A painful lump stirs in my throat. “Yeah.” At least he’s aware tonight. “How are things?”
“They won’t let me in at St. Stephen’s anymore,” he grumbles.
“That’s because you threatened to kill a volunteer there. That’s why you went to prison.” It brought me comfort, knowing he had a warm, dry place to sleep and three meals a day, even if it was courtesy of the county jail.
“He tried to poison me. I saw him do it with my own eyes.”
I bite my tongue against the urge to remind him that it was fresh parsley that the man—a schoolteacher volunteering at the soup kitchen—sprinkled over the shepherd’s pie. Forget his weakening eyesight, Eddie’s so far gone to delusion, he won’t hear any version of the truth other than his own. “Here. I brought you something.” I hold out both hotdogs for him.
His eyes narrow as he studies them, not making a move.
I sigh heavily. “Come on, Dad, it’s me, Romy. You need to eat.”
After another long moment, he accepts them with a grimy hand. Tucking one under his quilt for later, he scrapes the toppings off the other with a swipe of his dirty thumb. Sauerkraut and mustard splatters on the sidewalk beside my heel, a few yellow drops hitting my hem.
“So? Things are okay? No aches or lumps or anything that you should get checked out by a doctor?” He’s a forty-nine-year-old man who could easily pass for seventy, the decade of living on the street aging him far beyond his years.
“Watch out for the demons. Especially the ones with the twisty horns. They’re here, walking among us, wearing our skin.”
The foolish shred of hope I held coming over here evaporates. Nothing has changed.
“I will. Definitely.” It used to gut me to see this version of my father—perched on milk crates and park benches, ranting about monsters who lurk in the shadows and feed on human souls. That was back when the memories of our old life were still fresh in my mind.
Once, long ago, we lived in a two-bedroom apartment in East Orange, New Jersey. My dad was a line supervisor at a factory that made bolts and screws, and my mom was a grocery store clerk. I took swimming lessons and played soccer. We ate dinner at six p.m. sharp and would drive to a farm every fall where we would spend hours searching for the perfect pumpkins for jack-o’-lanterns.
I lost that version of my father the night he witnessed a woman’s brutal murder in the parking lot at work. He claimed a shadowy monster with wings and curly black horns was the culprit, tearing her apart with its talons, and that a witch channeling flames from her fingertips banished it back to Hell.
He was never the same after, spiraling down a tunnel of hallucinations and paranoia that no medications or doctors were able to treat or explain. He lost his job, we lost our apartment, and eventually, it became unsafe to be around him.
We tried to get him help, but we had no money, and the system for people with no money is made from safety nets riddled with holes. My dad slipped through every last one until he landed on the street where he’s been ever since.
I spent years angry and pretending he didn’t exist, and then years weighed down by guilt and attempts to help him—arranging doctor’s appointments he refused to go to, housing he wouldn’t stay in, buying clothes he’d lose.
Now, all I have left to give him is a hollow heart, a cheap meal, and a few kind words when I run into him on the street. I have my own problems to deal with.
“I’ve got to go.” A narrow path lies ahead, cutting into the bushes next to a trash can. If I pretend I’m disposing of the wrappers, it should buy me a small lead. Pidge and Tony will go straight to my apartment once I don’t return, but if I wait them out a few days, I should eventually be able to slip in, get my things, and run.
“Your mother came by,” my father says through a bite. “She asked about you.”
Hearing mention of her always stings, but I quickly harden my heart. I know she still looks for me occasionally. “She still with them?”
He nods.
My molars gnash against each other. “Stay far away from her.” I no longer fault my father for the illness that stole him from us, but my mother chose to abandon her own daughter for monsters. I’ll never forgive her for that. “Take care of yourself, okay?” I perch the umbrella on the hedge next to him so it will offer some protection. Running will be easier without it, anyway. “Go to St. Vincent’s and ask for Sam.”
“Sam?”
Sometimes my dad listens to me and seeks out shelter. He never stays long, but it’s something. “Yeah. Sam. Tell him you’re Tee’s friend. Okay? Tee. Not Romy. He doesn’t know Romy.” No one knows her. “He’s one of the good guys. He won’t try to poison you, so don’t threaten him, okay? I’ve got to go now—”
My father’s hand shoots out, grasping my calf with surprising strength. “Beware of the demon with the flaming hair. She hunts for you,” he hisses, bits of bun and meat spraying from his mouth.
A shiver of unease skitters down my spine. I’m used to my father’s raving, but they’ve always been anchored by the same figure—a shadowy monster with black, twisty horns. This is new, and it instantly stirs thoughts of a mysterious red-haired woman in a green dress. “What do you mean by flaming—”
“What the hell?” Tony barks, startling me. I didn’t hear him approach. “We’re sitting there waiting for you, and you’re chatting it up with this bum.” He sneers at my father.
But Eddie pays him no attention, his eyes boring into mine as if pleading with me to listen. His grip tightens. “The gilded doe has been here. She knows what you are—”
Tony’s black boot connects with my father’s jaw, sending him tumbling backward with a sickening crack.
“What the hell!” I don’t think twice; I swing wide. My fist lands squarely against Tony’s nose. The feel of bones crunching beneath my knuckles is satisfying.
“You bitch!” He seizes me by my biceps with one hand while cupping his face with the other. Blood trickles down around his mouth.
I kick at his shins, trying to yank myself free so I can check on my father. He’s lying on the cold, wet sidewalk, moaning. His jaw is surely broken. “You’re hurting me!”
“I haven’t begun to hurt you.” Tony squeezes harder as he tugs me toward the curb where Pidge has edged the SUV forward to collect us. “My brother just called. He wants us there now, and he ain’t messin’ around.”
Years on the street have taught me how to defend myself, but none of it will help me break free of Tony’s viselike grip. He has at least two hundred pounds on me, and he’s too strong. I have no choice. I reach into the slit in my dress and slip the small knife I keep strapped to my thigh from its sheath.
“I don’t fucking think so.” Tony moves fast for a large and injured man, roping his brawny arm around my body, pinning my back against his chest. “You think I don’t know about your little butter knife? What are you gonna do with that? Huh?” He squeezes my wrist with his bloodied hand.
I cry out as pain shoots up my arm, and I lose my grip. The blade falls to the sidewalk, out of reach, leaving me defenseless as Tony hauls me toward the passenger door.