By Sophie Schulz
“I think it’s really brave of you to be doing this,” Ame sighed as she stirred the butter in the skillet.
“Yeah, I agree,” bellowed Peter, stuffing a fistful of salt and vinegar chips inside his cheeks.
I was sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, even though Ame always hated when I did that. She would nip at me for it when I was younger. When she would turn her back from chopping onions to stir whatever was in the pot, my little butt wiggled up onto the edge of the granite, despite the scolding that was sure to follow. She didn’t mention it when she turned around to mince the garlic today.
It was Sunday evening, the only time I was sure they would both be there. Ame with her feet planted on the limestone kitchen floor. Peter with his ass glued to the tattered recliner. Me, plopped absentmindedly on the granite kitchen island. I never quite felt comfortable calling them Mom and Dad. A certain disconnect has always been between us, even though I have lived with them my entire life. I think I’ve always known it would be temporary, and calling them Mom and Dad would make leaving much harder. Because it’s hard to lose your parents, right? So they’ve always just been Ame and Peter. Less painful, I think.
“I just, I don’t exactly know if leaving is what will make me happy. It just feels so rushed,” I said cautiously. To be honest, I knew that this day would have to come eventually. My friend Theresa was taken last month. She stopped replying to my messages. It’s almost like she just disappeared. But I know that’s not what will happen to me. Yes. I know that.
“I think Amos is great. Always watches the game with me on Sundays. Chiefs fan, like your old man,” Peter said, crunching methodically.
“Yes, he brought me flowers the first time we met! And he seems to be fond of you,” said Ame, not turning away from the stove. The kitchen backsplash is what echoed her voice back at me, and I wonder how much of the meaning got lost in the granite.
“Do you really think so?” I asked, turning my knees toward Ame.
“Honey I think you should do whatever you want,” she replied without a hint of bother, digging the spatula into the top of the butter and forcing it to flatten to its melty demise.
“Yes, I agree with your mother,” Peter beckoned over his back shoulder. The Chiefs were losing. 14-7.
“I guess, like, don’t you think I’m too young to be leaving with him just yet?” I asked the backs of their heads.
“You’ve been 18 for four months, that’s plenty later than your Aunt decided to leave. I don’t think you going with Amos is front page worthy news—”
“Aunt Cheryl didn’t ‘decide’ to leave, Mom, you know that and neither did y—”
“FUCK. Browns scored again.” 21-7.
A caramelly smell wafts toward my nostrils. The butter was beginning to brown.
Ame turned around to scrape the garlic from the cutting board into the pan and our eyes met. Just briefly. Brief enough to shrink me down to half my age. But she turned again.
The garlic sizzled. I didn’t have much time left.
With a harsh tug, she pried open the freezer door and reached inside for a box of Texas toast we bought at least four months ago. Burned from iciness, but still edible. She set a timer for the bread to defrost. And with a tick, I realized that dinner would be ready in 30 minutes, clockwork. 30 minutes was not enough time.
“Guys can I just get your, like, undivided attention for a few minutes please I’m feeling really—”
“—CHIEFS JUST SCORED,” he boomed, trampling the end of my sentence. It was like they had wax melts shoved up their fucking ear canals. Useless.
“Honey, your father and I are just saying that we don’t care if you leave now or in 5 years. But someone is coming to get you tonight so might as well accept it,” she said with a detachment that made it feel as if she were writing my eulogy. But she was the one who plunged the knife. I don’t know if she recognized the fear in my voice, but I tried to keep it hidden. If I was calm and perfect to them, they’d realize I was worth keeping. I try to constrain the desperation in my throat.
“I will always do the dishes and I will never talk back to you again and I will be silent and perfect and do whatever you want me to—I just really, really don’t want to go with him and,” I say, turning to Ame with fear in the cracks of my voice, “you know exactly what you have to say so I can stay here.”
Her wrist cemented itself, hand gripping the spatula that stirred the now blackened butter-garlic compote. The air became thin in the space between us. Maybe she could feel my green eyes piercing the back of her head because it looked as though her spine recoiled into itself.
She never spoke about how she came to be with Peter. How this house became hers to manage, how she became his to keep forever. But I know how women got paired up, like how I was about to be. I heard the stories. I wonder if she was scared when they came to take her away. I hope she was. Maybe then she would let me stay. Say the words that would uncuff my wrists from the fate that was coming too rapidly.
I stand to face her, jumping off the kitchen counter and planting my feet firmly on the ground. I was no little girl anymore, and she needed to see me for the person I was, the woman she birthed and raised, and remember what it felt like to be eighteen and scared. I’m still an inch shorter than her, but our eyes are locked so that you can slice our gaze with a knife. I feel like she is looking through my eyes and into my soul, feeling the fear that pulses with each heartbeat. I think I see a glisten at the basin of her eyes, and for a moment I swear she will say the words and—
DING
The timer went off. It echoed throughout the marrow of my bones, letting me know that my time was up. The sheen of moisture pooled in her eyes was gone. She turned to take the bread out of the oven, breaking my stare like a sharp blow. They never asked me to stay, though they knew it would save me. They knew what would happen to me if they didn’t. I so badly wanted to be able to trust them, to have someone in the world before I became something had by someone else. They knew what happened to girls whose parents didn’t let them stay. Each breath felt carbonated, fuzzy as we stood there waiting for Amos to seep through the front door. Probably dawning a smile, a bouquet of sweet words to seduce me to the cage I was assigned. I wanted to run but I had nowhere to go. I searched for any exit, but the doors to escape fate were always bolted shut. I was now the property of the state, and they were coming to collect their chattel.
I think I screamed, maybe. I really hope I did. I hope Ame saw herself in my terrified eyes and felt a shred of regret. A shred that tears her apart for the rest of her life. I don’t exactly remember all of what happened next. I wonder if they are already raising the next little girl that they’ll readily give away. Well. It doesn’t matter now. I’m not theirs to worry about.
Sophie Schulz is a sophomore English major at Wagner College. She focuses on creative writing of all styles, and discovered a lifelong passion for it through Wagner college’s creative writing courses. As well as creative writing, Sophie has a passion for journalism and has worked as a producer and reporter for a local ABC news branch, as well as on the Wagnerian newspaper. She was honored by the Society of Professional Journalists and represented Wagner last year by attending their annual conference as a student reporter. Sophie feels that the creative writing scene at Wagner is beginning to blossom, and is excited to be a part of it.