All We Know of Love by Nora Raleigh Baskin

Author:Nora Raleigh Baskin [Baskin, Nora Raleigh]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-7636-6686-6
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2008-10-07T04:00:00+00:00

One night I heard my dad puking, only at first I didn’t know what it was.

I was already sleeping, or nearly. I was still crying myself to sleep pretty much every night at that point, with my face in my pillow and the covers pulled over my head, trapping me inside. But this sound was louder than I was. I sat up in the darkness; I stopped crying and listened. It’s easier to listen when there is no light, nothing to distract you. There is nothing but sound, and it was an awful sound.

My heart froze in that moment when you know something is wrong, before you actually register that something has happened. I was afraid before I realized I was hearing something unnatural and scary. In the next second, I knew it was my dad.

Is he hurt? Has he fallen, or is he sick?

I forced myself to get out of bed. The floor was cold under my bare feet. I felt my way along the wall and into the hall, where the noises got louder. For a second, they stopped. It was quiet.

I had never felt quite so alone as in that moment, in the hallway, with all doors closed to me. Darkness behind me, and darkness up ahead. Until the noises started again, abruptly. I pressed open the door to my parents’ bedroom and cautiously stepped inside. There was a light under the bathroom door, edging out along the floor in a perfect flat plane. From behind the door, I could hear moaning. My dad was saying something.

Help me. Help me, God. No, no. Oh, God.

And in between his words, the distinct sound of vomiting. I heard the toilet flush, and, too quickly, the door opened. Light instantly filled the room with its severity, and I saw my dad. He was gray, not only his hair, suddenly, but his skin, his mouth, his eyes. Nothing but grayness. He was wearing only his faded boxer shorts and black dress socks. He looked so small and weak. And sad.

“I hate you!” I shouted. “You’re disgusting. No wonder Mom left,” I said.

I said that, even knowing all the while that it was my fault she left. It was my fault more than it was his. It was like seeing myself, yelling at myself. Only easier.

Shortly after that, my dad started cooking dinner. Chicken potpies and fish sticks, and then later, hamburgers and baked ziti. I never heard him sick again. I never even saw a bottle of alcohol anywhere in our house. Ever.

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