Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Thirty-Three - Liam

On the bathroom floor, in the corner between the tub and the wall, I finally regain control. I can't seem to find the energy to move yet. I crave the numbing power of a good beer. So, I decide that's how I'll spend my Sunday. There's a liquor store on the edge of town and I know from past experience that they don't card.

When I finally find the strength to stand, I amble upstairs and back to my room to change from my sweat-soaked clothes. I decide on black jeans with too many holes, a plain white tee, and a denim jacket. On my way out of my room, I pause as I pass my bookshelf. My eyes catch the red, cardboard box. I've had it for years. It used to hold my CDs. Now it holds pictures. Pictures I couldn't bear to throw out, but also couldn't bring myself to look at. Inside, also, is my mother's Bible – the one Dad left behind for me.

I grab the box and carry it to my bed, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. I study it for a long time, then remove the lid. Inside are pictures of me and Lincoln and Mom and Ez and the newest addition. Stacy. Picking one, I hold it up so I can see it better. It's Ez and I in the church parking lot. With one hand, Ez holds a basketball and with the other, he ruffles my hair. We're both laughing, grins on our faces. This was before. Before everything fell apart. Before God forgot that I existed, forgot to protect me. Before Mom died and Ez abandoned me. This was a happier time, but now it doesn't feel so much like a memory as it does an alternate history. Almost like it would've never happened if I didn't have the picture to prove that it did, in fact, happen.

I toss the photo back in the box – creased from where I held it too tight – and choose another one. A picture of Mom with Ez and me on either side of her, pressing her face between ours, kissing her on the cheek. Goofy. Our family used to be goofy. This house used to be filled with laughter. So many used-to-be's.

I place the photo back in its place and dig through the pile until I find Mom's Bible buried at the bottom. I set the box on the bed and place her Bible in my lap. My eyes linger on the cover for a long time before I muster the courage to open it. I fan the pages out, re-familiarizing myself with the terrain. Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus. Almost every page is marked with highlighters and notes scribbled in the margins. My eyes fall to a passage in Deuteronomy. An arrow points to it and at the end of the arrow in Mom's handwriting, it says in bright red ink: for my kids. My heart stops for a split second before I read the passage at the end of the arrow: "'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. "These words, which I am commanding you today, shall be on your heart." 'You shall teach them diligently to your sons and shall talk of them when you sit in your house and when you walk by the way and when you lie down and when you rise up.'"

Vision blurred, my eyes linger on the verses. With a sharp inhale I slam the Bible closed and put it back in its place, buried beneath the photos. I replace the lid and shove the box to the furthest corner of my bookshelf.

Outside, I hear Dad pull into the driveway. It's two in the afternoon. He always spends a lot of time lingering outside the church after the Sunday service. Always the pastor, always making sure to take care of everyone else. For a brief moment, I wonder if he's taking care of himself. A familiar anger rises up in me as I remember all that this church has put him – and Mom – through. Sure, those people who stirred up trouble have mostly all left now, but I can't help but see them all through the lens of every cruel thing that's happened. At least I don't have to deal with it anymore, but Dad still does and Lincoln still goes there too. And so does his father.

I swallow. Grabbing my fingerless gloves and slipping them on, I make my way downstairs and head for the front door just as Dad walks into the dining room.

"Hey, son. Heading out?"

"Yeah."

"Where to?"

I turn to look at him. He looks especially tired today. But maybe it's just me.

"Nowhere. Just gonna go hang with some friends."

He gives a slow nod, slipping off his jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door. He kicks off his shoes and makes for the Keurig. "Don't stay out too late."

Rolling my eyes, "I won't, Dad. Don't worry."

"I'll always worry."

And that sounds like a promise.

The liquor store – Sal's – is a small, dingy place. The aisles are too close together and there's dust everywhere. The bell above the door signals my entry as I beeline for the alcohol.

Outside on the corner, a group of guys who are clearly drunk mess around with each other. I should be at Mountaintop right now. Playing billiards with the band and flirting relentlessly with Stacy while we drink our floats. Instead, I'm at some filthy liquor store on the edge of town, surrounded by guys who, I'm pretty sure, all have warrants out for their arrest. That, or they just enjoy looking like thugs and criminals.

Lucky for me, they ignore me just as much as I ignore them.

I examine the various options of beer and, just as I open the cooler door to retrieve a bottle of Blue Moon, the face of the last person on this planet that I expect to see peers through the glass at me.

My entire body is paralyzed.

By terror.

By rage.

By shame.

"Well, I'll be..." the man says, yanking the beer right from my hands. He twists off the top and takes a long drink – never once taking his eyes off of me. "Aren't you a little young for a dangerous establishment like this?"

Sweat forms on my forehead and oozes into my eyes, burning until my vision blurs. I blink and try to muster enough willpower to run, but my body doesn't obey. I'm frozen in place, prey in the sights of the predator.

Out of the corner of my eye, through the foggy glass door, I make out his face only partially. But it's enough. I could never forget that face – the face of the devil. The face of Bill Everett. The face of the man who raped me.