…..CHAPTER 7…..
Instead of going home after Dad tore out of the parking lot, Phoebe decided to go to the grocery store. The longer she waited to arrive home, maybe Dad would calm down.
It was just another lie, this one to herself. But then, she was best at lying to herself than anyone else, wasn’t she?
It was nearly eight o’clock before she left the store. Her scooter’s basket nearly overflowing with grocery bags as she pulled into the garage. Phoebe ignored Dad’s car where it sat dark and waiting, an omen she wouldn’t acknowledge.
Every movement was precise, every breath intentional as she carried the bags inside, the press of the plastic handles on her bruised hands enough to ruin her attempt to even her breathing out into calm.
Phoebe entered the house, saw Dad from the corner of her eye where he stood waiting, hands clenched. She put the bags down, tenderly flexed her hands, then began to put the groceries away. Dad didn’t say anything as he stomped from the room.
She knew better than to think that it was over.
Phoebe finished putting the food away, finding every action involving her hands near agony. They’d seemed so numb this morning. Now they throbbed, and making dinner took twice as long as usual. It was nearly ten before food was ready.
Dinner was a simple affair of chili and cornbread, and cheese-stuffed peppers. She set the table, poured drinks. Dad arrived at the table at the usual time, sat and stared down at the loaded plate and bowl.
“Making my favorite meal isn’t going to absolve you, Phoebe,” he growled, voice loaded with so much anger she flinched.
“It was a planned meal,” she muttered half-truthfully. And why hadn’t she denied she’d done anything wrong to try to absolver herself of? She tried so hard not to lie. Outside the house, it was impossible. But here she could try to tell the truth.
She was so confused. Lies surrounded her as much as the magic in the air.
They ate in silence, and Phoebe ate as slowly as she could, her stomach rebelling but she ate anyway, knew the moment dinner was over, Dad would remind her how much her magic was the bane of their lives.
Dad was waiting for her to finish. When she swallowed the last bite, he looked straight at her, caught her like prey.
“Did he see your hands?”
Plural. Now, Oliver had not, in fact, seen her hands. “No. Forget about that man,” she said, shaking.
“You know you can’t date, Phoebe,” he said, anger, but also pain, warping his tone.
She shrugged.
“Dammit, I’d think you would’ve learned after last night!”
It occurred to her that he must not have recognized Oliver as a witch. Then he hadn’t seen him in the security cameras. “I didn’t invite his attention,” she muttered, jumping up. “I have to clean the kitchen and water the plants.”
“I’m not done talking to you. This has gone too far! Your m-magic is going to get us arrested, ruin our lives.”
“As if our lives are all that great!” she cried. “I hate this! I don’t want to do this any more! I don’t want to hide any more. I don’t want this…this abuse!” Oliver’s word slid from her mouth with such ease.
Dad’s face went pale. “You’d rather be like your great-uncle then? You’d rather become a weapon, used to kill? Die on a battlefield with your guts hanging out? Half your face missing? He had a closed casket.”
“I know! You’ve been certain to make sure I know it! It’s not like that any more. There’s no war, there are laws to protect us.”
“Oh yes, there are laws,” he said bitterly. “Laws to enslave, laws to control. Laws that will immediately turn you into a weapon of war the instant the government decides it wants to play again.”
Phoebe wrapped her arms around her stomach, feeling sick. She shook her head. “I have to clean…”
“Go get the belt.”
“No! No more!” she shrieked, fists clenching against her belly. The bowls on the table rattled.
“Phoebe!” he snapped.
The shock of them jumping on the table got through enough for her to know she had to get out. Dashing for the front door, she snatched her coat, wrenched open the door, and ran down the front steps. She’d pulled on the door, but it didn’t slam behind her.
Only when Dad’s hand snatched her arm did she realize why—that he’d followed.
His grip hurt as he whirled her around. Dimly she saw their neighbors Mr and Mrs. Bowsley watching them with shock in their eyes where they stood on the path from their door to their car, snow decorating their hair.
And then as she reached the point in the turn where she faced Dad, his flat hand came up and the burning pain in her face jerked her mind from fleeing…to fighting.
Phoebe shoved both hands at Dad, wind throwing him backward, tearing his hand from her arm. He stumbled back four or five steps, his hair and clothes whipping on his body, her hands gleaming golden light.
Everything went very still.
She heard—peripherally saw—Mrs. Bowsley lift her cell phone.
Dad’s face was white with fear. And then grim anger took over his features and she knew she’d gone too far this time.
When he snatched her arm the fear was back, and she broke nails trying to peel his hand from her arm as he dragged her back into the house. Her screams rang through the neighborhood, her feet skidded on patches of ice as she dug in her heels. She couldn’t stop the growing terror that Dad was going to kill her.
No more slaps. No more belts. No more wooden ruler.
No more trying to hide the Air witch in their midst. She’d used magic in public. Now Dad would never forgive her.
The instant the door slammed, it wasn’t an open hand that came for her.
With rage and Uncle Collin’s name on his lips, Dad punched her.
Phoebe reeled back toward the kitchen. She pushed with the Air, barely managed to slow him as he came again. She backpedaled, the horror so overwhelming she couldn’t breath. Falling over her own feet, she hit her head on the coffee table.
Dad’s fist smashed into her cheek.
And the magic came again. Sweeping every dish and glass from the kitchen table, they hit him, then fell to smash on the floor. The cabinets banged open. More dishes joined the rest, flinging themselves at Dad. Phoebe tried to get up, her hand instantly lacerated from the broken shards that had fallen to the floor around her.
Water appeared in the air, loamy soil jerked from the potted plants so hard the pots fell and shattered, just more broken bits to fly with the water, and with the dirt, and the air to sweep them around and around. She felt like she was burning, the heat so powerful she wondered if she were feverish.
Maybe she was. Maybe this was a fever dream. Fever nightmare.
And then Dad fell down, back arched away from the carpet, hands at his throat, fingers scrabbling at something he couldn’t grip, gasping for air that he couldn’t draw.
Phoebe stared at him, uncomprehending. The genuine distress on his face caught her off guard, his rage gone, her fear gone, left with only growing shock and confusion.
And then Dad collapse, went still.
But the broken shards of her life continued to whirl around her and all she saw was Dad lying there, so still.