The next day breaks with the sound of angry voices coming from downstairs. My father must be back home already. I take the stairs two at a time, hands shaking.
My mother is on the living room floor, her dress ripped. There is a devilish smile on her face, and this, mixed with the blood dripping from her cheek makes her look almost manic.
My father stands above her, breathing hard, his starched shirt untucked, rumpled.
I sigh. Look at the blood staining the white tiles. Look away.
I step forward, blocking my father from her view. I hold my hand out to my mother. Dust off her dress when she is up.
I don't look at my father. My heart is beating too fast. My hands haven't stopped shaking.
"Let's go," I say to my mother. She nods once.
"I can't keep living like this, Jotham."
"Jotham?"
"Sorry," she says, her hand on her head, legs swaying.
"You guys are so alike, you know." Her eyes can't focus.
We are nothing alike, Jotham would have walked past them in the living room because he doesn't care about anyone but himself. I look away from her.
"I mean physically. You're alike physically."
"It's okay, Mom. Don't talk. Let's get you cleaned up."
My father walks out of the house. Still in his rumpled shirt. I've never seen him so dishevelled; he seems like a different man altogether. He closes the door so gently. It is easier to calm down once he is gone.
In the bathroom she breaks down. Her voice is an erratic mess. Hiccupping, tears streaming down her face. I use a wet towel.
Today, I will be the one to clean her bruises. I'll feed her.
I tell her to start the storytelling, I'll listen.
Afterwards, I mop the blood from the living room floor, feeling my life turn full circle. My mother wouldn't want the help to see it.
We take a walk as the sun rises. The city watches us.
~
We pass the old church, the new polo club. My mother is silent until we take a turn and are heading back home.
"It's so beautiful here. I'm happy we moved from Carpen."
Carpen will always remind me of danger. Of streets filled with broken bottles and even more broken people. Industries belching smoke into the air. Companies draining the life out of people.
We made a house in the volatility. Inherited violence. It was not uncommon then, the beatings. It felt so easy, telling myself my father was mirroring his grief by taking it out on us. His frustration at not yet having made it in life turning outward. But now, what frustration is he mirroring?
Sophia, on the other hand, has always stood out. An uncompromising beacon of rigidity. It wears its perfection like perfume.
It was the first place to have an International airport in all of Navona. It was the first place to have its separate constitution, different from other states.
It's always been like an errant child, alone and remaining that way because it found success even though it was going against its parents' wishes.
Our estate fits into Sophia's ideals of beauty. Pristine. Gated. High walls, higher fences. Houses sheltered in large expanses of grass.
Our house stands aloof, smaller than the rest. Like a friend of circumstance, who doesn't want to be like you but can't help it.
It is always so quiet here, and today is no different, our voices echoing softly in the breeze.
Once, I saw a woman watering her garden and crying. Silent tears. It felt so strange to look at a stranger that way, to see such a private moment.
Her house was almost an image of ours, designed by the same architect. She turned her face and I saw a bruise just like the one my mother got this morning.
The next time I saw her, walking down the street with two little children in tow, it struck me how beautiful the woman was, her body like a model, like a Greek goddess. I hadn't noticed the first time.
I wonder what secrets the other houses hold.
~
By the time we get home, my father is back from wherever he went to and dressed for church. He makes a show of looking at his watch, taking heavy sighs.
I hate how easily she has forgotten this morning, how sheepishly she smiles, an apology.
Getting ready for the service is a blur, my mind fixating on when she said she couldn't keep living like this.
I try calling Jasmine but it goes straight to voicemail.
~
At church my father shakes hands and laughs with the other members, tickles babies. I can't bring myself to reconcile this image with the man I saw this morning.
I can't help but look at my mother every other minute, surprised how much makeup can cover. I watch the two of them, smiling with all their teeth, holding hands—hugging at one point—and I feel nauseated.
Is this love? Is this what all marriages are like? Are any families truly happy?
My father laughs loudly at a joke I can't hear, and my fists tighten. I want to turn to Jotham and ask, have our parents always been this way?
But I don't, because that would mean addressing the dysfunction in our family. Instead I send Jasmine a text, one word. Sorry.
Even I know how pathetic that is.
I delete it, a second too late. She's already typing.
Sorry? Then: Why'd you delete it?
I'm sorry. I really do love you.
I wait a second then type I hate it when we fight.
I see the three dots meaning she's typing, and after a minute they're gone.
The choir ushers in the service. Everyone else stands. I close my eyes for a second. Open them again, feeling my skin prickle.
I can feel eyes on me. Instinctively, my eyes meet his across the aisle. It's the same boy from yesterday. His lips turn up into a crooked smile.