Wish for Wings
By: Jessica Bell

My chin rests on knees bandaged from today’s Evel Knievel antics.  Children can’t fly, no matter how high they get the swing to go before they leap.  I had wished for wings when I blew out my birthday candles, when I saw Santa at the mall, when I heard them doing it in the next room.  Now, crouched behind the living room chair, I wish my hardest. 

            The floor is scared.  I can feel it shaking under me.  “Be brave, be brave,” I beg myself.  Even with my hands firmly cupped over my ears, I jump in unison with every blow to the door. 

            “Jillian. Jillian, open the goddamned door!”  I can hear the rattling of the knob and then another thump to the bathroom door.  “You’re pissing me off, Jillian.  Just open the fucking door or I’ll bash the fucking thing in!  You know I will.”  If the landlord had suspected anything when he came to fix the door last time, he didn’t show it.  Standing on the tips of my toes I could barely see through the hole he had left, but he said I had done it.  I wish I had.  Then I could help her.

            I stop rocking, and refuse to breathe.  Muffled cries come from the bathroom where my mother had barricaded herself, but I can’t hear him.  He’s remembered I’m here.  To an invisible God I pray, “Please don’t let him find me.”  My ears strain to see what is going on beyond the chair.  Footsteps, yelling, banging, something, anything…please.  I should look.  I can’t look.  I need to look.  “Jillian.”  I exhale.

            “Go away, Frank,” she says, still locked in the apartment’s only bathroom.

            “Come on baby, I love you.  I just want to talk.  Open the door.”

            Don’t open the door, Mom.  Don’t open the door.

            “I’m sorry, baby.  You know how I get when you piss me off.”

“Please…go away.”

“Why can’t you just open the door?  Let’s talk about this.  It doesn’t have to be this way.  I love you, Jillian.  I need you.”

            My stomach turns on itself as I hear the jiggle of bathroom lock.  I hear the release of the latch as the knob is slowly turned and then “THUD” followed by a whimper as he slams the door into her.  I bite my arm to keep from screaming out as she begs for him to stop.  “You worthless piece of shit.  Look what you made me do.  You shoulda just opened the damned door.”

            “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Frank.  Please.  Please…I won’t let it happen again.”  The snap of an open palm slap shivers through my body.  Smiling faces trapped behind glass rattle on the wall as my mother screams out. 

            Do something.  Don’t just sit here, do something.  My legs are stiff as I straighten them to rise.  I kneel behind the chair peeking around its overstuffed cushions.  I freeze when I see the spot where the phone is supposed to be.  She tried to cover the receiver, but he yanked the phone from the wall and pitched it across the room when he had heard a man’s voice on the phone.  Second time this month.  She had tried to explain to him that it was just someone from work.  Her bloody lip said he didn’t believe her.

            “Frank, Stop!”

            He is going to kill her.  I hold my breath as I tiptoe past the bathroom and down the hall to their room, making sure to avoid the creak in the floor about two-thirds of the way down.  Snatching the cordless from the nightstand, I roll under the bed and reading by the orange glow of the buttons, I press 9-1-1 and swallow hard.

            “911. What is your emergency?”

            “He’s going to kill her.”

            “Who’s going to kill her?  Who is ‘her’?”

            “Frank, Frank is.  He won’t stop hitting my mom.”

            “Where are you sweetheart?  What’s your name?”

            “I’m under the bed.  Help her, please.  I don’t know what… Shhh.”

            “Jennifer.  Where are you?”  He’s out of the bathroom.  “Olly-olly-oxen-free.  You can come out now.” 

 “Honey, what’s happening?”

“Shhh.”

“Come out, Jennifer.”  He’s closer.

“I need you to tell me…”

            “Dammit, Jennifer.  I will find you,” he threatens.

“Shhh.  He’s coming.”

            Clutching the cordless I can hear a whispered voice telling me police were on the way.  I can hear his labored breathing as he enters the room and when I see his boot poke under the bed I cling tighter to the sweet voice on the phone.  My cheek hits the button and it screams in response.  Game over.

            Eyes filled with fire from the orange glow of the phone’s keypad lock with mine.  I cringe and cover my head as he reaches toward me.  He tries to pry my fingers from the phone.  I refuse to relax my grip knowing it’s all that’s keeping him from starting in on me.  He backs out from under the bed.   Don’t move.  It’s a trick.  My ears strain to locate the rhythm of his breathing.  The thumping of blood to my brain is the only sound I can hear.  Sweaty palms start to lose their grip on the phone.  Knees pulled up to my chest and head tucked under my arms.  Everything goes dark.  The face of the phone has traded its warm glow for drab, unresponsive grey.  I press “On”—nothing.  Again—nothing. And again and again—still nothing.

            It’s a handful of hair he grabs this time.  Scrambling to keep up with him, I scoot myself out from under the bed.  With a fistful of my hair he forces me to walk on my toes out to the living room.  “Who’d you call?”  I watch out the window with words trapped in my throat.  The tops of the trees wave their leaves inviting me to come.  “Who was on the fuckin’ phone, Jennifer?”  His face is so close to mine that just breathing could cause me to touch him.

            Thud, thud, thud.  “Police, open up.”

            “You’d better be smart and tell them I didn’t do anything,” he hisses, petting my head where he’d released my hair.

            “Police.  Ma’am, are you OK?  We got a call about a disturbance at this address.  Please open the door.”

            “Please, Jennifer, tell them you didn’t mean to call.  Tell them you were playing around.  Do it for mommy, Jen.”  Her eyes strain to capture the attention of mine.  I look away.  “Open the door.  I need to go wash up.  Be good Jen.  Please, for mommy.”

            The officer at the door was big.  Bigger than Frank and I liked that.  I stood by him.  He let me.  “Where’s your mom, sweetheart?”  His voice made me think of Mr. Rogers; calm, comforting.  Not like Frank’s.  He raises his hand to put it on my shoulder, I flinch and he pulls it back.  He crouches down in front of me and offers me his palm-up hand.  I take it.  “Can you tell me where your mom is?”  I don’t understand what his eyes are telling me.  I try to turn to Frank, to see if he is watching.  “Don’t worry about him, just look at me,” says that calming voice.

            “In the bathroom.”

            “Can you tell me what happened?”

            Frank coughs.  I can hear the click of the lighter and I know he has lit a cigarette.  Scars on my stomach burn as I remember.

            “Nothin’,” I mumble lowering my eyes to the floor.

            “Nothing?  Someone thought something was happening.  They were scared and thought that we might be able to help.  Do you know who might be feeling like that?”

            “We were having an argument and Jennifer got a little scared,” my mother interjects.   “They had an assembly at school last week about the importance of calling 911.  I think she just wanted to try it out.”  My mother had washed up well and had even taken time to refresh her make-up.

            “Jennifer, is that true?  Did you just call to try it out?”  He stands and again I feel small.

            “Yeah, I guess.  Can I go now?”

            “Sure.  I’m going to talk with your mom and dad here for a minute, OK?”

            “He’s not my dad.”  No one had told me I needed to lie about that one.  I slam my bedroom door and take my post seated in front of it.  It’s going to be a long night