Free The Finer Points of Becoming Machine by Emily Andrews Page A

to doubt everything that I’ve ever thought about him over the years. Then he finds his voice again.
    ‘I brought you this Emma,’ he says, and hands me the Bible in his hands. It is burgundy, leather bound, and in the bottom right hand corner he’s had my name imprinted on it. I am touched, even if right now I have a hard time even believing that God exists, much less cares about me.
    ‘I don’t understand what’s going on Emma, but I, uh, thought this might help you.’
    ‘Thanks Dad,’ is all I can say. I place the Bible gingerly in my lap, not sure what else to do with it. More awkward silence.
    My dad was impulsive. One day, he came home with a cream-coloured, wrinkled dog that we named Noodles. He showed us the dog first, so Mom couldn’t make him take it back when she saw how much we wanted to keep it. Mom resented the dog at first, but she grew to love the protective and ever so patient, wrinkly, smelly little thing.
    I think that I remember the fights getting worse around that time too, or maybe I just started to see what was really happening around me.
    At first they always fought when we were in the other room, but gradually they started to fight in front of us. And that’s when the fear started creeping into me and wouldn’t let go.
    I had nightmares, constantly. Until I was nearly ten years old, I begged to sleep in my parents’ room every night. When they finally wouldn’t let me sleep with them any more, I slept with the light on.
    The effect my parents’ fighting had on us kids began to show in other ways too. Paul was having a hard time potty training, and would often wet the bed in his sleep. Mom and I tried to hide it from Dad. But he found out anyway, and hit Paul to teach him not to be lazy, and to go to the bathroom at night.
    As for Rosemary, she had the annoying habit of crying constantly and throwing fits. She also had a very vivid imagination. Cute in a child, it developed to become uncontrollable lying.
    In addition to not being able to sleep, I began to have problems eating. My stomach was constantly in knots, and I remained pale and thin. And I would cry at the worst possible times, like in front of my classmates if I got an answer wrong at school…
    I’ve been lost in these thoughts in the cold silence of the visitor room. My dad, speaking, brings me back.
    ‘Emma… Why did you do this to yourself? Why didn’t you call me?’
    Ugh. The question I’ve been dreading. If I want to answer honestly, I’ll say something like ‘…because I’m so afraid of you that I couldn’t tell you that anything was wrong. And because Mom didn’t want you to try to take me away from her…’ But of course, those words aren’t going to come out of my mouth, so I settle for a half-truth.
    ‘Because Dad, um, you know, we haven’t got along real well for the past few years, and I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.’
    My dad looks surprised at first, then shakes his head.
    ‘Kid, I know we haven’t always got along, but I never wanted anything bad tohappen to you. You’re my little girl. Do you know how upset everyone is that you’re in here right now?’
    ‘Yes Dad, I know,’ I reply, dropping my head. Even in his concern, he is still making me feel bad. Like I have just been selfish in trying to kill myself.
    …through all the troubles my father began to work more and more, and eventually got promoted in his job. But even though he was making more money, his family was falling apart. And he began to fall apart with the pressure of everything. So he clamped down on us, thinking that a tighter grip would fix everything. We, at least, should be something that he could control. Then when he finally realised that that wasn’t working, he just blamed Mom.
    It became a fact of daily life, just like waking up and brushing your teeth, that my parents would fight, that my mom would cry and that my dad would hit her.
And sometimes he’d hit us. But it didn’t necessarily happen in