Chapter 2: The Reason I Went to Grandmother
Clara's POV
Three days ago.
I was in my corner of the apartment—the curtained-off section of the living room that passed for my bedroom—with my headphones on and my composition notebook open in my lap.
Music was the only place where I could put all the things I was never able to say into words.
I was working on Cracks of Light, the piece I had written for the National YoungArts Foundation competition.
I needed it to be perfect, because it wasn't just a song. It was my way out.
The sound of something breaking shattered the quiet.
I pulled off my headphones—his voice, ragged and too loud, the way it got when he'd been using drugs. It's all your fault. All of you.
I pushed the curtain back.
He was in the middle of the living room and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. A mug lay in pieces on the floor.
Janice was in the kitchen doorway. One hand on her belly—she was pregnant again, with their third child in five years—and the other holding her two youngest kids behind her.
Her face had gone white. Then her eyes found me.
"Robert, this has nothing to do with us. This is Clara's fault. Look at her. She didn't even make dinner today. She just sits around at home all day writing this useless crap."
Dad turned around.
My breath caught.
I tried to block my notebook from his reach.
He shoved me aside. I stumbled, but I still reached for it. I tried to grab it back, but it was too late.
He tore the pages apart.
I swallowed the tears burning in my eyes.
It's okay. It's okay.
I'll remember it. I'll write it again when I go back to school.
Dad let out a cold laugh.
"What use are these things anyway? How are they supposed to help this family?"
He looked me up and down, and for a second, all I wanted was to run out the door.
Then he bent down and picked up the cigarette from the floor.
"That rich kid across the way..." His voice changed, and my stomach tightened.
"He’s mentioned you to me a few times."
He smiled in a way that made my skin crawl.
"He said if you spent a little more time with him, maybe he’d be willing to give our family some help."
I don't know what my face looked like. I knew what I felt, though. It was something that had been building for years, and finally, it had nowhere left to go.
"You’re dreaming."
My voice shook with anger, but I didn't look away.
"No one is worth me wasting my life over."
I stared at him, every word coming out sharper than I expected.
Dad's hand stopped halfway to his mouth, the cigarette still between his fingers.
He moved.
His hand shot out and grabbed my hair, and before I had time to react, he threw me to the ground.
Pain shot through me, and I instinctively curled my arms over my head.
Then came the blows.
One after another.
Fists. Kicks.
I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to make a sound.
The pain swallowed everything else. Time stopped meaning anything.
I didn't know how long it lasted before he finally stopped.
The pain that had been building inside my body forced me into a tight ball on the floor.
I want to study. I want to go to college. I want to leave this place.
The thought was the only thing I could hold onto.
The room was silent except for my breathing.
Janice's voice came from behind me.
"Clara, why are you making this so difficult?"
I clenched my fists.
"Who do you think has been taking care of you all these years? Who gave you a place to live?"
"Then I won't live under your roof!"
I remembered, then—suddenly, clearly, the way you remember something important right when you need it most.
Mom, six years ago. The hospital. The fluorescent lights and the smell of disinfectant and her hand, cold and thin, holding mine.
Clari. Listen to me. There's a letter in the iron box. If things ever get really bad—if you ever need somewhere to go—go to Oak Grove. Find Irene. She lives on Maple Street. She'll help you.
I hadn't understood then why she was telling me. I'd just nodded and held her hand and promised I would remember.
And I thought about the packages Mom used to send, always when Dad wasn't home, always with that careful look on her face—don't tell your father.
I'd asked her once who she was sending them to. She'd just smiled that tired smile and said, Someone who needs it more than we do.
I pushed myself up, forcing my body to move, forcing myself to look dad in the eyes.
"I'm going to Oak Grove," I told him. "To find Grandma Irene."
His face went through several things very quickly. "That old—she won't take you in. She's got nothing to do with this family."
"That's my problem." I looked at Janice.
"The money Mom left me—there should still be a thousand dollars left. Give it back to me! If you don't give it to me, I'll go to the police and tell them what just happened."
"I'll go to your job and tell everyone there. I'll stand outside your kids' preschool with a sign explaining exactly what kind of people you are."
Janice's expression didn't change.
"You wouldn't," she said.
"Try me." I stared her straight in the eye.
There was a long silence. Then Janice turned and walked into the bedroom. I heard the closet open, heard her moving things around. She came back with an envelope and threw it at my feet.
"Take it," she said. "And don't come back."
I bent down and picked it up.
I just put it in my backpack, went to my corner of the apartment, and packed everything that mattered:
A few changes of clothes, my composition notebook, the iron box with Mom's letter and photos, and the violin case.
Mom had saved for two years to buy it for my birthday. It was the last gift she left me, the last thing I had that still felt like her.
After she died, Dad tried to sell it. I fought him for it, and during the struggle, he threw it to the floor, snapping two of the strings.
I couldn't play it. But I wasn't leaving it behind.
I walked out without looking back.
I thought leaving that house was the end of everything.
But the rain, and the fifty worthless bills scattered across the bench beside me, told me that this wasn't over yet.
I stared at the bills for a long time. Then I stacked them up, put them back in the envelope, and put the envelope back in my bag.
I pulled out Mom's letter instead. The paper had gotten damp, soft at the edges, but the ink was still clear. 217 Maple Street. The blue-gray house at the end of the road.
I read it twice. Then I folded it carefully and held it in my hand.
I had no money. I was in a town I didn't know, about to knock on the door of a woman I'd never met and ask her to take me in.
There was no version of this that wasn't humiliating. There was no version where I showed up with anything to offer.
I tightened my grip on Mom's letter and started walking.
