Chapter 1: The Hand on the Door
Kelly's hand was still on my shoulder when my father's shoes hit the last step. The wood of the front door was cold against my back and my cheek was hot where she'd grabbed me, and I could feel the strap of my mother's handbag cutting into my palm because I wouldn't let it go. She had me pinned in the frame like she was going to push me right through it, her other hand raised, and then she heard him too. For a half second nobody moved except for breathing.
The contradiction was right there in her blouse and her voice. She looked put together, dark teal satin that caught the daylight from the skylight, black heels planted on the light wood floor like she owned it, and she was shouting that this was her house now while holding a teenager against a door. The stone fireplace behind us was the same one my mother had picked out, the mantel where she'd lined up pictures. Kelly's jaw was tight and my bag was crushed to my chest and my father was standing at the bottom of the staircase with his fists half closed.
My name is Maya and I was seventeen and that morning I had not planned to leave.
It was just after ten. My father had gone to get gas for the lawn mower and grab checks from the bank downtown, he said he'd be twenty minutes. Kelly had been in the kitchen when I came downstairs with my bag because I was going to meet my friend at the library to study. She didn't say good morning. She stood behind me in the living room and I felt her before I heard her. "Your mother is gone. Now this is my house," she said, and her voice was low and angry. I turned and she was too close. When I stepped back she stepped forward and grabbed my arm.
I didn't understand at first that she meant it literally. I thought she was picking a fight the way she sometimes did about dishes or the thermostat. Then she shoved my back and I stumbled a step toward the entryway and my cheek hit her hand. The red mark was still burning when she kept pushing me across the floor toward the dark wood door. I said, "Let go of me. Get out," but she didn't. She said, "You don't belong here anymore," and kept her grip on my arm. I said, "This was my mother's home," because it was the only thing I could get out without crying all the way. We hit the door frame and she pinned my shoulder and shouted in my face and raised her hand again. That's when my father said it.
"Kelly, what are you doing to my daughter?"
May you like
I looked past her and saw him on the stairs, navy suit, grey tie a little off center, his beard catching the light from the window. He was coming down fast, one hand on the black cable railing. All I could say was "Father." It came out small. Kelly let go just enough to turn her head toward him and her voice changed completely. "Brandon, she was leaving," she said. It was quick and light, like she was explaining a misunderstanding. He stopped at the bottom step and didn't touch either of us. He looked at my cheek, then at my bag, then at her hand still on my arm. "She was leaving, or you were throwing her out?" he said. "Tell me exactly what happened while I was gone."
The door was still closed behind me. His eyes were on Kelly, waiting, and her fingers tightened once on my sleeve before she let go. The hallway was bright and quiet except for the air conditioning, and nobody had answered him yet.
