.
The caller ID showed: HOME.
I let it ring until it went to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, it rang again. HOME.
Then: BRANDON CELL.
I didn't answer. I sat with a mug of black coffee between my hands, watching the morning traffic creep along High Street below through Rachel's sheer curtains. Columbus was waking up to Black Friday shopping, cold gray skies, and suburban complacency. In my parents' house, the ritual was as predictable as the tides: Dad would be sitting in his leather recliner with the sports section, waiting for his eggs; Brandon would be sprawled on the couch in his sweatpants, complaining about a headache; and Mom would be standing in the kitchen, frantically loading the dishwasher while wondering why the girl hadn't started the breakfast bacon.
The third call came at 7:42 AM. SUSAN CARTER.
This time, I swiped the screen and tapped the speaker icon, setting the phone down on the table between two stacks of corporate tax filings.
"Emily?" My mother’s voice was high, thin, and brittle with annoyance. "Where are you? Your father came downstairs expecting his coffee, and the kitchen is an absolute disaster. The turkey carcass is still on the cutting board."
I took a slow sip of the coffee. "Good morning, Mother."
"Don't you use that tone with me," she snapped, her voice dropping into the familiar rhythm of household management through shame. "I don't know what kind of childish game you think you're playing, sneaking out in the middle of the night like a thief. Did you stay at that girl Rachel's place? You pack your things and get back here right now. Your father’s shirt from yesterday needs to be taken to the dry cleaner before noon, and you haven't even touched the dining room rug."
"Did you look at my back before I left, Mom?"
A pause. A sharp intake of air over the receiver.
"Your father lost his temper because you provoked him," she said, the words coming out rapidly, mechanical and defensive. "You embarrassed him in front of his sister and Uncle Dave. You know how sensitive he is about respect at the holidays. If you had just poured the damn wine like he asked, none of this would have happened. You always have to make a stand about the most ridiculous things."
"He hit me with a belt, Mom. In front of fourteen people."
"He was correcting you!" her voice spiked, sharp enough to cut glass. "And quite frankly, Emily, after the attitude you've had the last six months, you were long overdue for a reality check. Now stop being dramatic. Nobody was hurt. He used the flat of the leather. I’ve seen your grandfather do much worse to your father, and Richard turned out to be an honorable, hardworking provider. You don't throw away a family over a couple of red marks."
"They're bleeding, Mom."
"Then put some witch hazel on them and get in your car!" she yelled. "Brandon’s car battery is dead again, and he needs you to drive him to the dealership for his eleven o'clock shift. We are not doing this today, Emily. I will not have our family ruined because you decided to have a tantrum on Thanksgiving."
"I'm not coming back," I said.
The line went dead quiet for five seconds. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its frantic edge, replaced by the cold, heavy weight of an ultimatum.
"If you don't walk through that back door in thirty minutes, Emily, don't expect your father to let you back in this house. Everything you own is under this roof. Your car is parked in our driveway. Your bed was paid for with your father’s money. You have nowhere else to go, and you know it."
"The car title is in my name, Mom. I paid off the loan two years ago."
"Using money you should have been contributing to the family groceries!" she hissed. "You're selfish. You have always been a selfish, cold-hearted little girl. If you walk away from us today, you are dead to this family. Do you hear me? Dead."
"I was already dead in that dining room, Mom," I said. "You just didn't want to smell the corpse while you were eating your pie."
I hung up.
My hands were shaking, but not from fear. It was the adrenaline of an animal that has finally chewed through its own paw to get out of the steel trap.
Rachel walked out of her bedroom wearing her navy wool winter coat, holding two sets of keys and a thick manila folder.
"We have an appointment at nine-thirty," she said, looking down at me with her jaw set hard.
"With who?"
"Dr. Marcus at the urgent care on Olentangy," she said. "And then at eleven, we’re meeting my cousin, Andrea."
May you like
"Andrea?"
"Andrea Vance," Rachel said, picking up her travel mug. "She’s the lead litigator at Vance, Croft & Sterling. She spends forty hours a week taking construction contractors and corrupt corporate directors apart for sport. And she’s been waiting three years for an excuse to look at your father’s tax records."
