Chapter 2 - The Redness Beneath the Suds
I pulled my hands instinctively against my stomach, pressing them into the soft cotton of my oversized t-shirt as if I could hide them inside my own body.
The kitchen seemed to get smaller, the walls closing in around the clutter of bills on the counter, the half-empty cereal boxes, and the lingering smell of bleached tile. I could hear Dad's heavy work boots stepping back across the laminate floor, coming toward the sink.
“Nia, let me see.”
“It's okay,” I muttered, staring fixedly at his worn work shoes. They were caked with dry mud around the soles from some construction site or warehouse lot along his route.
“I'd like to see, please.”
His voice wasn't angry, but it didn't have that warm, teasing quality he used when he was joking around with Ava either. It was the tone he used when he was inspecting a rig before a long trip—checking the brakes, looking for cracks in the tires, making sure nothing was about to fail at seventy miles per hour.
Vanessa stood in the doorway, her arms still crossed, tapping her foot against the floor.
“They're just dry from the soap,” she said, her tone defensive now, laced with a thin veneer of irritation. “I've told her a dozen times to use the lotion in the bathroom cabinet, but she—”
I kept my hands hidden behind my back, pressing them against the fabric of my shorts. I didn't want another argument that ended with everyone looking at me as though I had caused it, as though I was the grain of sand that jammed the gears of the whole household. If I just gave in, if I just pulled my hands out and pretended everything was fine, Dad would probably let it go. He was tired. He wanted a quiet weekend with his wife and his real kids. He didn't want to play referee between Vanessa and the ghost of his first marriage.
Dad reached out and gently caught my right wrist. He didn't yank it away; his grip was firm but remarkably gentle, the way he held a fragile tool he didn't want to break.
“Nia.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I showed him.
I held my hands out, palms down, into the weak afternoon light coming through the small window above the sink.
The skin across my fingers and the backs of my hands was bright red and rough, looking less like human skin and more like raw meat. Two long, angry cracks ran horizontally beside my knuckles, splitting the skin open where the joints bent. A small bead of dried blood had formed on my left index finger, surrounded by angry, swollen purple skin. The constant exposure to the heavy-duty commercial bleach and dish soap Vanessa insisted on buying because it was “cheaper in bulk” had stripped away every layer of natural protection. The hot water had made them sting so badly all afternoon that I'd been holding the plates by their very edges, trying not to let the liquid touch the open cuts.
Dad stared.
For a long moment, the only sound in the house was the refrigerator humming in the corner. He didn't say anything, but the color drained from his face, leaving his skin looking grayish-yellow under the overhead fluorescent light.
He took both my wrists in his large, calloused hands, turning them over slowly, careful not to touch the sore places directly. His thumbs brushed the dry, cracked skin around my thumbs with a tenderness that made a hot lump form instantly in my throat.
“How long?” he asked. His voice was barely a whisper, completely level, but there was something terrifying underneath it—like the deep rumble of thunder before a summer storm breaks over the plains.
I couldn't answer. If I opened my mouth, I knew I would start crying, and crying meant I was being dramatic, which was the number one thing Vanessa always accused me of.
Vanessa gave a short, sharp laugh—a sound meant to break the tension, but it only made the air feel sharper.
“Oh, Marcus, don't look like that. She has very sensitive skin. I buy regular dish soap, but she insists on using the heavy-duty stuff to get things done faster so she can go back to her room. She never said they were hurting. If she had told me—truly told me—I would have bought special gloves.”
I snapped my head up, forgetting my rule about keeping quiet.
“You told me I couldn't use the rubber gloves because they were for cleaning the toilets!”
“Nia,” Vanessa hissed, her eyes flashing dangerously. “That is a complete fabrication. See, Marcus? This is what I deal with all week. She twists everything. She invents stories to make me look like some kind of monster.”
Dad didn't look at Vanessa. He kept his eyes locked on my hands, turning my right wrist over again to inspect a split that ran nearly an inch long across the knuckle.
“I did,” I whispered, my voice trembling now despite my best efforts. “I asked on Tuesday. You said the yellow gloves were for the bathrooms and I didn't need anything for the dishes.”
“She never asked,” Vanessa said, stepping closer, her voice rising in pitch. “Marcus, are you seriously going to take the word of a twelve-year-old child over your wife? Look at her—she’s acting victimized because she had to do a few household chores on a Saturday afternoon! Caleb and Ava didn't complain.”
“Caleb and Ava aren't scrubbing baseboards with a toothbrush,” Dad said.
His voice wasn't loud. It wasn't a shout. But the kitchen went dead silent. Even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to dip for a second.
Vanessa stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth opening slightly. “Excuse me?”
Dad let go of my wrists—slowly, reluctantly—and laid a clean towel beside the sink.
“Nia,” he said quietly, looking down at me. “Put your hands on the towel. Don't touch the water again.”
“I have a pan left,” I told him, looking at the cast-iron skillet still sitting unwashed on the back burner.
“Leave it,” he said.
He turned off the overhead light above the dishes, though the afternoon sun still filled the kitchen with harsh, bright light. Then he walked past Vanessa without looking at her, his broad shoulders squared in a way I hadn't seen since before they got married.
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In the living room, Caleb stood nervously beside the sofa, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Ava clutched the fleece blanket against her chest like a shield. Vanessa remained in the doorway, blocking the exit, her face mottled with red anger.
Nobody sat down. The house held its breath, waiting to see what happened when the man who paid the bills finally realized what his family looked like when he wasn't there to steer the wheel.
