Free WickedSeduction by Tina Donahue Page B

I’d put a smiley
face next to our answers that got no reaction from him, guessing they were
safe. If he’d frowned even slightly while we were talking, I’d remember exactly
what we said and put an exclamation point next to the words, making certain to
tell my mom the next day. I didn’t want her to use the same answer because I
was afraid he’d finally get upset enough to blow.”
    “Jesus, Marnie, that’s a big job for a kid.”
    “I didn’t know any different. I honestly thought all
families were like mine until I got older and had dinner at my friends’ houses.
I couldn’t believe how noisy and messy the kids were, the way they joked with
their parents at meals and whined about stuff like they had the right. I kept
waiting for their fathers to explode but they never did. Rather than envying my
friends for the great home lives they had, I doubled down, trying to satisfy my
father. Mamá kept trying to make things right by saying he’d had a bad day, his
work was hard but didn’t pay what he was worth. There were no benefits or
vacation time. That was for rich whites, not poor Cubans like us. She said he
wasn’t being appreciated or respected like he deserved because his skin was
darker.”
    Marnie sighed. “Poor Mamá. She couldn’t see how selfish and
pure mean he was. He was the baby of the family. His parents had given him
whatever he wanted. His brothers and sisters doted on him. His life wasn’t
hard. What he lived was paradise compared to the hell he put my mother through
but she kept saying if we would only try harder, things would be different. Do
you have any idea how impossible it is to predict a batterer’s moods? I’d get
better odds in Vegas. The older I got, the more his violence escalated.
Perfection wasn’t enough any longer. If my mother breathed a certain way, he’d
go off. God forbid, she’d look at him too long or not long enough when he was
giving one of his many orders. He’d accuse her of mocking him with her eyes and
would punch her until she begged him to stop. By the time I was twelve, she
hadn’t been out of the house in months. He wouldn’t let her see or talk to her
family and friends anymore.”
    “Wait, please.” Tor looked appalled and worried. “Did he hit
you too?”
    “Never. I think that’s a big part of why my mother stayed.
He told her if she ever tried to leave, he’d get custody of me. She probably
knew he’d use me as his next punching bag and she tried to save me.” Marnie
paused, having to clear her throat before she could continue. “I tried to save
her.”
    The panic she’d felt the last day with her father returned,
making her feel like a kid again, scared and helpless.
    As Marnie related to Tor what had happened, she could still
smell the plantain chips her mother had made that afternoon, their comforting
aroma filling the kitchen. Sun had poured through the window over the sink, the
spotless counters and floor gleaming in the light. It had been a Sunday, no
school to escape to, no landscaping work to keep her father away.
    He’d strode into the kitchen, imperious as always, his face
a mask of rage.
    Marnie had tried to guess what had set him off. She’d
brought in the paper as he’d expected. Her mom had done the laundry and
scrubbed the kitchen floor earlier. A task she did every day. The house was
tidy, perfect, but his mood had been foul.
    With one swipe of his hand, he’d sent the plate of plantains
crashing against the wall. Oil speckled the cheery daisy wallpaper. One of the
chips stuck for a moment then slid down, stopping on the white petals of a
flower.
    Marnie hadn’t moved; neither had her mother. They hadn’t
stared at the destruction he’d caused but at his fists, waiting for the worst.
    He’d grabbed the skillet and hurled it across the room, hot
oil flying everywhere. Some hit her mother’s arm. She’d gasped.
    Marnie had started to cry. Her father hadn’t seen, heard, or
cared about her, his full attention and rage