Hold Me Close(76)

It’s a good plan. It should work. When Daddy comes through the doorway with a tray of steaming scrambled eggs, toast slathered in butter, the smells turn her stomach inside out, her mouth is watering, she’s starving, but when Heath lights the flame and drops it into the pail, it blazes up. Faster than either of them thought it would. A great gust of heat and smoke. With a shout, Daddy drops the tray.

Daddy is screaming and batting at the fire, but it scatters. Burning paper lands on one of her art pads, and it begins to burn, too. Daddy punches Heath in the face, knocking him to his knees. Effie, frozen, watches as the torn shreds of wallpaper begin to smoke.

“Open the door!” Heath shouts through bloody lips. He spits a mouthful of red and tries to get to his feet, but Daddy punches him again, and he goes down.

Daddy rips the blanket off the bed and tries to smother the garbage pail, but all he manages to do is spread another dancing flutter of burning papers. They land on the shitty cabinet, the table, some cling to the walls and wink out, but others take hold and grow. A dozen mini flame flowers sprout.


“Open the f*cking door!” Heath stands and kicks over the pail, scattering the fire across the concrete.

Flames begin to lick the bed’s dangling sheet. Daddy laughs, his mouth twisted and gaping. He pulls something from his pocket—a syringe, a glinting needle. He gestures toward the door.

“Go ahead,” he says. “It’s not locked. That door is never locked when I’m down here with you.”

Effie and Heath look at each other. Never locked? All this time, never locked? She runs through the living room, over the scattered bits of glass and broken pottery set into the concrete. One stabs through the tape, but she keeps going. She bends, using her hands to pull herself up the staircase faster than she could by standing. Up, up, and at the top, the door. She slams into it, already imagining the kitchen beyond it, the phone, how she will call the police or, better yet, run screaming out into the yard to beg the neighbors for help.

She hits the door at the top of the stairs with a thud and reels back. For an interminable moment, she hangs there, hands pinwheeling, her slippery, taped foot on the edge of the stair. At the last second, the very last, she grabs the railing to keep herself from plummeting all the way down. She hits the door again. It doesn’t budge.

At the bottom of the stairs, Daddy appears. “That door, now, that one is always locked. Ten bolts, and you need a key for each of them.”

Effie looks at the row of holes lined up along the door. She’s never seen a door with so many keyholes but only one doorknob. She hits it again. Again. Her hands hurt. She’s cut herself.

Daddy comes up the stairs and grabs her by the back of the neck. He yanks her to the bottom of the steps. She skins her knees on the concrete floor as he drags her back into the bedroom, where the fires are still burning. Heath is in a small pile on the ground, not moving.

“Put them out,” Daddy says. “Unless you want to burn to death down here, or suffocate from the smoke. Put them out.”

It’s too late, Effie thinks. The fire’s out of control. All she has are her bare hands and her duct-taped feet to stamp out the flames that moments before seemed so enormous but are now puttering into ash, but she does it while Daddy watches.

“I’m going to kill that woman the next time she comes over,” he says quietly. Calmly. “I hope you know I’m going to kill her, and it will be all your fault.”

“No. Please... We didn’t mean... It was a joke...”

“I’m going to kill her right in front of you, and you’ll understand then, the consequences of your actions.” Daddy nudges Heath with his toe. “He’ll be out for a while. Clean up this mess.”





chapter thirty-four

Effie had offered Polly a birthday party at one of the local kids’ hot spots, the one with the laser tag and trampolines and video games, but Polly had declined in favor of some friends sleeping over. And she’d requested her favorite dinner, cooked by Heath. Had it felt a little like manipulation on her dearest daughter’s part? Of course, but knowing that didn’t make it any easier for Effie to say no.

It had been over a month since she’d seen him last. He answered her texts now, at least there was that. They were being cautious with each other, stepping as carefully as winter-softened feet on summer’s first rocky beach.

What had started as two friends had turned into six for dinner, though two of the girls weren’t able to spend the night and would be leaving after the movie and popcorn. Effie didn’t mind. Watching Polly with her friends reminded her of how it had felt to be turning twelve. Giggling with friends, pigging out on junk food, everything stretching out bright and shiny. Adulthood impossibly far away.

Twelve had been safe.

Effie had added the leaves to the dining room table and brought out the good china her mother had given her when she bought herself something new. She’d even set the table with a pair of fancy candlesticks and long tapered candles. There was sparkling grape juice in plastic champagne glasses and a vase of flowers that Heath had brought, and a white linen tablecloth with matching lacy napkins.

Watching the girls tip their glasses to each other to pretend they were at a fancy restaurant, Effie’s chest grew tight. Behind her, Heath’s warmth tempted her to press herself against him, but she didn’t. She did look over her shoulder, though, to find him smiling.