“Why were you with them if Dr. Cone was treating him? And why is a heroin addict traipsing around town with you anyway?” My mother glanced at the paper and then back to me.
“They’ve been living on the third floor of the Cones’ house. Dr. Cone sees him in his office all day and Mrs. Cone entertains Sheba. That’s why I’m taking care of Izzy.” The truth seemed the least harmful explanation of all.
“What kind of doctor is he? One patient all day long? Is he a real doctor?” my father demanded.
“She doesn’t have cancer?” my mother asked.
“He’s a psychiatrist. His office is in the converted garage. And she doesn’t have cancer.” I felt emotion, like the kind I’d been having at the Cones’ all summer, welling up in me. Tears started rolling down my cheeks.
My father seemed unconcerned about the cancer lie. “Why is Jimmy kissing you?”
“He’s whispering in my ear. Not kissing me.” I pushed the words out past what felt like a fist caught in my throat.
“Why?”
“He didn’t want to take the pictures. He wanted to leave. He was telling me that.”
“Why was he telling you that? Has this man deflowered you?”
“What? No! What? No, Dad!” That he had even thought of my “deflowering” was a shock. As far as I knew, my father was unaware that I even menstruated.
“Tell us the truth.” Dad’s eyes were drilling into me again.
“I swear. I’ve never even kissed a boy.” It came out as a whisper: a secret it didn’t seem my father—who had never before asked me a personal question—had a right to know. A secret that I hadn’t minded telling the Cones and Jimmy and Sheba at the beach.
“And where did you get those clothes!?” My mother sniffed again. Her eyes looked wet.
“Mom. I’m s-sorry.” I stuttered and choked on my last word. Then my throat opened up, and I was fully crying.
“Stop that crying. Go to your room,” my father said.
That was impossible. I remained in my seat, my back bumping up and down as I sobbed. Instead of deflating me, the crying acted as a pump and allowed me to summon the person I’d become at the Cones. For the first time in my life, I defied my father. “I can’t. I won’t. I need to go take care of Izzy.”
“YOUR ROOM.” My father stood, came to the other side of the table, and hovered over me. I cowered.
“But they’re waiting for me!”
Like a biting snake, my father’s hand was instantly around my upper arm. He yanked me out of the chair and pulled me toward the stairs. I knew there were kids in the world who were actually pummeled by their parents or caregivers, and I knew that what was happening with my father wasn’t close to that. Still, it felt as invasive and destructive as I imagined a fist-beating to be. I broke free, as if to save my life, and ran to my room.
Seconds later I heard the front door slam.
I was facedown, crying and shaking from the exchange with my father, when my mother came in. I sat up and looked at her. “Mom! They need me. I can’t not go to work.”
“Your father went down there to talk to them.” My mother sat on the end of my bed and stared at me.
“They need me, Mom. They need me to take care of Izzy!” I couldn’t have told you what made me cry more: missing the Cones or feeling battered by my father.
“Did that Jimmy person ever do drugs in front of you?”
“No!” I took a few deep breaths, in and out, until I could slow the crying. “Dr. Cone helped him to quit drugs. That’s why he’s here.”
My mother blinked. “Why would the Cones be so careless as to let a known drug addict into their home with a little girl and you?”
“Mom!” I swallowed back the tears that were about to burst out again. “You let me watch Sheba’s show on television. You know she’s a good person! He’s good too.”
“How good can she be if she’s married to a heroin addict?”
“Sheba likes church, Mom. We sing church songs together.” I could feel my body slowing. Calming. Sinking into the bed.
“Beanie Jones said she knew this was going on all summer long. She said they’ve been smoking marijuana and that other untoward business is happening in the house.”
“Mom.” I sniffed it all in. Took another deep breath. “Beanie Jones is a nosy gossip and a liar. There is no untoward business. I take care of Izzy. Dr. Cone takes care of Jimmy. And Mrs. Cone entertains Sheba. That’s all that happens.”